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ELLICE QUENTIN
AND OTHER STORIES
BY
JULIAN HAWTHORNE
AUTHOR OF ‘GAR-m‘ ETC.


A NEW EDITION
253111121011
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY


LONDON! PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
~ AND PARLIAMENT STREET


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mmau. Willqu :18?!)
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PR E F A C E.
s . . .
‘ CONCISENESS, as distinguished from mere
brevity, is a literary virtue ; and the novelist
who can and will pack his stories into the
g smallest space compatible with the adequate
development of his idea, deserves especially
well of his readers. For he has a twofold
temptation to do otherwise. In the first
place, diffuseness is easy to the writer; it
relieves him from the strain of too closely
fixing his attention upon the matter in hand ,'
he may approach it gradually and tentatively,
and, as it were, teach himself what he wants
to say by talking about it. In the second
. place, the existing conditions of publication
and remuneration render it inadvisable, from
a business point of view, to aim at compact-
ness ; on the contrary, immediate profit is
best consulted by inflexibly diluting what-
ever idea may present itself, into the largest
bulk consistent with its remaining a recogni-


iv PREFACE.
sable idea at all—or even, at a pinch, a little
beyond this limit. Nor are these the only
objections that might be urged against short
stories. That novelist must be empty-
headed indeed, who, in the course of a
thousand pages, does not occasionally gene-
rate something poignant and effective;
whereas, if he confine himself to fifty or a
hundred, he may conceivably escape the
utterance of a single word worth listening to.
Again, the ordinary novel-reader, accustomed,
in view of the shortness of human life, to
glance only at the heads and tails of para-
graphs, and to take the rest as read, may
chance inadvertently to observe the same
practice with the short story; the conse-
quence of which would be that the most
conscientiously condensed tale would appear
the most vacuous and insignificant.
Nevertheless, short story writing is a
branch of the literary art worth cultivating,
if only to confirm the fact that many stories
which now appear long, would, if honestly
written, turn out as short as the shortest.
It is not too much to say that nine-tenths of
the three-volume novels now published, if
stripped of matter purely superfluous and


PREFACE. v
impertinent, would shrink into less than one-
tenth their present dimensions. The best
hope for modern fictitious literature, es-
pecially that written in the English language,
lies in the incontinent and unsparing appli-
cation of the pruning-knife ; not only to
relieve the increasing mental dyspepsia of
readers, but to discover to writers what their
work is worth, when extricated from its volu-
minous conventional wrappings.
The five stories comprised in the follow-
ing pages were written, some long ago, some
recently, as the lack of homogeneity in their
style and conception sufficiently indicates.
N o writer who values his art will permit him-
self to produce work which (at the time at
least) he would desire to see forgotten. As
his mind grows, however, and his experience
widens, he constantly detects imperfections in
that which he had before deemed passable,
and the impulse arises in him to blot out or
ignore everything anterior to what he now
regards as his best period. My critics would
doubtless spare me the trouble of saying that
little harm would have resulted, in the
present instance, had that impulse been
yielded to. But an author may, in some


CONTENTS.
ELLICE QUENTIN , ,‘ , “GE
THE COUNTESS’S RUBY
A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. . . . I38
KILDHURM’S OAK . , ,
. . ..186
THE NEW ENDYMION . . . . . .309


—- -----‘


ELLICE QUENTIN.
I.
A MAN about thirty-four years of age was
sitting a few years ago in his bachelor rooms
in one of the inns of court. It was a spring
afternoon, warm for the season; the window
was open, and above the high-shouldered
brick buildings a glimpse of eastern sky ap-
peared, with a pinkish flush upon it, reflected
from the sunset clouds in the opposite quarter
of the heavens. Through the window were
also visible the boughs of a tree upon which
the bright green buds were beginning to un-
fold ; and a couple of sparrows were chirping
to one another as they fluttered from twig to
twig; A muffled hush was in the air, peculiar
to these London enclosures, into which horses
and vehicles seldom enter; the roar of the
great thoroughfare, though only a few rods
distant, being almost inaudible to the occupant
of this quiet chamber; while the light ticking
of the clock upon the mantelpiece, and the
twittering Of the birds, were both perceptible
to him. '
He sat heavily and motionlessly in his
B


2 EZLIC'E QUENTIN.
chair-a tall, powerfully-built man with gloomy
brow and a thick dark beard. In his right
hand he held an envelope, which had been
torn open ; but, after reading the enclosure, he
had mechanically put it back. The envelope
bore the name of Geoffrey Herne, in a
woman’s handwriting, and the London post-
mark. About half an hour had gone by since
Herne read the letter, during which time he
had been sitting as he was now, plunged in
thought. His meditations had not, however,
been occupied all that time with the subject
of the letter ; but certain passages in his past
life had been passing in review before his
mind : passages in which Ellice Quentin was
the central figure. She was a slender girl
when he first knew her, looking taller than
she was, with strange grey-green eyes, and a
_clear but bright colour in her cheeks. Her
face was very attractive to some people,
though it had no pretensions to regular
beauty; the features were delicately but
oddly formed, indicating a refined and talented
but wayward and unaccountable nature. In
her ordinary home life, and also when she was
in the company of those she did not like, she
was silent, repellent, and cold; but she not
seldom in favouring circumstances kindled
into brilliance of talk and action; and there
was a vein of passion in her which was itself
the secret of her frequent coldness. Her lips,
red as blood, were gracefully moulded and
were perfectly under her control; by subtle
modulations she could render them expressive


ELLICE QUENTIN. 3
of any emotion. Her figure was slight at this
time, and scarcely as fully developed as that
of most girls of her age; but she never made
an ungainly movement, or fell into an awk-
ward position ; and she had such a genius for
costume that whatever she put on straightway
seemed to become an organic part of her.
Her wrists were slender and long, and her
fingers tapered almost to a point: Geoffrey
Heme had felt their touch upon his face as
soft as the thrill of delight that at the same
moment swept his heart. But that was not
until many months after their first meeting,
which was unromantic enough ; Mr. Quentin
having invited him to dinner to discuss some
professional business (Heme was a barrister).
Ellice had treated him on this occasion with
undisguised superciliousness, somewhat to
Heme’s amusement at first ; for Mr. Quentin
_an obese and ineffective elderly gentleman
_though he boasted of blue blood somewhere
in his veins, was far from being in a prosper-
ous or dignified worldly condition; was very
poor, in fact, and thought of nothing but ob-
taining possession of some property to which
he had a very questionable claim. Meanwhile
tradesmen used to present their bills with an-
notations at the bottom, intimating a desire
more or less urgent to have them settled at
once. Hereupon poor Mr. Quentin would
wince and splutter; but Ellice, leaning back
in her chair, with her hands folded on her lap,
would meet his eye coldly and narrowly, with
a sarcastic smile curling one side of her lips.
B 2


4 ELLICE QUENTIN.
Mr. Quentin would rather face a score of
insolent creditors than that little smile of his
daughter's. For Ellice was a natural aris‘
tocrat far more than an hereditary one—she
was born for a life of luxury and fastidious
refinement, and her father could not help re.
collecting, at these moments, that he han
thrown away eighty thousand pounds 0!
money which should have been hers upon the
turf ; nor had he the consolation of reflecting
that Ellice was ignorant of this fact. Igno-
rant of it! He sometimes shuddered to think
how many facts discreditable to him that cold,
silent girl probably knew. She was not
always silent either; she could utter agonis-
ing remarks in a semi-jocose way. But let
us do the young lady justice. It was within
Mr. Quentin’s memory that once, when he
had returned home late at night, after a miser-
ably unsuccessful interview with his lawyers,
and had let himself into the house noiselessly
with his latch-key, dreading to encounter
Ellice’s unsympathetic look, he had suddenly
felt two slender arms drawn tightly about his
neck in the darkness, and a hot and wet
cheek pressed against his own. At that the
unfortunate man had broken into sobs; Ellice
had tried to soothe him, and sitting on his
knee, with her head against his shoulder, had
Spoken to him such words as he had not
heard since he and his dead wife were young.
But after awhile she had fallen silent, and in
the midst of an incoherent monologue of his
on the subject of his wrongs and misadven-


ELLICE QUENTIN. 5
tures, she had risen abruptly and left him,
with only a curt good-night. She was a
strange girl.
Geoffrey Herne’s first impression of Ellice
had not been particularly favourable, and if
she had behaved as most young ladies would
have done under the circumstances, he might
probably have never bestowed a second
thought upon her. But her gratuitous arro-
gance, after amusing him for awhile, began to
pique him; and being possessed of an exceed~
ingly keen tongue and wit of his own, he was
tempted to enter into conversation with her.
The dialogue which followed was probably
worthy of a listener more intelligent than Mr.
Quentin; the upshot of it being (so far as
Heme was concerned) that he found it would
require all his wit, and more than all his
temper, to hold his own fairly against this
oblique-eyed young lady, with her curving
scarlet lips. They parted that night on terms
of almost open hostility, and Herne, as he
went homewards, more than once found his
brows drawing together and his lips com-
pressed at the recollection of the things she
had said to him. ‘She is a lady, though-
confound her impudence ! ' was the sum of his
mental comments. Her image was very vivid
in his memory—unpleasantly so, indeed ; not
only that, but the intonation of her voice—
her way of lifting back her head with a kind
of haughty surprise when he addressed her ;
the gesture of her hands and shoulders-all
were present to him. Moreover he recalled


6 ELLICE QUEi’VILV.
one or two instances in which she had unmis-
takably had the better of him in the due] of
words, and his face grew hot anew with a
really disproportionate vexation. He would
rather have made a fool of himself before the
Lord Chief Justice of England than before
that slender girl of twenty. He then resolved
that he would avoid seeing her for the future ;
but he finally modified his determination so
far as to tell himself that he would first give
her such evidence of his superior qualities as
should make her regret ever having had the
temerity to provoke him.
As it turned out, this was a much longer
and more arduous enterprise than he had
anticipated; insomuch that after several
months had gone by he did not seem much
nearer the consummation than at first. The
antagonism between him and Ellice had
been _-superficially, at least-constant and
unrelenting; but meanwhile he had incident-
ally come to know her well, and he was too
clear—sighted a man not to perceive that she
was beginning to be indispensable to him.
The discovery occasioned him much anxiety
and inward struggle. His predilections had
for years been against marriage, and he cer—
tainly had little encouragement to think that
Ellice would ever dream of marrying him.
One day, however, after a peculiarly bitter
passage-at-arms, he rose and took up his hat
to depart. He had something to say first,
though, which had been on his mind for a
week or two past.


ELLJCE QUENTIN. 1
‘You are going?’ she said indifferently,
or, rather, with an air as of relief.
‘Yes, I am going; and, as I shall pro-
bably not see you again, I will say good-
bye.’
‘Ohl You have had enough of it at
last ?’
‘ I am going to Australia.’
She looked slowly up at him as he stood
near her chair, and looked slowly down
again, while the colour gradually deepened
in her cheeks. ‘This is really the most
entertaining thing I have heard from you
in a long time,’ she said lightly after awhile.
‘It is the part of wisdom not to outstay
one’s best witticism,’ returned Geoffrey in
the same tone; ‘so I’ll be off at once.
Good-bye.’ He held out his hand.
‘Good-bye,’ she answered coldly. But
she did not look up, or move her own hand.
‘ You won’t shake hands ?’
‘What is the use, since we are never to
meet again? If you are going, you can go
without that.’
‘Well, I suppose I can,’ said he; and
after standing a moment, during which she
made no sign except to draw one deep
breath, he turned and walked with a heavy
tread to the door.
‘ Mr. Herne!’ he heard her say as he
laid his hand upon the latch. He looked
round without speaking. She beckoned him
to her with a movement of the head and
hand.


ELLICE QUENTHV. 9
Geoffrey Herne did not go to Australia,
either alone, as he had arranged to do, or
with Ellice as his wife, as he perhaps might
have done; for at this time she would have
followed him anywhere in the world—or out
of it. But it was decided that they should
remain in England, where Geoffrey had good
practice as a barrister, in addition to his
settled income of six hundred pounds, and be
married in May—that is, in about six months.
Mr. Quentin put on a portentous aspect
when he was first informed of the affair,
protruding his under lip and rubbing slowly
behind his ear with his middle finger. He
sighed and muttered something about having
once anticipated a ‘ more brilliant future—no
offence to you, Herne, of course—for his
dear Ellice.’ But as a matter of fact he was
by no means averse to the match, if hehad
not actually done what he could to promote
it. There is apt to be a good deal of hum-
bug inwoven in the characters of elderly men
who have seen better days and are not
resigned to worse ones. Geoffrey perceived
that Mr. Quentin desired to make a merit of
doing what really was pleasing to him; and
it was not in an expectant son-in-law’s heart
to object to that. So matters on that side
went smoothly. .
To make the same remark regarding his
relations with Ellice would be a triumph of
understatement. . These two found heaven
in each other. ‘ I was made to love and to
be loved,’ she once said to him, as they sat


Io ELLICE QUENTIN.
together in the little parlour on Christmas

Eve. ‘Be sure you make me love you
enough!’
‘If you had told me to be sure to love
you enough ’
She smiled and said, ‘ Never mind about
that: that will be my affair. But I must
love so as to forget everything!" He was
sitting on a low stool at her feet, his head
leaning against her side. She let one arm
fall about his neck, and her soft hand
caressed his bearded cheek. ‘ As I love you
at this moment,’ she continued, in a tender
murmur.
He took her hand in his and kissed the
soft palm. ‘ What is it you wish to forget?’
he asked presently.
‘ To tell you would be to remember.’
‘ But I wish to know.’
‘ I am not your wife yet: I shall not tell
you. . . I wish to forget that I have only
three dresses, and that you are not the
eldest son of an earl.’
Geoffrey leant back his head till he could
see her face, and laughed.
‘ Don’t! Worse things have happened,’
she said quickly.
‘ Worse than what ?'
‘Nothing. Do you think me beauti-
ful ?'
‘I love you too much to know whether
you are beautiful or not. I used to think
you were beautiful some time ago, I
believe.’


‘ELLICE QUENTIN. "It
'You do not know what I can be yet.
Loving you will make me seem beautiful—
even to you ! ’
‘ Is that why you want to love me ?’
‘I don’t know. It suits me. I wanted
it. I wanted many things, but that most-
at least now. Don’t you sometimes think it
would be wise to die ?’
‘I haven’t thought so since I thought of
going to Australia.’
‘ That isn’t what I meant. This is a
heavenly happiness ; there cannot be another
so good ; and yet I . . . we might try others.
Sometimes I feel as if all the world would be
too little for me.’
‘I shall never want any other kind ‘of
happiness; I shall only want more of this
kind,’ remarked Geoffrey, who did not know
that Ellice was opening to him deeper
glimpses of her inner self than anyone—than
even she herself-had ever before been in
the way of getting. He did not know, and
therefore, in the security of his well-being, he
did not look. But long afterwards he under-
stood.
The weeks and the months went by, and
the lives of the lovers grew to be more than
ever one delicious life. Ellice’s prophecy
proved true : she did become more beautiful,
in every way. Her moods, her silences, her
coldness, were gone; she was even~tempered,
blithe and tender; her singular eyes glowed
with luxurious light; the curving of her lips
,was eloquent of refined enticement.


:2 ELLICE QUENTIN.
‘ Did any woman ever love as I do ? ’ she
sometimes asked. ‘ Do I overflow your
heart P ’
Geoffrey could have but one answer to
such questions; and then she would add,
‘ This is my world, darling; keep me in it!’
When they parted in the evening she would
whisper to him, ‘I do not like to have you
leave me; something might happen . . . .’
And Geoffrey, as he made his nightly way
back to London from the little Putney Villa,
would image his coming married life in bright
colours upon the darkness, and smile to him-
self at what he took to be Ellice’s wayward
or superstitious forebodings. ‘I am not
going to be one of those sentimental dastards
who are afraid of their own good luck,’ he
said comfortably to himself. ‘ Ellice is in the
unsubstantial idealism of love as yet; when
we really come together she will forget her
premonitions. Earthquakes do not seek
people out merely because they are happy;
and it would be more reasonable to suppose
that those persons attract the lightning into
whose souls the iron has already entered.
Ha! that is rather a neat figure. I think that
would be a good subject for a sonnet.’
This last observation will enable the
reader to comprehend how hopelessly in love
Geoffrey must have been. But he was not
even embarrassed at his condition ; he prided
himself on it, as if no one had ever thoroughly
sounded the depths of the master passion
before him. No; neither poetry, romance,


ELL ICE QUENTIN. 13'
nor history _were able' to furnish him with a
parallel to his love ; he had practically in-
vented it. . ‘Not that I take any credit to
myself for that,’ he would protest modestly to
solitude ; ‘ no doubt there have been plenty
of fellows who had as much capacity for love
as I—or nearly as much. But then I always
have the advantage of them in this—that I
love Ellice! and that is enough to make a
Titan out of a pigmy.’ In short, Geoffrey
was well content, and convinced that the
universe must have been after all created by
a personal and benevolent God; though in
his former days he had shared the doubts of
the late Mr. Mill and others on that subject.
He even found latent charms in poor old Mr.
Quentin, who was the father of all fascination,
and must therefore have it in him somewhere.
Mr. Quentin talked about his ‘claim’ after
dinner, with a sort of sapient vapidity of tone
and phrase ; and pointed out to Geoffrey how
probable it was, after all, that his long-baffled
hopes would be realised. Geoffrey said that
no doubt it was probable enough. He was
thinking of Ellice, and arguing that a world
which could produce her could surely produce
so comparatively contemptible a miracle as
the success of Mr. Quentin’s suit. It would
be little less than a miracle if it occurred.
Geoffrey, who, from friendly motives, had at
one time investigated the matter almost as
thoroughly as a solicitor could have done,
knew enough about it to know that. N ever-
theless, he now, in the opulence of his felicity.


14 ELLICE QUENTIN.
agreed with Mr. Quentin, that all might turn
out as he wished. Mr. Quentin, who had
great faith in the judgments of those who
agreed with him, mentioned what Geoffrey
had said to Ellice the next morning. Ellice,
who was lifting spoonfuls of coffee from her
cup and letting them trickle back again, re-
placed her spoon quietly in the saucer on
hearing this, and became meditative, with
chin on hand and downcast eyes.
‘What would you do if you got this
property, father ? ’ she enquired after a while.
‘Take you up to London, and present
you to our gracious Sovereign, and let you
mingle among those to whose rank in life
you were born,’ replied he eloquently. ‘ As
for myself,’ he continued, lifting up his double
chin and settling his stock, ‘ I shall—should
enter Parliament and—and ’
‘Give the State the benefit of your ex-
perience of unpaid tradesmen’s bills,’ inter-
posed Ellice sarcastically. It was the old
tone, unused by her since her betrothal ; but
a change seemed all at once to have come
over her. Her father’s under lip fell, and .he
stared at her in a piteously crest-fallen way.
She pushed back her chair from the table,
folded her arms, and gazed intently at the
fire. The silence lasted some time. At
length she said slowly, still keeping her eyes
on the fire, ‘I hope, for both our sakes, you
will never get it.’
‘For both our sakes—-?’ began Mr.
Quentin, with a remonstrative emphasis on


ELLICE QUENTIN. 15
Lboth’; but his daughter again interrupted
1m.
‘ When I say “ both,” I do not mean myself
and you. But what absurdity it all is!’ she
broke off with a short mocking laugh. ‘I
might as well hope that the Queen will not
come out here this afternoon, and take a cup
of tea with us.’
‘Well, I must say, Ellice, that I don’t
understand all this,’ exclaimed Mr. Quentin,
clearing his throat and pulling down his
waistcoat with the air of a man who feels he
has been unfairly attacked. ‘If you care
nothing for ease and dignity yourself, that is
no reason why you should grudge your father
the means of—hm-comfort and consideration
appropriate to advancing years. And here-
after, when I am gone-_-’
Ellice put up her hand, and a curious
smile crossed her lips. ‘ You are too imagi-
native, father,’ she said, in a quiet, but no
longer antagonistic, voice. ‘ I am very
matter-of-fact, and I can see that if what you I
wish came to pass, it would be the ruin of my
happiness. And I daresay you remember
that when I am not in a good humour I am
not pleasant company. For heaven’s sake
do not let us mention this foolish subject any
more.’
She got up and went out of the room;
and Mr. Quentin, after standing for several
minutes with his back to the fire, now putting
his hands beneath his coat tails, now thrust-
ing them in his pockets, and now inserting


I6 EZLICE'QLUQVTHM
his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat
in the jerky manner of one whose composure
and self-esteem have been exasperated, pulled
from his breast-pocket a large leather-covered
memorandum-book, opened it, and applied
his thick nose diligently to its contents.
After a prolonged investigation, he closed it,
and ejaculating ‘Fifteen thousand a year!
and got by a fluke! Why mayn’t a fluke
transfer it to meP-and then, I fancy, I
should see my way to a better match for
Ellice than this affair with Herne,'--he but-
t0ned his coat, took a cheroot from the stand
on the mantelpiece, lit it, sighed, and walked
out
It is always a question whether, after all
our efforts, calculations, and precautions, the
issue of events does not remain precisely as
much beyond prediction as would have been
the case had we forborne to disquiet our-
Selves. One grey, moist morning, towards
the .end of May, and about three weeks
before the predicted wedding-day, Ellice was
walking along one of the suburban roads that
head towards London, in a state of unusual
excitement. Her eyes were fixed in pre-
Occupation, her colour was high, and her lips
occasionally moved, as if under the influence
of vivid thought. Presently the figure of
Herne appeared coming along in the opposite
direction at his customary long, measured
stride. It was his habit when he took a
holiday to walk out from London to the
Quentins' villa in Putney; and Ellice had


ELLICE QUENTIN I7
expected to meet him. To Geoffrey, how-
ever, the encounter was an unlooked-for plea-
sure; and when he recognised Ellice from
afar, he began to make gestures expressive
of satisfaction. He did not notice that she
made no response to them.
When they met he took her hand and
kissed it. The road was only half a country
one; several houses werewithin sight, and
he probably thought that a warmer greeting
would be open to objection. But Ellice
raised her eyes to his with a curiously intent
look, in which there was a subtly enlighten-
ing expression, readable only to a lover, and
which informed Geoffrey that he might follow
the dictate of his heart. He was not the
man to neglect such a permission, and he
stooped and kissed her lips. At the same
time he apprehended that some wheel or
other must be out of gear: women are sel-
dom heedless of conventionality if their minds
are serene. w
‘ Have you come to carry me home with
you ?’ he asked jocosely. _
‘ Let us walk towards London,’ answered
Ellice, slipping her hand through his arm and
causing him to turn. ‘ I am not going to be
at home to-day.’ '
‘ Where shall we go, then ?’
‘Anywhere! I don’t care where. To
London.’
‘ By all means. But then there is no
necessity for walking. The train will be
quicker.’
C
r.) (f


18 ELLICE QUENTIN.
‘ No ; I prefer to walk—for the present,’
said Ellice, speaking quickly and nervously,
and pressing her companion’s arm between
her hands.
‘ And how long may we be away ?’
‘I never wish to go back!’
Geoffrey’s face suddenly became grave.
Her tone and her whole manner now con-
firmed him in his first suspicion—that some-
thing was wrong. He glanced down at
Ellice, rapidly passing in mental review all
probable or possible causes of the difficulty.
At length he said :
‘ Have you had a row with your father ? '
‘Yes—no; that is no matter. I want
to talk only about ourselves. Do you love
me P'
‘If we are going to talk about that, it
will take some time. One day is not long
enough for me to tell you how much I love
ou.’
y ‘ Do you love me enough to do anything
for me, or with me i” She moved her free
hand down his sleeve to his hand, and re-
peated, ‘ Anything ? ’
‘I love you: there is no stronger word
or thing that I know of,’ replied Geoffrey,
feeling, indeed, an immense gush of tender-
ness in his heart, which his anxiety deepened.
She made no immediate answer, but
Geoffrey felt that she was full of restrained
excitement, and he insensibly prepared him-
self for some kind of shock. In this short
space he recognised that there might be much


ELLICE QUENTIN. 19
in Ellice which he had never known or com-
prehended.
‘But there are so many things in the
world!’ she broke out suddenly and vehe-
mently. ‘Why are they there unless we
were meant to have some relation to them ?
Wealth, and society, and power, and fame;
to be able to go where you like and do what
you will; to carry out all that is in your
mind, without any hindrance from mean and
contemptible obstacles that degrade you as
well as imprison you! How can one even
love with one’s whole heart if all those
things are wanting? Are you sure you
could, Geoffrey ? ’
‘I don’t expect to have perfection in
everything,’ replied he, beginning to feel
relieved; ‘but the question is, whether all
these things you speak of are better worth
having than love. _Of course, it would be
pleasant to have both; but, as a matter of
fact, most people seem to get either the one
or the other, and not both—except those
poor devils who get neither.’
‘Oh, I know it—I know it. That is per-
fectly true, though I don’t know why it
should be so—I don’t think it ought to be so.’
She relinquished his arm, and began fever-
ishly to pull off her gloves. ‘It is hateful to
have to choose,’ she added.
‘ Luckily, we are spared that pain, at all
events,’ remarked Geoffrey with a smile.
Ellice stopped in her walk, and turning a
little towards him, looked at him attentively.
C 2


20 ELLICE QUENTIN.
She had the air of mentally putting some al-
ternative before herself, and deciding which
course she would pursue. She then walked
on more slowly, with her eyes downcast.
‘ One thinks what one would do in such
and such a case, even when it does not
actually come to pass,’ she said. ‘A great
fortune is a great thing-it is something real.
Suppose you had to choose between a great
fortune and me ?’
‘It would be choosing between a great
fortune and a greater. Of course I should
take the greater,’ returned Geoffrey, feeling a
certain intellectual satisfaction in his answer.
But Ellice pressed her scarlet lips together,
as if rejecting any merely complimentary or
epigrammatical evasion of her enquiry. She
was, in fact, more in earnest than he was,
because he had come to the conclusion that
she was merely disquieting herself, as women
sometimes will, about an imaginary, not to
say impossible, contingency. The best way
to treat such conduct was to laugh at it.
‘ But you are a man,’ she resumed pre-
sently, ‘and it would be different with you,
because when a man has not got a fortune,
he always thinks he can make one. But if
you were a woman ?’
‘ In that case I should get the man to de-
cide for me.’
She came close to his side and once more
took his arm. ' ‘Yes,’ she said, speaking
rapidly, ‘yes, to feel that a thing is done
and cannot be undone. It is so terrible to


ELLICE QUENTIN 21
wait, Geoffrey; something might happen-
you might die, or Geoffrey, I wish it
were done.’ ‘
‘ You wish what were done ?’ demanded
he, looking down at her, while his heart gave
a bound.
She made no other reply than to meet
his eyes intently, the colour gradually over-
spreading her face.
‘That we were married?’ he asked at
length, in a low tone.
She gave a sudden sigh; then a smile
trembled across her lips for a moment, but
without affecting the earnestness of her brow.
‘Then something has happened?’ said
Geoffrey, heavily and gravely. ‘Tell me.’
‘ I have told you. What more can I say?
I am afraid : I want to be safe!’
‘I would have married you six months
ago if you would have had me,’ said
Geoffrey, almost coldly ; for he dreaded lest
passion should hurry him on to do something
which, while for the moment satisfying Ellice,
might in the end lead her to reproach him.
It was difficult to think clearly at such a junc-
ture, and yet something must be thought
and said at once, for no lover can endure to
seem in need of stimulus from his mistress.
‘ Does your father know of this ?’ he asked.
‘ N o ; he would prevent it,’ she answered
excitedly. ‘Geoffrey, do not stop to think
whether this is wise or foolish. Do not ask
me ..... We are together. This is the
time.’


22 ELLICE QUENTIN
‘ But unless we have a special licence-
and that is impossible ! ’
‘ Impossible ? ’
‘ Ellice-you are not of age.’
She turned very pale, and slowly let go
his arm. ‘ You should not have thought of
that—you do not love me.’ She turned
away, and her hands fell to her sides.
Geoffrey made no reply; for, man of the
world and strong though he was, he was
trembling all over, and could not trust his
voice to speak.
‘ Good-bye,’ said Ellice presently, still
keeping her face averted.
‘Look at me, my girl!’ he exclaimed,
taking hold of her wrist: and at his touch
she did look up at him for a moment with a
singular expression, half wayward and half
winning, which he remembered vividly for a
long time afterwards. He continued: ‘We
cannot break the law. If we love each other
we can marry in three weeks ’
She raised her other hand quickly, and he
stopped. After a pause she said, ‘ Geoffrey,
look at me-look in my eyes, dear. I love
you—not in three weeks, but—now.’
The tone in which the words were spoken
made Geoffrey feel as if his ordinary life were
taken away from him, and a new, perverted,
delirious life put in its place. Instinctively,
he sought self-defence in incredulity ; but it
was in vain—there was no mistaking what
her eyes said, whatever construction might be
forced upon her words. For an instant, a


ELLICE QUENTJIV. 23
fire sprang up in his own eyes; but then,
with a savage effort of the will, he dropped
her wrist and said huskily :
‘ No ! ’
‘Well, it is fate!’ returned Ellice with a
light sigh. Presently she bit her lip, and
gave a little laugh. ‘ How seriously we have
been taking things: anybody would sup-
pose that we—meant something. Good-bye,
Geoffrey.’ ‘
‘ What do you mean by good-bye ? ’
‘ Nothing; only that I am going home,
and that you are not to come with me. Oh,
you need not look solemn, or angry. But I
must go alone, really.’
‘ What ’
‘And I will write to you to-morrow, and
tell you why. Good-bye; we must not do
more than shake hands on this street corner,
with that chemist’s shop opposite, and the
waggon coming along. Good-bye until to'
morrow.’
‘ This is strange!’ was all that Geoffrey
could mutter. She went away from him,
walking lightly and swiftly, turning her head
towards the right or the left occasionally, but
never looking back. Presently he saw some-
thing fall from her dress and flutter to the
ground without her noticing it; and after she
had passed out of sight he walked slowly to
it, and picked it up. It was a little black
bow. Geoffrey pinned it inside his coat.
The next day he received the following
letter:


24 ELLIC'E QUENTIN
‘You were quite right, Geoffrey, and I
thank you. But I am going to make you
hate me and despise me even more than you
did then. We shall not marry in three weeks,
or ever. It is better so. I suppose I was
destined to experience both—the love of the
world as well as your love ; to try them both,
I mean. I daresay I should never have been
contented else. I am a strange girl, as I
have told you before. It seems to me I have
loved you as much as a woman can ever love
a man; and if yesterday—never mind, we
will forget that. I have not' changed either,
only that somehow yesterday seems ages
away from me. I do not understand myself,
and I don't think I want to. Perhaps
marriage would not have come up to my
ideal of it; and I' could not have borne to
be disappointed in it—with you. Perhaps
I have had the sweetest that love can give.
The other cannot be so sWeet, I know; but
I must try it, too. It is fate! _
‘ ELLICE. '
‘The person with whom we have been
having the lawsuit about the property died
last week, and left the property to us, on con-
dition that I married his nephew.’ .
And at the bottom of the page was
added : ‘ Do not hate me always.’
Geoffrey Herne took this shock with a
serenity that surprised himself. Indeed, he
got so far as to say, after a few days, that
he was glad it had turned out so. Of


ELLICE QUENTIN 25
course he never answered the letter, and he
never spoke to anyone of the episode of his
engagement to Miss Quentin. It had been
known to but few of Herne’s acquaintances ;
and if they learnt the sequel they were all too
considerate, or too cautious, to discuss the
matter with him, or in his presence. To tell
the truth, he was not avery genial companion;
He had always had a biting tongue, and now
it had become almost venomous. \Vhenever
he saw an opening for saying a cruel Witty
thing, he said it unhesitatingly, and without
compunction, no matter if it were at the
expense of his dearest friend. ‘ I must have
my little joke,’ he would reply if any remon-
strance were attempted. The men in his
club began to fight rather shy of him; no
one could get the better of him in repartee,
and he was noted for never forgetting or for-
giving a slight or an ill-turn, even if it were
unintentional. ‘ Heme will have his revenge
if he waits a year for it,’ used to be said of
him in reference to such affairs. It was worth
nobody’s while to be his enemy, and nobody
knew how to be his friend. He saw very
little of society ; but he worked with vigour at
his profession, and every month added to his
reputation as a barrister. ‘ He will be Q.C.
before he’s forty if he keeps on,’ was pro-
phesied of him by a certain learned judge,
not given to reckless predictions. It was
evident, therefore, that his love-disappoint-
ment had done him no harm.
One day, contrary to his usual custom, he


26 ELLICE QUENTIN.
accepted an invitation to a garden-party at
Lady Feuilleton's suburban villa. It was a
gentle June afternoon, a year and a month
after his last interview with Ellice Quentin.
A broad rectangular lawn, soft and deep to
the foot, was surrounded with tall limes and
elms, whose voluminous leafiness cast grate-
ful shadows athwart the turf. Beneath the
trees a path lay in sunshine-fretted gloom.
The house, with its balcony and open win-
dows, stood at one end of the lawn; at the
opposite end a marquee‘had been set up ; a
large sheet of canvas had moreover been
pinned down upon an area of the level turf
as a dancing floor. Chairs of designs more
or less fantastic were placed in straggling
groups along the shady side of the lawn, and
these were occupied by men and women in
summer attire—it was very warm—and
bright-coloured parasols and fans made the
scene lively as well as lovely. When the
music began the charm was complete.
Geoffrey Herne, however, appeared to
feel particularly morose, and spoke in a tone
which, though punctiliously courteous, had a
covert sneer underneath it. In reality, he
was perhaps not morose; on the contrary, he
may have felt a piteous forlornness at the
heart, of which he was ashamed, and which
he desired to conceal. His hostess, a vi-
vacious, Parisian-looking little lady, was pay-
ing him special attention, and chatted to him
inveterately. At last Herne said he must go
home ; Lady Feuilleton expostulated volubly,


ELLICE QUENTIN. 27
and ended by proposing that he should ac-
company her into the house, and drink a
glass of iced claret-punch with her. Herne
thought that would be as good a way as any
of preparing his escape, and therefore he
complied. They entered the parlour arm-in-
arm. The change from sunlight to gloom
rendered objects almost undistinguishable,
and Geoffrey tripped over something which
turned out to be the skirt of a lady’s dress,
and he made his apologies without discern-
ing the features of the lady to whom he was
making them. She had been sitting down
—she rose hurriedly, but said nothing in
reply.
‘Have you come for a freshener, too,
Lady Feuilleton ?’ said a man’s voice,
which, for some reason, immediately inspired
Geoffrey with a feeling of aversion and con-
tempt.
‘Who are you, pray P—Why, Mr. Ami-
don, I declare !’ exclaimed the hostess.
‘ And who is this with you P surely not your
wife ?’
‘ Incredible, but true!’ replied the other,
with a short cackling laugh.
‘ Dear me! what is society coming to!
I’m so delighted—so good of you to come.
How do you do, dear? Oh! and let me
introduce my friend Mr. Geoffrey Heme—-
Mrs. Amidon. You ought to get on capi-
tally together; you are both so sarcastic!
We came to get some iced punch : have you
had any? Well, you must join us. Dear


28 ELLICE QUENTIN.
me! Mr. Herne, can you lift that jug? it’s
so heavy. Just a glass all round, and then I
must run back to my guests. What a lovely
dress, dear!’ '
‘ Capital punch, upon my soul ! ’ said Mr.
Amidon, as he set down his emptied glass.
_He and Lady Feuilleton chatted together for
a minute or two, laughing and fencing. He
was a youngish-looking man, with a fiaxen
moustache and pale grey eyes, rather red
round the edges. His complexion was not -
good, and when he laughed his chin re-
treated towards his throat and he twisted
his shoulders. Geoffrey stood looking at
him in silence. Mrs. Amidon had again
sat down in a chair beside the table and
was fanning herself. Presently Mr. Amidon
expressed an intention of accompanying
Lady Feuilleton back to the garden, and
they went out, leaving Mrs. Amidon and
Geoffrey to ‘become acquainted,’ as Lady
Feuilleton put it. When they were gone,
Mrs. Amidon closed her fan and looked up.
‘ Will you sit down by me for a moment,
Geoffrey?’ she said.
‘Of course you understand, Mrs. Ami-
don,’ said he, ‘ that I should not have come
here if I had expected to meet you.’
‘ Then I am glad you did not know.
I have wanted to meet you and talk
with you. And, after all, that proves me to
be charitable; for people generally dis-
like and avoid those- whom they have
injured.’


ELL/CE QUENTIN. 29
‘Without calling your charity into ques-
tion, Mrs. Amidon,’ said Geoffrey, ‘I may
be permitted to relieve you from the bur-
den of supposing that you have injured
me. I should put it upon another ground—
that we are apt to shun those who have
benefited us. In an indirect way I may
have benefited you, by keeping you occu—
pied until Mr. Amidon was ready to come
forward.’
She was looking at him while he spoke
with her head a little on one side, her scarlet
lips occasionally moving slightly. Now her
eyelids drooped, and she sighed.
‘I have looked forward to this meeting
often,’ she said, ‘ and I was prepared to hear
you say worse things than that. Perhaps,
after all, you have not cared so much as
I thought you would. I have no heart to
fight with you, Geoffrey, as we used to fight
1n--’
She paused. Her persistence in calling
him Geoffrey produced an effect upon him.
The sound penetrated far into him, and set
vibrating chords which long neglect had
scarcely rendered less sensitive. He was
further disturbed by her not attempting to
defend herself: not that anything could
make her conduct defensible, but the blow
that provokes no return loses half its virtue
t0 the striker. And, finally, it must be
confessed that her aspect and propinquity
were not without their influence. She was
more fully developed, more beautiful than


30 ELLICE QUEUVTLV
when he saw her last; and there were slight
modifications in her manner and expression
which were on the side of gentleness and
sadness, and which moved Geoffrey to
unwilling sympathy. Perhaps she had
suffered enough to conciliate even his re-
sentment.
‘What do you think of Mr. Amidon?’
she enquired presently.
‘I have not had much opportunity of
judging; but I should think,’ said Geoffrey.
with diminishing bitterness, ‘that he would
be a very suitable husband for you.’ It
struck him as peculiar that Ellice, in spite
of her culpability towards himself, did not
shrink from meeting his eyes, or from
introducing topics of conversation which
might have been supposed at least as un-
welcome to her as to him. But hers had
always been a strange and unaccountable
character.
She opened and closed her fan, glanced
out of the window towards the sunlit lawn,
then back at him, and said : ‘ Do you want
to—leave me P’
A minute before Geoffrey had fancied that
he did wish to leave her; now, . for some
reason, he changed his mind, and dropped
into a chair opposite her.
‘ What do you want of me ?’ he asked.
‘ Do I look the same to you as when you
saw me last ?’
‘You look better than you did then—
handsomer—and you are more expensively


ELL/CE QUENTL’V. 31
dressed. And, of course, the fact that you
are one of the leaders and ornaments of
society has its effect upon me.’
‘Geoffrey, it may not be often that we
come across each other again; why should
we hold masks before our faces ? We have
been intimate. You have not forgiven me
for leaving you. You have said to yourself,
“ If she had loved me she would have given
up the world for me ” ; and so you concluded
that I was a hypocrite from the beginning.
But if I had been a hypocrite, I would have
married you; or I would never have let you
know that I loved you.’
‘Probably I don’t understand you—and
never did.’
‘ No man ever was your rival, Geoffrey;
the world was your rival ; but yet you should
not be jealous ; because, though it drew me
irresistibly, it never drew that best part of
me that was yours. I could not have lived
without the world—without longing for it;
and I could not live with the world without
longing for Forgive me!’
‘Take care what you say now, Ellice!
You touch fire!’ exclaimed Geoffrey in a
suppressed grow], with a glow kindling under
his gloomy brows.
She rose quickly from her chair, moved
close to him, and laid her hand upon
his.
‘Burn me, then!’ she answered, with a
strange, tragic smile. And while they con-
fronted each other, she continued: ‘ My sin


32 ELLICE QUENTIN.
was that I preferred living falsely with tnu
world, to living falsely with you.’
‘ You made the world a bad place for me,’
returned Geoffrey; but his tone was no longer
stern, and his hand now held hers. ‘I had
but one love, unfortunately, and that was
yours. But you have a husband.’
‘ I have a name,’ she answered carelessly,
‘which I wear as I wear this hat, because it
is the fashion. Only the one is called a hus-
band and the other a hat.’
‘That is not the Whole of it. You can
change your hat to-morrow; but there is
- only one way for a woman to get rid of a
husband." -
‘What difference about him, Geoffrey, if
you will be my friend ?’
‘ Your friend ?’ he repeated sharply, drop-
ping her hand.
‘Oh, do not be angry again! . . . . no,
no, not that! do not ask me to do that!
. . . . I am not so selfish, nor so Wicked,
Geoffrey, as to wish you to—to give up your
life to what has not, after all, been wholly
yours. I am not worth that. I only ask that
you should be my friend. ' Help me to live so
as to respect myself. What can I say? I
know that what is past cannot be recalled;
you can never feel towards me as you might
have done if-if I had been less weak. But
I am so lonely ; I hoped you could——’
‘ No: that won’t do! nothing like that,’
interrupted Geoffrey in a heavy voice. ‘I
am not a monster of virtue and self-restraint


EL LICE QUENTIN. 33
Ellice: and I’m not 9. our either. Do you
suppose your husband would fall in with this
arrangement. And do you suppose that I
would condescend to sneak about his pre-
mises, having a secret understanding with his
wife—secret from him? It is true enough
that there can no longer be a fresh and pure
love between you and me ; but there can be
no friendship—because, for good or evil, I
love you still! I can commit a crime, but
I will tell no lie, nor live one. Everything
must be open and above board between us
and the world, or there must be nothing at
all.’
‘Oh, Geoffrey, this is terrible!’ murmured
Ellice, letting her folded hands hang before
her. In fact, she had not anticipated his
attitude ; she was a'woman who wanted much,
but who was not, perhaps, willing to go all
lengths in order to get it. At the same time
she could not help admiring what he had said
and liking him all the better for it; and she
certainly did not admire Mr. Amidon, or
passionately like the fashionable life which
they led, and of which she had seen enough
clearly to comprehend its limitations. N ever-
theless, a woman who has achieved a position
before the world will hesitate profoundly
before abandoning outward conventionality
for avowed outlawry. Compromises are more
convenient. But how if a stubborn man per-
sists in refusing to stoop to compromise?
The compromise was in itself reasonable in
the highest degree, if not also in the highest
D


34 ELLICE QUENTIN.
degree moral; but that evidently made no
impression on Geoffrey.
There was a sound of voices and laughter
approaching the open window ; Lady Feuille-
ton and Mr. Amidon were coming back from
the lawn. Ellice took up her fan nervously,
and passed a hand over her hair. She had
been able to entertain such reflections as
the above, while the man with whose soul she
had played fast and loose was standing, as it
were, with the sword at his heart. He now
spoke again; and the words in which he
began made her start, for it brought back to
her memory another scene of a year and a
month before. Only this time he did not
grasp her wrist.
‘ Look at me, my girl! I will wait in the
drawing-room of the Lansdowne Hotel this
evening from nine o’clock until eleven. If I
see you there, there will be no 'trouble in
getting free from your husband. If not, never
try to see me again. You will have done
worse than murder.’
The others came in, full of badinage and
liveliness. Lady Feuilleton protested that she
believed Mr. Herne and Mrs. Amidon had
been flirting.
‘ Quite the contrary,’ returned Mrs.
Amidon, smiling composedly. ‘ Only we have
been discovering that we knew each other
long ago, and that I have lost the wager we
made as to which of us would be married
first. I will pay it now,’ she added, taking a
white rosebud from the vase on the table.


ELLICE QUENTIN. 35
She went up to Geoffrey and slipped it into
the button—hole of his coat. As she did so,
she murmured below her breath, with a glance
into his eyes :
‘ Before this fades— !'
And then Geoffrey, with a very brief adieu,
went out.
There can be little doubt that, when Ellice
did that, and said those words, she was re-
solved to meet Geoffrey in the Lansdowne
drawing-room, between nine and eleven
o’clock ; and at all events she could not
endure to be left in an awkward or unpictu-
resque situation. But unfortunately it was
then only six in the afternoon; three hours
in which to wait, to reconsider, to doubt. It
would be doing her injustice to say that there
was not a struggle. The struggle was even
carried to such a pitch that, at half-past nine,
a hansom cab drove up to the corner of the
street below the Lansdowne Hotel, and a lady
got out of it, veiled, with a satchel in her hand.
She paid the cabman, and then walked along
towards the hotel. The broad bay window
of the drawing-room abutted upon the side-
walk; a street lamp stood on the opposite
side of the road. As the lady passed the
window she glanced up, and saw a man seated
there with a newspaper, which he was not
reading, in his hand. Her knees trembled,
but she said to herself: ‘If he looks out and I
recognises me, I will go to him.’ Even then
he turned, slowly, and looked out; she stood
still, unable to move. He must have seen
D2


36 ELLICE QUEN] 1.v.
her; but he did not recognise her; after a
moment he turned away. Then she faced
about, and ran back along the sidewalk, with
what feelings in her heart who can tell?
The hansom had not yet gone from the
place where she left it; and she was driven
back to her house in Mayfair, where she was
to receive some distinguished. guests.
II.
GEOFFREY HERNE’s reflections were upon
these matters, as he sat in his chair on the
spring day with which this story began. An
interval of two years had elapsed since he
waited for Mrs. Amidon in the drawing-room
of the Lansdowne Hotel. During that period
his professional success had been rather on
the wane. He was as clever and sarcastic
as ever—perhaps more so; but he neglected
his work. He was morose and indolent ; the
stimulus to achieve great things was lacking.
He conceived himself to have fathomed life
and to have proved it worthless. ‘What is
the odds what a man does ? The devil is at
the bottom of it all !’ he sometimes would re-
mark. His more philosophical and healthy-
minded friends detected something petulant
or childish in this attitude of his; and the
futility of their attempts to induce him to
‘throw it off’ served to confirm them in their
opinion. It should be understood that nothing ,


ELLICE QUENTIN. ‘37
definite was known about what had occurred
further than that Herne had had a row with
some woman. But other men have had rows
with women, and got over it.
The letter which Herne had just received
and read was not long, though it was suf-
ficiently suggestive; and it may as well be
given here:
‘Dear Geoffrey,-I shall never see Mr.
Amidon again. I wish to see you at once.
I know you must have had hard thoughts of
me, but if I had had you always with me, I
should have always done what you wish. It
is when you leave me that I lose my strength.
That is the secret of all our trouble. When
we are together I always have known that I
love you, and that I can never love anything
but you; but when we are parted, other
thoughts come; sometimes I imagine that love
is all imagination. Geoffrey, I have never
told you what I did not know to be true. If
you had only made me yours at first! Even
as I write to .you at this moment, and think
of my life since I saw you last, I half doubt
whether anything is real of what I have
felt for you ; and yet they were the deepest
feelings of all. I seem fated not to be happy ;
and yet I have tried ways of happiness more
than most women. What is with me is real ;
what is away from me_you—are like a
dream. But you are a dream that I believe
in more than in reality ; and I come to you in
my trouble. Come and see me this evening


38 ELLICE QUL NTIIV.
without fail. I remember what you said to
me at parting two years ago. At last I have
done my part; I do not ask you to do
yours ; but at least come to me.-Yours,
‘ ELLICE.’
Two years is a long time. Geoffrey had not
forgotten Ellice, and her evil influence upon
his life had not ceased to be operative; but
he had ceased to feel the need of her personal
presence. He had grown so accustomed to
the wrong of her desertion, that this had
become more necessary to him than she her-
self was. After a while we make friends
with our grievances, and would be at a loss
were they suddenly removed. An hour ago
there was nothing that Geoffrey would have
desired less than to hear again from his lost
Ellice.
Nor was this all. Within the last three
weeks a new element had come into Geoffrey’s
gloomy life. He had admitted it in a mood
of self-contemptuous indolence; but since
then it had worked upon him gently but
powerfully, and was now on the way to make
itself an unlooked-for resource and consola-
tion. ' It had aroused a sentiment of grati-
tude in Geoffrey’s heart, which, by-and-by,
perhaps, would develop into something
warmer and more tender. It had invested
his future with a subdued but brightening
light, so that he had doubtfully told himself
that his latter days might be happier than
those which were passed. Now, above all
things, he wished for no change, no disturb-
(


ELLICE QUENTIN. 39
ance. Nevertheless, it was at this moment
that the change and disturbance had come.
He could feel, stealing subtly through his
veins, a lawless and reckless heat which he
remembered but too well, though it had long
been a stranger to him. These written
pages came from her, had been touched
by her hand, and caressed by her breath.
From them seemed to proceed an insidious
mist, blinding his eyes to honour, and leading
astray his judgment. How great and un-
accountable was her power over him! It
had not always been for evil—not so at first.
No; at first it had been the purest and
loftiest emotion of his heart. .But now that
it was become evil, it was not less strong: it
was stronger.
Still, it might be resisted; it should, it
must beresisted! Geoffrey pulled himself
out of his reverie, and stood upright. After
glancing confusedly first this way and then
that, he went to the tall secretaire between
the windows, and unlocked one of its inner
drawers. Out of the drawer he took the
black silk bow and the dried rosebud, which,
at different times, had come to him from
Ellice. Of late he had often thought of
destroying these relics, but he had put off
doing so, adducing many arguments to jus-
tify himself in his procrastination. Now,
however, the thing must be done, if it were
to be done at all. Geoffrey brought them
and laid them upon the letter which he
had placed upon the mantelpiece, after


4o ELLICE QUENTHV.
once more taking it from its envelope.
After a pause, he folded the letter about
them, and grasped the little bundle in
his hand. The next moment he quickly
replaced it on the mantelpiece and faced
towards the door. Had not some one
knocked?
The knock was repeated. He strode
heavily and wrathfully to the door, and
opened it. There stood a woman, dressed
in black, with a red rose in her bosom.
She immediately threw back her gauze veil,
but before she did so he had recognised her.
Moreover, in spite of the utter surprise of
her appearance at this place and hour, it
seemed to him that he had been all along
secretly expecting her. With a sort of
dogged sullenness he made way for her, and '
she came in without hesitation, and with per-
fect grace.
‘We are together again, Geoffrey,’ she
said, when he had closed the door, facing
him as he advanced towards her. She took
a hand of his in both hers, and added,
‘Yes, you are real! You see, I would not
wait. It was not worth while to risk any-
thing more.’
‘You are too late, ,by some weeks,’
answered he, looking over her head at the
wall.
‘Why? Ah, you mean that—you don’t
care for me any more!’ She let go his
hand, and looked at him askance. Geoffrey,
though he was thinking of far different


ELLICE QUENTIZV. 41
things, noticed that she was paler than he
had remembered her, except that her lips
were scarlet as ever, and to the beauty of
her face was superadded a depth of expres-
sion, distinct from its natural feminine
mysteriousness. He suddenly fetched a
deep sigh, like one who is oppressed, and
then he walked to the mantelpiece, and
rested his elbow on it, and his head on his
hand.
‘ It is not necessary,’ said Ellice, after a
pause. ‘I did not even expect it. I have
done you too much harm—a great deal too
much. But it is partly for that reason that
Icame. Whatever there is left of me be-
longs to you, if it can be of any use to you.
I would like to die in some way that would
make you forgive me.’
lForgiveness is a Word which children
use,’ replied he ; ‘it is never anything more
than a word. The only thing I could not
forgive you is, that you have come in my way
again.’
A light sparkled in Ellice’s eyes, and she
smiled a very little. For, although the
superficial significance of the words was re—
pellent enough, she could discern the essen-
tial, reluctant flattery underlying them. It
was not because she was odious to Geoffrey
that he wished her away; but because she
was too much the contrary. She was safe,
therefore.
‘Let us talk together this once,’ she
said, ‘and afterwards, if you like, you need


42 ELLICE QUENTIN
never see me again. May I sit down here
with you beside me ? How happy we might
have been ! ’
‘ Do you wish me to remember that you
are a married woman?’ he demanded sul-
lenly. ‘You seem to think that everything
is a game and a plaything. Can you alter or
take back what you have been doing these
last three years ? What have you done with
your husband ?’
‘ Do you remember a thing you said two
years ago, Geoffrey, when I asked you to be
my friend? Well, there need be no secret
now. I mean never to see Mr. Amidon
again. I don’t care what society says or
thinks. He has made it impossible for me
to live with him. I don’t blame him, for he
never could have had much satisfaction out
of me, poor creature. He knew from the
beginning that I cared nothing for him; it
was merely an arrangement on account of
property, and 1—1 consented morev for my
father’s sake than ’
‘ You need not take the trouble to say that
to me!’ interrupted Geoffrey with a harsh
laugh. I
‘ N o ; I will tell you the whole truth,’ she
said, leaning back in her chair and surveying
him attentively. ‘I have always told you
that, so far as I knew it; but now, for the
first time, I think I know it all. I thought
I needed something more than your love,
but it was a mistake. I had not had enough
of it to know what it could be—that is all.


ELLICE QUENTIN. 43
Mr. Amidon has at least taught me that;
he has taught me by showing me all that it is
not. I used to think there were so many
pleasant things in the world, that no one
pleasure—not even the pleasure of your love
_could make up for the loss of the others.
But I have found that no pleasure can be
really enjoyed except through love; one
might as well save money for dresses by
going without food. What is the use of fine
clothes if you are dead ? ’
‘ Do you intend to divorce your hus—
band ?'
Ellice looked down for a moment at her
hands, then glanced up with a smile and
nodded.
‘ Does he know of it ?’
‘ No. He does not know where I am at
this moment. I left him suddenly yesterday
in Paris. But he cannot help himself; he
has no defence.’
‘Well, and after you have got your
divorce—what then ? ’
Ellice was looking straight at Geoffrey
when he asked this question, and for all
answer she gave him another of her strange,
unexpected smiles.
Geoffrey stood up; this scarcely dis-
guised avowal that she believed her power
over him to be undiminished so far defeated
itself as to give him strength for at least
temporary resistance. He took her letter with
its enfolded contents off the mantelpiece.
' Two years have made more difference


44. ELLICE QUENTIIV.
with me than they seem to have made with
you,’ he said. ‘I don’t pretend to be as
fresh-hearted and as ready to begin life over
again n0w as I was then, and perhaps I can
give you the friendly counsel to-day which
you expected of me that afternoon at Lady
Feuilleton’s. You will make a great mis-
take, in my opinion, in leaving your husband.
He can be of more use to you than anybody
else can. The longer you live the more of
that sort of help you will need. You will
find it more inconvenient to give up the
world than it was to give up me. My advice
is that you take the next train back to Paris.’
‘ I will go if you send me,’ replied Ellice,
rising with an unhurried movement, and
standing in slender gracefulness before him.
‘ If that advice comes from your heart,
Geoffrey, I will do even that for you, if it
will make you happier. But-will you be
happier? Am I grown ugly and hateful to
you? Look at me, Geoffrey! You used to
think my lips were beautiful.’
“ Look at this !’ returned he, breaking out
into fierceness. He unfolded the letter, and
showed her the black bow and the dried rose-
bud. ‘ These came from you. I have kept
them till now, but at the moment you came
in I was going to burn them, and let that part
of my life be annihilated with them; for I
had begun a new life, which they dishonoured.
Why do you come now? You promised to
come before that flower faded. Did you
.think it was immortal ?’ '


46 ELLICE QUENTIN.
somewhat shrilly, and sitting down again in
her chair. She felt nervously for her hand-
kerchief, and having got it, pressed it several
times to her mouth.
‘You took me quite by surprise,’ she
began, in a thin voice. ‘You are really
going to be married! How dramatically
you brought it out! Who—may I ask to
whom ?’
‘No name that you have ever heard,’
said Geoffrey stolidly.
‘And you have been engaged to her
long? You love her passionately, of
course ?’
‘We have been engaged about three
weeks. She deserves the best love ’
‘Yes-I didn’t mean to pry into your
tender affairs! Geoffrey, have you kissed
her—often. I mean?’
‘Yes, a hundred times,’ he answered,
between his teeth.
Ellice gave an involuntary shudder, and
made a gesture as if to shut out what he had
said from her ears. The emotion brought
the blood surging and tingling back to her
face. She turned her head aside and re-
mained for some time with her gaze fixed
upon the wall. Geoffrey ventured to make
no sign, for he had tried his resolution to the
uttermost, and knew too well where another
struggle would leave him. Yet, at heart,
perhaps, he grudged himself a victory so
much less sweet than defeat would have
been. At that moment Ellice was for him


ELLICE QUENTIIV. 47
the only woman in the world. He was
ready to fall at her feet. He felt as if all
the outrage had been on his side and all the
suffering on hers.
At last she got up, outwardly quiet, save
for the deep flush in her cheeks and the
sparkle in her eyes, which travelled over
Geoffrey occasionally as she spoke, but never
rested steadily upon him. ‘ You have made
me feel ashamed of myself,’ she said. ‘I
think you should have told me this news at
first. No—I take that back. I broke in
upon you uninvited and—but it was because
I thought—I did not think You must
believe that I am not so unwomanly as to
have done it if I had known.’ She paused,
buttoning and unbuttoning her glove mecha-
nically, her lips moving silently. Finally she
looked up and said in a fresher tone: ‘May
I ask you one favour ?’
Geoffrey moved his head in silent assent.
‘I shall go away—I shall go back to-
morrow evening,’ she went on. ‘You see I
am wise enough to take your advice now.
But I want very much to see—this lady
before I go. You need not be afraid; I
should say nothing that could pain her;
but you can understand why I should like
to see her. I suppose I may tell you—for
you must know it already--that she is the
only woman in the world whom I can feel
an interest in seeing. When I picture you
to myself hereafter, I want to be able to
picture her too. Will you bring her to see


43 E LLI C E QUENT 11V.
me to-morrow, before I go? Tell her that
I am an old—acquaintance of yours; a mar-
ried woman, who feels an interest in what
concerns your happiness. Will you come
with her?’
‘ Oh, Ellice,’ said he, in a broken voice,
‘ I will come with her—or, if you say so,
I will come without her!’
She seemed to hesitate for an instant,
drawing in her breath, and sending him one
swift and penetrating glance. But the next
instant she answered quite composedly, and
as if she had not understood the significance
of his avowal. ‘Oh, no, come with her; I
should like to see her! Thank you; now I
will go; good-bye till to-morrow!’ And
before he could take her hand in farewell, or
find words to speak, she had retreated to the
door, opened it, and passed out.
It was dark when she departed. Geoffrey
lit no lamp; but after locking his door,
he sat for many hours with his head on
his hands; and everywhere, standing forth
against the gloom, he saw her slender supple
figure, her fascinating wayward face: the
changes of her voice murmured in his ears;
and the desire of her ruled his heart and
mind.
It was not with the feelings of a trium-
phant lover, proud to exhibit his mistress to
envious eyes, that Geoffrey Herne presented
himself, with the girl he was to marry, at
Ellice’s apartments the next day. Not that


ELLICE QUENTLV. 49
Gertrude Hamilton was in any respect a
bride to be ashamed of. She was handsome.
wholesome, and serene ; full of kindliness and
common sense ; pure in thought and upright
in deed. She had given her whole honest
.love to Geoffrey, moreover; and having done
so, she had as little thought of changing as
the moon has of ceasing to be the earth's
satellite. So short a time ago as yesterday
forenoon, Geoffrey had seen his way to a
life of sober happiness with her; but now
he could only think, ‘ She is not Ellice ’ ; and
he shunned to meet her quiet, confident look,
and could not respond frankly to her conver-
sational advances. He felt himself a cheat;
and inwardly kept repeating to himself the
ominous question : ‘ How will it end P How
will it end ?'
Mrs. Amidon received her guests with a
charm of cordiality that at once produced a
favourable impression upon Gertrude. She
was dressed in a flowing tea-gown of some
oriental stuff which became her especially
well; there was colour in her cheeks, and
her manner varied between languor and what
seemed restrained excitement; but a certain
rare feminine sweetness pervaded all. On
the table by her side was a silver salver,
holding a decanter of wine and three glasses.
These glasses, which had already been filled
to the brim with _ wine, were of Venetian
design, each one of a pattern different from
the others. The room was in half light and
furnished sumptuously.
E


5o ELL/CE QUENTIN
Ellice addressed almost all her questions
and remarks. to Gertrude ; never meeting
the latter’s eyes, but occasionally glancing at
her with great keenness. To Geoffrey she
scarcely spoke; and when he addressed her,
. she would reply to him, as it were, through
Gertrude. Geoffrey had noticed that she had
avoided shaking hands with either of them
at meeting; and, as he sat observing her, the
fantasy now and then seized him that she was
not a tangible human being of flesh and blood,
but a beautiful wraith. There was a refine-
ment and a sensitiveness in her gesture and
aspect as of one who could scarcely have
part in the vain, self-seeking world : and yet
what an odd commentary upon this appearance
her actual life (as far as one could know it)
had been!
After a while she said, rising, and speak-
ing with more vivacity than she had shown
before: ‘ Now I am going to ask you both to
take a glass of wine with me.’
Gertrude thanked her, but said she sel-
dom took wine, unless for medicinal pur-
poses.
‘Oh, but let me beg of you to make an
exception this time,’ returned Ellice, with
singular earnestness. ‘ I have set my heart—-
yes, my heart, upon your drinking with me.
Do not refuse me. I shall never have the
opportunity of asking another favour of you.’
She took up the salver as she spoke, and
held it towards Gertrude, with the three
glasses upon it. ‘Choose one,’ she said. ‘ I


TELLICE QUENTIN. 51
am superstitious. I cannot let you off from
this. Take whichever you like.’
‘ Certainly, if it will oblige you,’ said Ger-
trude, smiling. ‘I suppose they are all the
same wine P I will take this.’ And she
took the slenderest of the three glasses.
‘ The wine is the same,’ observed Ellice,
‘but the glasses sometimes make a difference
in the taste. Well, you have chosen; now,
Geoffrey, it liesbetween you and me.’ -
Her hands trembled a little as she pre-
sented the salver to him, so that the glasses
jingled, and some ,of the wine was spilt.
‘Quick !’ she said in a whisper ; and he took
the glass with the curved brim and the snaky
stem. As she‘set down the salver her hand
was steady again, and when she raised the
remaining glass between her fingers not a
drop was spilt.
‘ You remember the last time we drank to-
gether, Geoffrey ?’ she said, looking directly
at him now for the first time. ‘ I shall never
drink wine in my life after this. I am glad
you and Gertrude have chosen as you have
done. It is better—much better. You had
your free choice, and left this for me. I
drink to your health, my friends.’
She drank her glass out, and set it down.
The others followed her example.
‘ It is very good wine, I’m sure,’ remarked
Gertrude.
‘You will get no harm from it,’ replied
Ellice, tremulously and smiling; ‘ nor will
you, Geoffrey. And it will be good for me,
51. OF ILL. L. .
E 2


52 E LLI CE Q UE NZ ~1.3K

too. You will ’ she began to tremble so
violently that she cOuld not stand, and sank
down in a chair. ‘ You will think—kindly of
me ? ’ she went on in a' scarcely audible voice.
' A strange alteration was rapidly creeping
over her features. Her lips quivered, her
eyes dilated, and there was a choking in her
throat. Geoffrey, who, for the last few mo-
ments, had kept his eyes fixed upon her
searchingly, suddenly flung himself down on
his knees beside her with a hollow cry of
anguish.
‘ Ellice! you have poisoned yourself,’ he
cried with thick utterance. ‘ Could you not
have forgiven me enough to let me go too ? ’
‘ You—had your—chance; it was death
—-—to one or other of us three,’ she answered
with difficulty. ‘ Fate chose me. Oh! do
not trouble me now ; I am content. Of what
use have I ever been in the world? She is
better for you.’ ' _
‘What is the matter? Can I be of any
help?’ enquired Gertrude, in concern and
perplexity.
For a minute Geoffrey made no reply.
Then he rose stiffiy, kissed the dead woman’s
lips, and turning away from her, but not to-
wards Gertrude, answered heavily, ‘ None!’


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
I.
ONE hot August-forenoon, some years ago,
two men met at a certain point of the coast
of Normandy, and shook hands with mutual
good-will.
The elder of these men had lived in the
world about five-and-thirty years; he had
had losses, and successes as well; but the
latter, happening to have arrived a year or
so after he had got tired of waiting for them,
found him grown a trifle soured and cynical.
and apt to carp at the sunshine which had
withheld its warmth from his bones until they
had contracted an ineradicable chill. His
bitterness was perhaps more of the head than
of the heart, but was none the less observable
on that account. He was an Englishman by
birth, and a born painter also—at least in
his own opinion. He had begun his career
with the firm persuasion that his genius
entitled him not only to hang on the line at
the Academy, but to be one of the hangmen.
The Royal Academicians did not immedi-
ately fall in with his views on either point;


54 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
and when, after many years, they relented,
and gave his picture the place of honour, and
intimated their purpose of filling with his
name the first vacancy on their august roll,
this lofty and unforgiving gentleman made a
bow and begged to be excused. He had
made his name known without the Academy’s
help; he had won pecuniary independence in
a land where the word of the Academy was
not law; and he would now, therefore, with _
all due respect to the members of that body, .
see every mother’s son of them at the deuce
before he would have anything to do with
them. Such an ultimatum necessarily finished
the episode; the Academy preserved a
dignified silence, and the lofty and unfor-
giving' gentleman continued to spend the
best part of his time in Paris, exhibiting
every year in the Salon, and telling the story
of his quarrel with the English potentates to
whomsoever cared to hear an amusing anec-
dote caustically related. He was a lengthy,
meagre, harsh-featured personage, this same
cynical artist, but he prided himself on the
Parisian polish of his manners and his French
accent, and he was, in fact, a good deal of a
favourite in society.
The man who shook hands with the
person above described wasin most respects
as unlike him as could be imagined. To
begin with, he was an American ;_ and, sen-
timental twaddle to the contrary notwith-
standing, there is no nationality so irrecon-
cilable with the English, and so incapable of


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 55
sympathy with them, as that which styles
itself American. But this man, in addition
to his Americanism, was full ten years the
junior of the other, and nearly the same
number of inches shorter. His face was
smooth and almost boyish, handsome even to
an unusual degree, yet open to one criticism
-that of being perfectly in harmony with the
figure of its owner. The world has seen
many great men under six feet high ; but in
’ them the countenance possessed the power or
the nobility that more than compensates for
defective stature; and, in looking upon it,
the beholder quite forgot to be critical as to
the greater or less degree of its elevation
above the earth's surface. In a word, the
face of this young American was the face of a
short American—a recommendation, doubt-
less, from the purely aesthetic standpoint, but
otherwise unfortunate. The lively blue eyes
lacked depth and sternness ; the fine straight
n05e might well have been a thought longer
or higher; the mouth was too little and too
academic in its curves ; the forehead, though
capacious, lacked the fine and expressive
modelling which announces a master intellect.
For the rest, this young American had a
clear, deep colour in his cheeks, such as any
woman might have envied, and the only fault
of which was that no emotion had power
either to diminish or to heighten its intensity ;
soft dark hair, a small silky moustache, and
broad white teeth. The best feature in his
face was probably the chin, which betokened


56 THE co UNTESS’S RUBY.
a vigorous and persistent will. In figure he
was square-shouldered, and rather plump
than lean : his hands and feet were small and
well shaped. If the enumeration of these
merely physical details seems out of propor-
tion with what was specified on that score in
the portrait of the Englishman, it should be
remembered that the younger man had as yet
achieved little in thelworld beyond this at-
tractive personal appearance. His moral and
social history were yet to make. He was
the son of a Boston millionaire ; he had been
educated at Harvard College; he was courted
and caressed in Beacon Street drawing-
rooms; and he had written quite a number
of poems, odes, lyrics, and sonnets, philoso-
phical, commemorational, imaginative, and
erotic, which, reversing the natural sequence
of states, first led a brilliant butterfly life in
newspapers and magazines, and afterwards
shut themselves up in the chrysalid of a
gilt-edged, cloth-embossed volume, whente
they afterwards showed no symptom of
emerging. ‘
These two men, such as they are here
shadowed forth, found themselves face to face
by the water’s edge on that sultry August
morning. and greeted each other with hearty
enough cordiality.
As if to compensate for their physical
dissimilarity, they were dressed almost pre-
cisely alike. Both had on shoes made of a
flat sole of plaited hemp, with stout linen
uppers curiously embroidered with red and


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 57
blue braid, and laced round the ankle after
the manner of the ancient sandal. Both
wore a kind of straw bonnet, high-crowned
and wide‘brimmed, clewed down on either
side the face by a broad ribbon tied under
the chin. Neither possessed any other
essential article of clothing except a close-
fitting tunic or set of tights, with the legs
and arms cut off close to the body. Over
this was lightly thrown a long mantle of
Turkish-towel stuff. The tights were
striped horizontally, alternate white and
blue for the Englishman, and red and
white for the American ;Vand herein lay the
sole distinction between their respective
costumes. It is true that the American’s
fitted much the more closely and smoothly
of the two; but that is neither here nor
there.
In front of these simply-attired friends,
and breaking in baby ripples at their feet,
stretched in slumbrous calm a pale and tur-
quoise ocean, destitute of any visible horizon.
A tender haze which brooded in that region
so intermingled sea and air that distant ships
seemed to sail in the clouds, and clouds to
voyage upon the water.
Behind them rose a mounded beach of
purple shingle, uncomfortable to tread upon,
but invaluable as a bulwark against the in-
_ cursion of high tides into the low-lying village
beyond. This village snuggled in the valley
formed between the two hills which abutted
at either extremity of the beach in precipitous


58 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
cliffs, reflecting their pallid faces in the
molten surface of the summer sea.
Between the village and the beach, and
surmounting the latter like a fort, extended
the casino parade, an embankment of
masonry lying parallel with the shore, and
backed by the casino itself, long, low, and
fiat-roofed, all windows and awnings. It
contained a card room, billiard room, restau-
rant and theatre, the last transmutable into a
ball room by the simple process of removing
the pit seats.
The persons of whom I write were not
alone by the water’s edge; on the contrary,
they had scarcely more than elbow room.
On either side of them stood, chattered, and
gesticulated a hundred human beings of both
sexes and all ages, arrayed more or less on the
same general principle already detailed. A
hundred others paddled, plunged, and bobbed
in the pellucid element in front. Twice as
many lounged, fluttered, and ogled in serried
groups in the rear-these last resplendent in
the latest Parisian fashions for the month
of August. Down upon this gay scene
of colour, sparkle, and sound glowered the
hot, lazy sun, longing for the still nine-
hours-distant time when he might cool his
own sweltering sides in the luxury of a sea
bath.
Beyond the average range of the swim-
mers sped hither and thither a score of light
skiffs or canoes, whose occupants prudently
wore their bathing dresses and sat heedfully


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 59
amidships as they plied their long paddles.
Finally, I may mention the diving-board, an
infernal machine of a thirty foot plank sup-
ported at a third of its length on the axle of
a tall pair of wheels, and so rolled into the
water, to be rushed up and jumped off of by
dashing divers. That diving-board was a
daily thorn in the side of the English artist,
who was not a dashing diver and who would
have greatly preferred to take to the water
like a duck—that is quietly and smoothly—
but whom a false pride constrained to mount
that penitential plank morning after morning,
'and upset himself off the end of it with an
agonised effort-seldom or never successful
—to strike the water vertically. What fools
sensible people will make of themselves for
the sake of being like the fools who are
ready-made! _
It may as well be mentioned here, since
the truth is sure to crop out sooner or later, ~
that the name of the cynical and Frenchified
English artist was Mr. Claude Campbell, and
that he was, consequently, no less a per-
sonage than myself, who write concerning
him. Let this confession put the reader on
his guard against whatever exaggerative or
prejudicial statements he may fancy he
detects in what I have told or have yet to
tell. I do not pretend to be an absolutely
impartial historian of events in which myself
have been an actor. I promise only to set
down things as they appeared to me at the
time, and leave the reader to draw his own


60 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
conclusions. Did I make the world, or even
organise human society ? No ; nor am I
responsible for the logic of events, which, on
the other hand, has often struck me as being
a shocking bad system of logic.
As for the red-checked American, he was
jefferson Montgomery, Esquire, of Boston,
as aforesaid, and he shall speak for himself.
II.
‘ HULLo, jeff! just a year since we parted
on Beacon Hill.’
‘ My dear Campbell,’ said jeff, giving my
hand a strong pressure, while his blue eyes
beamed and his white teeth flashed, ‘this is
really very nice. Have you been here long?’
‘ Maybe a week.’
‘ A week ? Really! how very slrange! ’
As I do not intend to underline all
Mr. jeff’s speeches, I will explain here that
he was one of those persons who choose
their words with care, and then bestow upon
them a certain emphasis-an emphasis of
breath-a soft cough, so to say, intended
merely to call your attention to the word in
question as an unexceptionable word. At
first you wondered at the speaker’s ear-
nestness; afterwards you begot a nervous
oppression of the breathing apparatus, re-
ferable to the obscure phenomena of sympa-
thetic affections. For my own part, the kind


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 61
of conscientious self-complacency of which I
considered this idiosyncrasy of my friend to
be a symptom tended to arouse in me all
my caustic and combative instincts; and, in-
asmuch as the young poet was fertile in
‘notions ’ and resolute in upholding the same,
our conversations were apt to become dis-
cussions, and our discussions disputes. Our
disputes had never deepened into quarrels—
we were too dissimilar for that—though a
listener might sometimes have found it
difficult to make the distinction. But to
resume.
‘ Why strange ?’ was my enquiry.
‘Why, that we shouldn’t have encoun—
tered previously.’
‘On the contrary, the strangeness is in
our meeting at all. I came here to make
studies, and you, I suppose, to make con-
quests. How many so far ?’
‘_Oh, you 'old cynic! I don’t know a soul
in the place. It was an accident my being
here at all, and I’ve been doing nothing but
admire these lovely cliffs and the poetic
scenery.’
‘Poetic? That reminds me. Pardon
my thoughtlessness, jeff. You have been
wooing the muse, of course ?’
‘Well, I confess I have been attempting
something ; it’s unfinished as yet, but I hope
it is fresh and strong; and I believe it to be
original in treatment as well as in idea. It
will be my most ambitious effort so far. A
pagan maid falls in love with the Spirit of


63 711E COUNTESS’S RUBY.
the Ocean, and a poet is in love with her,
and between these two loves—J
‘She comes to the ground, or into the
water. Which is it ?’
‘ You are always so ready to mock,
Campbell. But of course it doesn’t come
from the heart; it’s only your badinage.
And really, don’t you think the conception
fine? I should like to read you my descrip-
tion of the pagan maid.’
‘ Portrait of anybody in particular?’
‘Well, between you and me, Campbell,
there is a young lady here—I don’t know
who she is, but she really does seem to be
almost the type I need—efor my poem, I
mean. A noble creature—the true grand
pagan style. You would like her; she
would charm the artist equally with the poet.’
‘ So you have been trotting up hill and
down dale after a pagan, and call it writing
a poem on metaphysical abstractions! Do
you never mean to give'up this sort of thing,
my dear boy ? '
‘ Really, what do you mean ?’
‘ Dangling after women the way you do.’
‘What an expression! Every cultivated
man feels it his duty to love woman and to
frequent her society.’
‘ But why not choose out a representative
woman and frequent the whole sex in her
person ?’
‘ Do you advocate marriage, then ? ’ asked
the poet, 'his blue eyes pensively interrogat-
ing the horizon.


THE co owns ’5 RUBY. 6 3‘
‘I say that, if you must make an ass of
yourself at all, you should confine yourself
within the narrowest possible limits.’
‘ Have you ever contemplated matrimony,
Campbell?’
‘ It is the last thing I should contemplate
for myself.’
‘You have never yearned for a counter-
soul P"
‘I don’t know what you mean, but I
venture to say I never have,’ I replied.
‘But what would-be folly in me would be
philanthropy in you.’
Jeff heaved a long sigh. ‘ Let me
whisper you a secret. You know my papa
made a fortune in the Crimean war. We
had a contract to furnish the Russians with
briar-wood pipes. Well, Russia is now on
the eve of another conflict, and papa has
sent me over to arrange the terms of another
contract.’
‘ But what has this to do with your get-
ting married ?’ ' _
‘ Why, the person who manages the busi-
ness on the Russian side is our old friend—-
the same who concluded the arrangements
with papa twenty-five years ago. Our rela-
tions have always remained intimate and
cordial. And immediately Subsequent to the
Russian war this commissioner married, and
——had-oh !’
The poet’s voice died away; his eyes‘
were fixed upon something a little farther
along the beach.


64 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘There! there! ’ he murmured. ‘ Oh! is
she not—divine ? ’
‘ Ha ! that is your pagan, is it ?’
‘ Going out in a canoe,’ continued Jeff.
This young and strikingly handsome girl,
of proportions almost statuesque, was not
seen by me now for the first time. I had, in
fact, noticed her shortly after my arrival in
town, and had taken that pleasure in observ-
ing her which an artist feels for whatever is
thoroughly picturesque. Who she was I
knew no more than Jeff, and it was not to be
expected that another man’s admiration of
her should be disagreeable to me; but some
men are not any man, and I must admit that
the revelation of her identity with the subject
of Jeff’s rhapsodies affected me unpleasantly.
-The girl’s beauty, patent to me, was not of a
type to reveal itself to every careless and
uneducated eye. But I will not attempt to
defend my feeling. I simply state it.
The young lady took her seat in the
canoe and grasped the paddle, and an el-
derly moustachioed gentleman pushed her off
from' shore. She was dressed in a rather re-
markable bathing suit of black, slashed with
scarlet ; her round, firm arms were bare from
the shoulder, and her legs from the knee;
her hair was gathered up in the customary
oilskin cap. With two or three vigorous
strokes she sent her skiff well out beyond the
'crowd of bathers.
When I turned again towards Jeff I
found he was no longer at my side ; he war,


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 6;
walking up the diving board, on the end of
which he balanced himself a moment and
then launched himself head foremost into
the water, which closed over him with scarce
a ripple. Presently his head appeared some
distance beyond the spot at which he had
entered, and he began swimming seaward
with vigorous strokes. He was directly in
the wake of the fair pagan, who, unaware of
his pursuit, was paddling leisurely towards
the thickening haze on the horizon, herself
and her canoe mirrored distinctly on the
glassy surface.
‘Does he propose to overtake her and
make her hear his poetry téte-d-téte in twelve
fathoms of water?’ I asked myself. ‘At
any rate, he resembles Byron in his swim-
ming powers. And how neatly the fellow
took the water! Let me see if I can’t acquit
myself as well as a Boston republican.’
With asudden access of valour I snatched
off my peignoir and cast it behind me, and,
without stopping to see where it fell,‘ I
mounted the fatal plank with deliberate
steps, saw the treacherous element smile for
a moment beneath me, shut my eyes, and let
myself go.


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 67
vulsive shudderings in the muscles of my
lower jaw. Chilled, humiliated, and con-
scious that I cut a ridiculous figure before a
fashionable and merciless world, I only
wished to seize my peignoir, wrap it round
me, and vanish from the view and memory
of mankind. Some men are cowed by one
thing, some by another; and, once cowed,
a man is no better than a whipped school-
boy, and feels far less respectable.
I hastened, then, to hide my discomfi-
ture in my peignoir; but at that moment
the certainty flashed upon me that I knew
not where my peignoir was. I had omitted
to note the place where I had laid it down :
all places on a shingle beach are alike, es-
pecially when that beach is crowded to the
water's edge.
I was standing face to face with the
crowd, dressed in the. curtailment of costume
already described, which, hanging in dripping
folds about my meagre form, rendered gro-
tesque that which by nature was ungainly
merely. For the first time in my life I re-
gretted my six feet of stature; at five feet I
should have felt less defenceless as well as
appeared less conspicuous. There I stood
'before the world, shivering, lost, and helpless.
What was I to do? It was a pressing
question, for every moment rendered the
situation not only physically but morally
more intolerable. '
Should I return to the water, whence I
came ?
F 2


68 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
Too late! Not only would I catch my
death—a minor evil—but the world by this
time knew that I had started to come out,
and by detecting the cowardice of my re-
treat would render it cowardice thrown away.
Should I steal the first peignoir that came
to hand and fly ? Hundreds were scattered
about. It was but reaching forth my hand.
No, I could not steal : not because I was
too honest—far from it; a cowed man is
beyond the reach of scruples—but because
I lacked the courage to be a thief. I feared
detection, and knew I lacked the effrontery
to brazen out the robbery.
Should I pretend I never had a peig-
noir, and stalk insouciantly through the
crowd and up to the beach as I was ?
Impossible. I had not the spirits for
such a tour de force in the first place, and in
the second I had not the figure for it. More-
over, the maz'm‘e had issued edicts against
bathers promenading without peignoirs, and
the thought of being arrested by a squad
of gendarmes and marched in my present
condition to a lockup was not to be contem-
plated.
I must, therefore, either stand where I
was until my peignoir came to me or institute
a deliberate search after my peignoir. To
search, perhaps for hours, amidst a wilderness
of spotless hostile skirts and immaculate
shrinking pantaloons for a peignoir scarcely
distinguishable from any other peignoir, and
which, too, might have already been appro-


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 69
priated by some person more heedless (or
more self-possessed) than myself! Decidedly
there are times in a man’s life when he is
forced to avow that Providence has omitted
to endow human beings with the only boon
really worth their having-the power, namely,
of instant and unobtrusive self-annihilation.
My search began. I went to a peignoir
and examined it; it was not mine. With
shaking limbs I blundered towards another
a few yards off; it was not mine. At this
juncture I heard, and affected not to hear, a
titter of laughter. With my heart full of
murder and suicide I pounced upon a peig-
noir quite near at hand. It was the same I
had examined first. My brain began to reel.
‘ Monsieur!’ said a gentle voice near me.
‘ Pardon, Monsieur!’
Could such words be addressed to me?
As I tottered on the shifting ’ pebbles,
throwing dazed glances here and there, I
became aware that a lady, middle-aged and
of noble demeanour, was standing beside me
with a folded peignoir in her hands.
‘ Pardon, but did Monsieur chance to be
searching for anything?’ she asked in
French.
‘ peignoir ’
‘ I have perceived that Monsieur dropped
this upon entering the water': it shall be his
perhaps?’ and with a smile too truly polite
even to seem compassionate this angel of
mature years placed my own identical peigé
noir in my arms.


70 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
I clutched it as Macbeth clutched the
phantom dagger; only more fortunate than
the thane, I felt it in my grasp. Some part of
> my senses returned to me.
‘Madame,’ I stuttered as well as my
chattering teeth would let me, ‘you come
from doing me the greatest favour woman
can confer upon man. I shall never forget
it. I thank you, madame, from the depths
of my soul, and I salute you with the most
distinguished gratitude and respect.’
The doer of this noble action bowed and
smiled graciously, and I, with my peignoir
about me, stalked boldly through the crowd
to my toilet cabin. The distance was not
great, but such was the glow of gratitude in
my heart that by the time I arrived there I
was not only warm but almost dry. Nor
did the effect of this kindness stop at my
skin; my immortal part, as jeff might have
called it, was sweetened and exalted ; never.
that I could. remember, had I been succoured
so opportunely or in such poignant need. lie
that lady who she might» she was worthy of
all homage, and if it would have done her
any good I believe that, confirmed bachelor
though I was, I would have offered her my
hand and heart as soon as I had finished my
toilet.
But I trusted to my good genius to find
me some better way of requiting her favour.
It is sad to reflect how few ways there are of
obliging our fellow-creatures. People would
do more for one another but for the difficulty


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 71
of finding something at once practical and
practicable to do.
The first thing that attracted my notice,
when I issued from my cabin and returned to
the beach, was that the haze, which all the
morning had lain along the horizon, had now
thickened greatly and advanced upon the
shore. Nothing was visible at twenty paces,
and the fog, shone through by the sun, drifted
softly over the bustling crowd, which was
already beginning to stream homewards.
It was a pretty spectacle, but one likely
to be regarded with different feelings by an
Englishman safe on dry land and an Ameri-
can lost in twelve fathoms of water. jeff had
not come back to shore, and being out of
sight of land, it necessarily followed that he
was lost. The danger was graver than
might at first sight have appeared, for the
swimmer had had time to get fully a mile out
to sea, and at that distance there were strong
currents which might sweep him away
altogether. I scanned the white blank be-
fore me with anxious eyes, but it revealed
nothing. Poor Jeff !
I began to experience that uncomfortable
sensation occasioned iy knowing a friend to
be in peril, and feeling the necessity of doing
something to ' rescue him. More grievous
but more convenient is it when the inevitable
occurs at once, and saves us the annoyance
of suspense. I could have sorrowed heartily
and sincerely over the poor poet’s drowned
body laid out upon the shingle, but there was


72 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
no satisfaction in taking measures to ascer-
tain whether or not the corpse were an
accomplished fact—to postpone, in other
words, the luxury of grief for the anguish of
action.
A group of sailors were collected round
a boat at the water’s edge, which they
seemed to be on the point of launching. A
lady was haranguing them earnestly. As I
approached I recognised her as the heroine
of my late adventure with the peignoir. She
was saying-
‘ It was in that direction that I last saw
her. She is already, perhaps, a kilometre
distant. There is no time to lose, mind you.
Behold me distracted.’
Here was my opportunity; I could kill
both my birds with one stone. I stepped
forward with raised hat, and placed myself at
the disposal of feminine distress. Having
respectfully recalled myself to her recollec-
tion, I begged to be honoured with the dis-
tinction of being permitted to promote the
alleviation of the anxiety under which she
appeared to be labouring.
She thanked me with ardour, but to
inconvenience me would desolate her.
Having received at her hands a favour
beyond estimation, I should expire of chagrin
in the case of being refused the privilege of
testifying in some degree the depth and live-
liness of my recognition.
Madame hereupon vouchsafed to inform
me that Mademoiselle her daughter had


TI’E (.‘OUA/TESS’S RUBY. 73
paddled away with herself into the fog. and
there was fear that she be lost in unknown
oceans.
I had divined as much as this, but I was
careful not to say so; nor did I open my
mouth on the subject of Jeff. It was suffi—
cient for me to perceive that Jeff and the
young lady in the case were probably not
far apart, and that to find one would be to
find both. Meanwhile I would not deprive
Madame of the gratification of believing that
I was acting in her interests only. So,
cntreating her to be tranquil and to expect
my return with her daughter in less than a
quarter of an hour, I clambered into the boat
with all possible dignity and despatch and bade
my men shove off. Madame observed my de-
parture with eyes that were genuinely moist.
It was a tolerably mild piece of heroism.
Had I been ten years younger I might have
wished that the waves had been running
mountains high, but at thirty-five—the age
of sense and of feeling combined—I was
better pleased with the conditions as they
were. I was not in love with anybody, and
wished only to combine courtesy and good
breeding with the fulfilment of a private duty.
It had gratified me to observe, in my brief
conversation with Madame, her appreciation
of the altered aspect of one whom she had
first known as an idiot and a scarecrow : not
to mention his fluency in speaking the
language of the most polished people in the
world. I admired, too, the kindly ingenuity


74 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
with which. Fate had brought me acquainted
with the mamma of the beautiful pagan, and
under circumstances so promising.
But it is unsafe to call Fate good-
humoured: it spoils her temper. Our boat
was barely afloat when an event occurred
which rendered our proposed voyage un-
necessary. Somehow or other, without noise
and without premonition, the fog rolled
swiftly back to the horizon whence it came;
and there was Mademoiselle not more than a
hundred yards from shore. She was paddling
in with admirable coolness and indifference;
and close behind her I was happy to see the
black head and rosy visage of the poet, who
was swimming on his back with every ap-
pearance of ease and comfort.
IV.
I HASTENED to get on shore again and offer
to Madame my congratulations. She replied
that her obligations to Monsieur were none
the less. His courtesy, his chivalry, had
been such as one never sees paralleled.
Monsieur, covered with confusion at con-
sideration so undeserved, changes the subject
by calling the attention of Madame to the
charming picture made by Mademoiselle in
approaching the beach. Had he had his
sketch-book with him, he would have been
tempted to make alittle drawing of Mademoi-
selle.


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 75
Ah! Monsieur was, then, an artist?
Madame, and Mademoiselle likewise, were all
given to artists. They had made purchase
of several pictures during their residence in
Paris.
Monsieur will venture to call himself an
artist, and will, furthermore, have the assur-
ance to make Madame acquainted with his
name—M. Claude Campbell, at the service of
Madame.
But truly! and did Monsieur Campbell
happen to know this Campbell,-he, the
great Campbell, he who painted this picture
divine which exhibited itself at the last Salon,
and was entitled the ‘ Ruined Rampart’ ?
Monsieur, even in blushing and being
overwhelmed, assures Madame that he is that
same fortunate Campbell whose unworthy
effort Madame. comes from qualifying with
such generosity. '
Great God ! 'Monsieur is he, then, indeed
that sublime, that adored man of genius?
What happy chancel What charming ren-
rom‘re ./ But in this case Madame hopes that
the name of the Countess Semaroff will be to
Monsieur not altogether unfamiliar?
Oh ! Heaven ! Is it possible that Monsieur
is so happy as to kiss the hand of the noble
lady who deigned to constitute herself the
purchaser of the above-mentioned ‘ Ruined
Rampart’? Monsieur is of a verity trans-
ported.
The Countess Semaroff observes that
Mademoiselle-the Countess Almara in effect


76 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
-_will partake of her mamma’s enchantment
in meeting Monsieur Campbell, of whose
genius she is an ardent admirer.
Our rude and artless talk was suspended
at this point by the disembarkation of . the
Countess Almara. Apprehending that the
simplicity of her costume might render my
immediate presentation undesirable,. I ex-
changed a cordial au rewz'r with the Countess
Semaroff and discreetly withdrew. The beau-
tiful pagan, after exchanging a few sentences
with her mother, the latter speaking earnestly
and the former laughingly, proceeded to take
her turn upon the diving-board, and acquitted
herself in a manner truly admirable. She
dove like a plummet, and her white feet
flashed beneath the surface as succinctly as a
mermaid’s tail. Up she came again, fresh and
dripping, within a few yards of my returned
prodigal, the Boston poet; but no signal of
recognition that I could detect passed between
them. To suppose that the ardent and roman-
tic ]efferson had failed to improve the occa-
sion of being isolated from the world under
such peculiar circumstances with the subject
of his late rhapsodies seemed to me, how-
ever, highly improbable. But the young
Countess had doubtless played discretion
under the watchful maternal eye; and jeff,
perhaps, intended to conceal his escapade
from my friendly inquisition. I was resolved
nevertheless to penetrate his reticence, and
promised myself the pleasure of listening to
an entertaining story over our dejeuner. As


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 77
to my own accidental introduction to the
Countess mother, and the unexpected tie
between us, I judged it advisable to forbear
mentioning it just at present.
The poet reached his depth and waded
ashore. I stepped forward to meet him, rais-
ing my cap.
‘ Captain Webb, I presume ?’
‘ Oh—but, Campbell !’ exclaimed he
with an ineffable look, ‘ was she not hea-
venly ? ’
‘ Postpone your ecstasies; you’ll be a rheu_
matic cripple for life as it is. Do you know
you’ve been in an hour?’
‘It doesn’t seem ten minutes—and yet I
have lived a lifetime too ! ’
‘ You have water on the brain. Do you
know where your peignoir is ? ’
Somewhat to my mortification, he did
know, and, as he threw it over his shoulders,
remarked placidly, ‘ But really I’m not in the
least cold. Men of my age have hearts,
Campbell, and a heart on fire keeps the blood
warm under all circumstances.’
‘ It takes a Bostonian to have a heart
warranted to burn under water for an hour.’
‘ And then,’ he continued without heeding
me, ‘ did not a goddess keep the flame alive
with her ambrosial breath ?’
‘ Decidedly he must have had an adven-
ture,’ thought I. ‘ But despatch your toilet,
young man, and then you shall dej'euner with
me, and we’ll have chablis and cigarettes.’
‘I shall be most happy, indeed. I won't


73 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
be a moment dressing,’ said the poet beam-
ingly; and he dodged into his cabin.
‘ Pathetic little youth!’ thought I as I
paced the parade to and fro. ‘Good fellow
at bottom, but so soft l—the sort of creature
that men trample on and women make game
of. He has that most offensive of qualities-
inoffensiveness. But, luckily for his peace of
mind, he idolises himself, and is too slow-
witted to comprehend the contempt of other
people. After all, his self-conceit has as much
justification as anybody’s. He sees a pretty
face when he looks in the glass, writes pretty
verses with conscientious rhymes, utters
pretty sentiments, and uses pretty phrases.
How is he to know that the world reads all
this prettiness without the 1'? But Providence,
in emptying his skull, has mercifully filled his
pockets. With ten thousand pounds a year
he can buy something. What he can’t buy
is the ability to win for a wife such a woman
as this young countess. Is he in love with
her? He thinks so, no doubt, and means to
make himself poetically miserable about her.
' His type of men are for ever losing their
hearts miles above the reach of their heads.
He has been getting off some inane namby-
pambyism to her this morning, disgusting or
amusing her as the case may be, and has
come off serene in the conviction of having
made a delightful impression. And now-
confound him l-he will be for prosecuting
the acquaintance and expecting me to back
him up. What shall I do? It would be


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 79
friendly. to dissuade him from having any-
thing more to say to them ; but he’s obstinate
and won’t be dissuaded. Well, the spectacle
of such a wooing can’t fail to be entertaining,
and, since I can’t prevent it, why shouldn’t I
enjoy it? To augment excitement I might
give Mademoiselle Almara a quiet hint to tip
him an occasional dose of encouragement.
Poor Jeff! Ah! here he comes! Now let us
watch him expand under the influence of
chablis.’
The unsuspecting poet took my arm, and
we set out for my lodgings.
‘ How’charming the Old World is,’ he re-
marked presently.
‘You are an American, and everything
here delights you by contrast.’
‘ But I’m patriotic—very. I’m a des-
cendant of the Puritans, and my forefathers
fought on Bunker Hill.’
‘ Yes, you Yankees are always bringing
up the men of ’76, whom, were you to meet
them on Beacon Street to-day, you would
cut dead. Since you have really contrived to
civilise yourselves a little in the last century,
why do you insist upon falling back. on the
reputations of a parcel of tagrag farmers
who were shot ages before you were born ?
If I were a Yankee I’d keep mum about them.’
‘ Ah, you may talk, but at least you know
America is the greatest country on earth,’ re-
joined my friend with unruffled good-humour.
‘ I’m sure you were delighted with your visit
last year.’


80 T11: COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘I confess to some scenery; beyond that
one sees in the States only things which he
thanks Heaven he hasn’t got at home.
America makes Europeans grateful and con-
tented.’
‘I defy you to put your finger on one
feature of civilisation here that does not exist
in a superior form in the States. There
now ! ’
‘ To begin with, then, why did you take
the trouble to come over here to get a wife,
if there are more desirable wives to be had in
Boston ?'
‘ How did you know that ? ’
‘ How? Have I heard anything from you
this morning except about pagan goddesses ?’
‘ Oh, you mean her? Yes; oh, yes!’
‘Good heavens! does the man mean to
insinuate that he has any other woman in this
hemisphere in his eye ?’
‘\/Vhy, to tell you the truth, my father
sent me over here just for that very purpose
-that and the pipes.’
‘ What and the pipes ? ’
‘ To meet the young lady I am going to
marry.’
‘ And is your beautiful pagan the young
lady you are to marry, pray ?’
‘ Ah ! I just wish she was!’ said jeff very
ruefully.
‘ This is becoming interesting, my young
friend. But here’s my house : we’ll have our
breakfast, and then a consultation over our
wine. Come in.’


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 81
V.
I REPRESSED my curiosity during the meal,
but when we had settled down to our second
bottle and the cigarettes I fixed my eyes on
my companion and said—
‘Well?’
‘ Did you see that dive ?’ asked he.
‘ Hers ? ’
‘ Hers of course. Everything I say or do
means her, now and for ever, one and insepa-
rable!’ cried Jeff, upon whom the wine was
evidently beginning to work.
‘ But what about the other young
lady—i”
‘ Sink the other young lady, sir! I never
have seen her, and I never want to.’
‘Well, then, about the pagan. Did the
fog reveal your souls to one another 3”
‘ Now, Campbell, I wish you would
please not chaff,’ said Jeff seriously. ‘ I
don’t like a man to be always cynical.
Is there really nothing sacred to you any-
where ? We Bostonians are not brought
up so; and this is a sacred subject to
me.’
‘ Not more so than to me, my dear fellow.
You shan’t have cause to complain of me
again.’
‘I accept your apology,’ said Jeff with
dignity. ‘Your health.’
We emptied our glasses.
G


82 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘Who was that handsome middle-aged
lady you were talking with ? ’ Jeff asked.
The question rather took me aback.
‘ You are more the traditional Yankee than I
had imagined; you pretend to tell a story
and only ask a question. As for that lady,
I never saw her before in my life. I should
fancy her a Pole or an Austrian. But do get
on with your story.’
' ‘ There is no real story with a beginning,
middle, and end. Real life doesn’t arrange
itself in that way.’
‘ There is always a middle, at any rate.’
‘I will plunge in medias res, then. Did
you observe her paddling out ? ’
‘ To be sure I did.’
‘ And did you divine her object ?’
‘ Well, as to that--’
‘ My dear Campbell, don’t. you see that it
was a case of fugit inter salices? She
paddled out in order that I might pursue
her.’
‘ Oh! How did you find out that ?’
‘ By intuition,’ cried the poet enthusiasti-
cally. ‘ We are in such complete sympathy,
she and I, that I feel what she feels. A
motion of the shoulder, a turn of the neck, a
flirt of the paddle, all bear a secret meaning
to my eye. Why, for a quarter of an hour
after starting but this morning, I could see
nothing but her back; and you know there
isn’t ordinarily much—conversation in a per-
son’s back.’
‘ I believe you are right, Jeff.’


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 83
‘But in this case,’ he continued warmly,
‘I saw through her back all that was going
on in her mind.’
‘ Poetic insight. I have heard of it
before, but never knew it to act so powerfully
as it does with you.’ '
‘Yes ; and, in proof that I’m not mis-
taken, she did just what I knew she would do
beforehand.’
‘ And what was that ?’
‘ How good this chablis is ! The first
thing she did was to paddle straight out to
sea. She did that to try my faith.’
‘ Did she succeed ? ’
‘ A poet’s faith can move mountains,’ said
Jeff, a little inconsequently. ‘ Had I been as
others—had I been less terribly in earnest—-
I should have got discouraged or offended
and given up the chase. But that is not the
Puritan style. I kept right on, and at last I
forced her to alter her tactics.’
‘ And all this through the back of her
head ? Wonderful ! ’ '
‘Well, so she altered her tactics, and—
what do you think ?’
‘ I haven’t a glimmering.’
‘ She stopped—short,’ said Jeff, leaning
across the table with his blue eyes wide open
and speaking in an impressive under-tone ;
‘and there she sat perfectly still, with her back
still turned towards me.’
‘ So that you might continue to read her
thoughts ?’
‘Campbell, I trust you are not scoffing ?’
G 2


84 > THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
2
‘ My dear fellow
‘You are my friend, but there are some
things---’
‘Nothing injures friendship so much as
unjust suspicions, Jeff,’ I said, with a solem-
nity almost equalling his own. He softened
at once.
‘ Forgive me, old fellow; I was hasty.
The blood of Bunker Hill, you know. Well,
and so I gained upon her—and here’s her
health, Campbell.’
‘Bumpers!’ said I; and again we set
down our glasses empty. I began to feel a
little warmed up myself.
‘At last I was within ten yards of her.
Just then I ran into one of those horrid blue
jelly-fish, and it startled me so that I made a
splash, and she ’
‘ Turned round ? ’ I suggested, for he had
paused agitatedly.
‘Any other woman would have turned
round : she did not. She started perceptibly,
dipped her paddle on the right side of the
canoe, and shot diagonally towards the left.
For a moment I saw her in profile.’
‘ Well, didn’t She tip you a wink P I beg
your pardon, Jeff, upon my word. I mean,
did she not, at the moment of the profile,
bend upon you a smile or a glance of encour-
agement ? ’
‘ What encouragement did I need P Be-
sides, the time for encouragement had not yet
come; I was still at the period of proba~
tion.’


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 85
‘ Her tacking, then, was a fresh trial of
your constancy ? ’
‘ Not of my constancy—that was already
confirmed—but of another quality, my self-
respect. Respect, Campbell, is ever the basis
of true love. This was a most critical junc-
ture in our acquaintance. Had I slavishly
followed her tack I should have lost more
ground morally than I gained materially.
No, I did not tack; I kept straight on, and,
as she had paused again, I was soon beyond
her. It was at that supreme moment that we
found ourselves enveloped in the fog—alone
together, between sea and heaven !’
‘ jeff, this is becoming exciting.’
‘ I kept on. By-and-by, however, I
stopped. I could now barely detect the out—
lines of her canoe through the pallid film of
mist; but anon the outlines grew distincter—
she was approaching!
Right on she came with graceful strength,
And paused within a paddle’s length,
A moment eye to eye they stayed,
The poet and the pagan maid.’
‘Jeff, this is poetry.’
‘ A verse I composed at the‘ time. Do
you like it ?’
‘ Can you ask ? But this suspense is
wearing me out. Do, pray, come to the
point.’
‘ What point, dear Campbell ?’
‘ Hang it ! the point of contact.’
‘Sir, I fail to understand you,’ said the
majestic jeff.


86 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘ Gammon ! Who understands better
than a poet the dramatic necessity of a point
of contact ? Here are your characters lost—
I mean, here are your poet and your pagan
maid lost in your fog, and staying eye to eye.
Beyond reach of outside help, you are all in
all to each other. “ Bonjour, Countess.”
“ Bonjour, Monsieur.” “We appear to be lost.”
“I fear you are fatigued,” she says. “The
delight of conversing with the Countess Al-
mara would suffice to restore me, were that
the case.” “ Perhaps, if you were to rest your
hand on the gunwale," she continues. “ You
overwhelm me,” murmur you. “ Nay, I would
keep you from being overwhelmed," she
smiles. “You are my guiding star!” you
exclaim. “If I only knew whither to guide
you. And mamma will be so anxious,” she
sighs. “Knows the Countess Semaroff that
we are together?" you enquire. Just at this
instant another of those horrid blue jelly—fish
comes along, causing you to give another
splash and sink. She screams, stretches out
her hand to save you ; you catch it, press it
impulsively to your lips. . . . Well, there's
your point of contact. Now go ahead.’
The close and serious attention which
Jeff had given to this sally of mine had sti-
mulated me to make it as absurd as possible,
and may be that last glass of chablis had
something to do with my sprightliness. But
in proportion as I warmed Jeff seemed to
cool ; he leaned his cheek upon his hand, and
directed a profound gaze into the bottom of


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 87
his empty wine-glass. At length he muttered
these singular words—
‘ How curiously things come out ! ’
‘ But what happened after you kissed her
hand ? ’
‘ I didn’t kiss it,’ sighed the poet.
‘Not after accepting the support of her
canoe ?’
‘ I didn’t accept it; she didn’t offer it.’
‘ Nor speak about it at all ?’
‘She said nothing; I said nothing:
neither of us said anything.’
‘ Then why, in the name of stupefaction,
did you take the trouble to get lost in the
fog with her ? Better have stayed on shore.’
‘ Had I known the Countess Semaroff was
there, perhaps I should,’ said jeff, looking up.
I coloured in spite of myself. I, a man
of five-and-thirty, had been carried away to
reveal to this boy the secret of my ac-
quaintance with these ladies. I should now
have no excuse to offer for not introducing
him. Verily that chablis cut both ways. I
hastened to revert to our original topic.
‘So there was no point of contact after
all ?’
‘ Not what you would call such, O you
English materialist,’ said the poet eloquently.
‘ But our points of view are so incom-
patible. Is not the soul more than the body ?
and, if so, is not a look of the eyes more than
a touch of the hand ? Our spirits met,
Campbell, though our earthly frames held
aloof.’


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 89
for solid viands to follow. Having brought
the transcendental part of your love-making
to a happy issue, you now propose to pursue
the game upon a practical basis ?’
Jeff blew a serene cloud and regarded
me with a complacent smile.
‘ Yes, I mean to marry her now,’ said he.
‘ And leave the other without even a
bird’s-eye View ? ’
‘By-the-by, I must tell you about that.
You know I was saying this morning that the
Russian commissioner, our friend, had mar-
ried. Well, he had a daughter, and this
daughter and I were by our respective papas
destined for each other.’
‘ I see—a union of policy, like those of the
royal families of Europe.’
‘To me the idea of utilising the sacred
covenant of marriage in the interest of mere
business always seemed horrible and revolting.
I told my father so.’
‘ And he, I’ll venture to say, told you you
were a sentimental young idiot.’
‘ If that had been all -_-’ said Jeff,
wagging his head significantly.
‘ Well, what was there more i”
‘Only this. After I had protested one
day, with all the eloquence I could muster,
against the cold-blooded inhumanity of bind-
ing down two fresh young souls, who had
never seen each other, to such a contract,
he replied (you remember his dogmatic, high-
handed way), “ Either you marry her or you
live on three hundred pounds per annum.”’


90 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘ In that case,’ said I, not without a secret
feeling of relief, ‘you certainly won’t marry
the pagan maid ?’
‘ Why not? ’
‘ Because, to go no further, you won’t get
her to take you at three hundred pounds per
annum. You don’t know what living on
such an income means. I do ; and I can tell
you that, even without a wife and children,
it’s no joke.’
‘ But, dear Campbell, you seem to forget
that I love her.’
‘ Take the advice of a man who has seen
more of the world than you have, and forget
it yourself. I am talking seriously now,
jeff, and for your good. You do not love
this Countess Almara, and, to be frank
with you, it is not possible that she ever
should care for you. You have a strong
will; use it on the side of common sense
and—filial piety. Where were you to meet
your intended ? '
‘ Paris was the rendezvous appointed,
but ’
‘Pack up your traps and be off to Paris
this very afternoon.’
‘ But it wasn’t for a week yet that
‘Never mind. Get away from here;
that’s the main point. Don’t remain within
reach of temptation.’
‘Campbell, this is not temptation; it’s a
foregone conclusion. I am going to marry
the Countess Almara. Our meeting here
was fated. I shall not go to Paris.’


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 9!
‘But I tell you the Countess Almara
won’t have you.’
Jeff was silent awhile. Presently he
looked up and said——
‘ How' do you know she won’t ? ’
‘Well—never mind,’ I thought it prudent
to reply.
There was another silence. Suddenly
Jeff said, ‘ Campbell, if I went to Paris would
you go with me ? ’
This turn embarrassed me again. It
would not exactly suit my convenience to go
. to Paris that afternoon. There were some
things I wanted to—attend to. I wondered
whether my young friend was becoming
suspicious.
‘ Could I be of any service to you there ?’
I enquired. . '
‘After all I don’t know that you could,’
said he after a moment’s reflection. ‘ Besides,
thanking you all the same for your advice,
dear Campbell, I’ve made up my mind to stay
here. I can never love, much less marry, any
other woman than the Countess Almara.’
There was a certain element of nobility
in the placid obstinacy of the young fellow,
who was committing the amazing folly of
resigning ten thousand a year for the sake
of a girl to whom he had never spoken, and
until the last two or three days never seen, '
that touched me a little and made me resolve
not to let him ruin himself without another
effort to save him.
‘Jeff, you are an ass,’ I said bluntly.


92 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘Your brain has been addled with the pursuit
of what you are pleased to imagine poetry,
until you have grown to believe that a man
can live on love and lyrics instead of on beef-
steak and bullion. You say you can never
love any but the Countess Almara; I say it
is, at all events, your duty to try. Go to
Paris, and at least make the acquaintance of
the young lady your father has selected for
you. If you find her unlovable, at all events
that will be some satisfaction.’
‘Thank you very much, Campbell, but I
can’t, really.’
‘ You persist in running your head against
wall?’
jeff smiled mildly and said nothing.
‘ All right ; lz'éeram' am'mam meam. I
wash my hands of you. One thing: I can’t
take the responsibility of giving you an intro-
duction.’ '
‘ You know them both, then ? ’
‘ Well, I have not been presented to the
young lady yet, but ’
‘I shall be happy to present you when I
know her myself,’ said Jeff forgivingly; ‘and
when we are married I trust you and I will
be better friends than ever.’
‘ Oh! fathomless self-conceit and fatuity of
Bostonian youth !’ I muttered to myself as I
lit a final cigarette and preceded the poet to
the door. ‘ Poor jeff ! upon my soul I am
sorry for him !’
And when we parted outside ' I shook
his hand with a feeling not far removed from


TIIE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 93
respect mingling with my impatience, and I
watched him walk away with the kindly hope
that the Providence which presides over
children and fools might keep a beneficent
eye upon the poor little poet.
VI.
I WAS in rather an ill-humour that afternoon.
After a short turn about the town I returned
to my atelier and tried to paint; but colour
had lost its harmony for me, and composition
its meaning. I took up Balzac’s Deux Fre‘res,
and plunged into the details of the miseries
of Agatha, the villany of Philip, and the
genius of Joseph; but the appalling truth of
the picture depressed and irritated me. I
stretched myself on the lounge and gave way
to moody reverie. I pictured to myself a
man five-and-thirty years of age, who had
had his romance and got cured of it a dozen
summers ago, who piqued himself on his
sceptical and unimpassive temperament, who
had fallen into confirmed bachelorhood, who
was prolific of cynical and pro-Malthusian
doctrines to erotic young fellows under thirty,
and whose eminence in the world of art was
due to the unalloyed devotion of both heart
and brain which he had hitherto lavished
upon it. I asked myself what was the fitting
punishment for such a man’s apostasy from
his principles.


94 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘Such a man,’ I answered myself, ‘is not
fit to be trusted abroad. I condemn him
to pack up his traps and go home, and I give
him two hours to complete his preparations
for starting.’ '
The clock—the tall Norman clock with
its round face of embossed brass and its huge
slow-swinging pendulum—struck half-past
three. I got up and rung the bell. Pre-
sently a withered old lady appeared, in a
black gown, white cap and apron, neat blue
stockings, and low shoes.
‘Madame Enault,’I said, ‘I shall leave
you this afternoon. That a porter be here
at five o’clock to take my baggage to the
diligence; and, if you please, that we make
up our little accounts.’
Madame Enault was crushed. She was
_ sent to grass I Monsieur going to leave that
very day even ?
‘ Perfectly.’
Monsieur had perhaps encountered some-
thing to miscontent him? Madame Enault
would do anything in her power to render
things more satisfactory to Monsieur.
‘ Madame misconstrues me. It is that
affairs demand my departure.’
‘Monsieur will he pardon Madame
Enault ?’
‘ But without doubt.’
‘Monsieur will, then, recollect that, in
coming here, he was so good as to engage
the rooms for six weeks, whereas only one
week has elapsed. . .’


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 95
‘ You are completely in reason, Madame,
and you will be paid for the whole six weeks
precisely as if I had remained.’
Madame drops a curtsey and will
instantly apprise a porter of Monsieur’s
intentions.
I now proceeded to pack my trunks and
painting gear, and then, it being a little after
four, I sallied forth for a farewell stroll on
the parade.
It was a magnificent afternoon. A fresh
cool breeze had replaced the lazy‘calm of the
morning. The horizon line and the profile
of the cliffs were defined sharp and clear.
Great white castellated clouds sailed across
the blue, and rhythmic waves came tumbling
in frothy profusion along the beach. The
whole scene'was like a shout of joy, and it
had never spoken so feelingly to me as now
that I was saying good-bye to it.
As I turned away after a long look sea-
ward, I met the Countess Semaroff and her
daughter face to face.
I bowed. Madame smiled and gave me
her hand, and before withdrawing it she
looked at her daughter and said—-
‘ My very clear, this is Monsieur Camp-
bell. Ah, Monsieur, it has been a dream of
my daughter to meet you.’
‘ I trust Mademoiselle will not find in me
an illustration of the proverb, “Songe men-
songe,” ’ I said, clumsily enough.
Mademoiselle smiled slightly, as courtesy
required, but all the while her eyes rested


96 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
upon me searchingly and doubtfully, as
though to satisfy herself whether I were to
be believed in or distrusted, whether she
might expect to find in the artist the comple-
ment and justification of his works. N o kind
of look, perhaps, is so difficult to sustain with
composure as this. The most redoubtable
artist is conscious that the inspiration of his
best efforts comes from a source superior to
himself, in comparison with which the average
level of his thoughts and motives makes but a
sorry show] The merciless and undisguised
inquisition of an ardent and unsophisticated
young woman is thus apt to become not a
little trying, especially when the inquisitrix
is furnished with such a pair of eyes as
nature had endowed the Countess Almara
withal.
Indeed, strange and striking in other
respects as was the beauty of the young
Countess, it was her eyes that individualised
her and rendered her a paragon among
women. Large and perfectly black they
were-so black that it was a wonder to see
them so full of light. The iris was of breadth
so unusual that, like a black sun between two
clouds, its upper and lower rims were in-
fringed upon by the imperial eyelids. The
human eye, as every portrait painter knows,
has in itself but a narrow range of expression:
it is the setting that imports. Now, the
Countess Almara’s upper eyelid was falcon-
like—straight above the pupil, and falling
away thence towards the cheek in a long


THE COUIVTESS’S RUBY. 97
sweeping curve—a bold, lavish eyelid, in-
dicative of keen intelligence and a noble
temper. In singular contrast with this was
the lower lid, most sensitively and changefully
fashioned, responsive to every shifting emo-
tion, sad, mirthful, wistful, pleasurable, tender;
this it was that betrayed the woman, as the
other announced the countess. Like the
shimmer of light upon water, the delicate
nerves in this region were never at rest ; here,
as upon a photographic plate, was legible the
impress of each word or unuttered thought.
Thus it might be affirmed of the Countess
Almara that she had two eyes where other
women have but one; and certainly she was
able to do four times more execution with
her pair than most daughters of Eve can
accomplish.
There was a fine unconventionality in the
cast of her features which was in itself an
element of life. The low and broad forehead
terminated in far-reaching and strongly de-
fined eyebrows. The nose, long and finely
chiselled, especially about the nostrils, de-
scended from between the eyes in a line which,
towards the end, had just enough of an up-
ward tendency to redeem it from classic tame-
ness. Tameness, in fact, is the word most
expressive of everything that the young
Countess was not. Her mouth was generous;
the upper lip, short and slender, lay like a
coral snake upon the full and voluptuously
moulded lip below; thence curved forth the
chin, clean cut and mettlesome, which she,
H


98 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
habitually carried high, and to which she
communicated movements of fascinating wil-
fulness. Her profile, as a whole, was there-
fore of the concave rather than the convex
order, and possessed a charmingly wild, bar-
baric quality, by no means inconsistent witha
thorough refinement.
Of her grand figure I have already spoken.
- Her bearing was elastic and vigorous, yet
pervaded always by the subtle and inevitable
dignity of a high-bred lady. A kind of scarlet
barret-cap surmounted the heavy black coil
of her hair; and she wore aclose-fitting dress
of black serge, with a scarlet bow fluttering at
the throat and a scarlet belt around the waist.
It was a costume simple to severity, but in
which she looked diabolically handsome.
Her only ornaments on this occasion were
two broad hoops of gold in her ears, and, on
her left hand, an antique' ring with an enor-
mous ruby in it. Such a ruby not one lady
in a thousand would dare to put on ; it must
have come to her, I thought, from the tomb
of some early royal ancestress. It harmon-
ised well with what I took to be the essential
character of the Countess Almara.
Here, however, has been more than
enough of personal description, which is
never so futile as when it attempts to catch
the secret of a lovely woman’s charm. As an
artist I have dwelt upon details which to the
ordinary eye would have combined for the
production of a single effect more or less
acutely pleasurable. I looked at her with


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 99
the instinctive longing which an artist feels to
interpret beauty upon canvas ; and the critical
admiration of my glance met and partly
disconcerted the critical inquiry of her
own.
‘ I have much happiness in speaking to
Monsieur Campbell,’ she said after a mOment
in a deep fresh voice. ‘ To me it is not as if
I were speaking to a stranger.’
We walked on slowly, the young Countess
between her mother. and me. I felt a childish
desire to utter something brilliant and pro-
found ; and, knowing by experience that such
a wish is always fatal to the deed, I took
refuge in the intensity of commonplace.
‘ Mademoiselle finds this place enjoyable?’
‘ After the city, truly, yes.’
‘Paris is indeed hot in this month.’
‘It is from St. Petersburg that we come
here.’
‘ Mademoiselle the Countess is, then, a.
Russian ?’
Here the elder lady interposed with a
smile, ‘ Not altogether Russian, monsieur.
For my part, I am a Circassian. My father
was attached to the Court of the Czar after the
conquest of our poor country. I was married
among our conquerors—what will you? For
Almara, she may be called the Reconciliation,
is it not ?’
‘ If all quarrels could find such reconcilia-
tion ’ I began.
The Countess Semaroff laughed good-
naturedly. ‘ There, you are spiritual ; one
H 0
.1


100 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
sees you have lived much in Paris,’ she was
kind enough to say.
‘ But it is not in the salons of Paris that
you have found the power to conceive your
pictures. I refer not to the execution—the
technique—all that which labour and expe-
rience may acquire; but it is the thought, look
you, the life that is in your work; and this
can be found not in any city, not in any
society, but only in the man himself who feels,
who sees.’
It was the young Countess who spoke
thus, and with an energy of tone and expression
that caused those nerves of self-approbation
which are situated somewhere in the back
part of a man’s throat to thrill pleasantly. I
had not expected to find in so young awoman
an appreciation at once so earnest and intel-
ligent. _
‘ You have studied art yourself?’ I said
to her.
‘ Behold, my very dear, you will permit
that I sit on the bench and read my letter
while you and Monsieur Campbell have your
little debate. When you are fatigued you
shall rejoin me. Go, then.’ And with this
the good Countess established herself upon a
seat sheltered from the breeze, but which we
would pass and repass at every turn of our
promenade. Our conversation continued.
‘Ido not name myself student; I am a
lover,’ said the Countess Almara. ‘My life
has not been a school; it has been a passion.
I cannot talk learnedly, as do many; I know


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. IOI
not the names of things; but I know what
reaches my heart: that I understand and
never forget.’
‘It is, then, that your heart has taught
you more than the heads of many students
teach them.’
‘I should like to believe that,’ she ex-
claimed with animation. ‘I like not to be
told, “You must believe this; you must say
that.” I would believe and say because I
cannot help it. Figure to yourself that my
life has not been altogether after the conve-
nances. A child, I lived in a grand chateau
beside a lake ; beyond the lake was a moun-
tain, and on all sides a forest. I had a gun,
Ihunted, and I swam and rowed upon the
lake, and I had my horses and my dogs. To
sew, to play with dolls, look you, I cared not
for it. I am not as the French, not even as
the Russians; like my mother, I am Circas-
sian; yes, I am more Circassian than she
instead of less.’
‘ I believe it well. But later you left this
chateau—you travelled P ’
‘I have been to many places and seen
much society, and I have learned to behave
comma z'l faut and to speak the French.
But it is only a little comedy that I act;
I feel that within me remains always the
little girl of the lake and forest, but dressed
differently, and with a face that does not tell
the truth, as then. I can look happy when
I am sad, and grave when I wish to
laugh.’


102 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘ But you are happier than you were
before ?’
‘Oh, for example, behold a question of
difficulty,’ said the Countess, shrugging her
shoulders. ‘ One is never happy as in child-
hood; but, in fine, one finds a way to be
happy. To love what is beautiful is happi-
ness, but then it is a happiness full of all that
is most sad.’
‘It is not often that one has discovered
that truth at your age, mademoiselle.’
‘But it is true, is it not? For beauty
dies ; or if not beauty, then the eye, the soul,
that has enjoyed it. Why was it ever shown
to us? It only makes us long for what
never comes, for what can never be.’
This gloomy philosophy, uttered by one
who should have seen as yet only the sun-
shine of life, roused me to attempt what, for
me, was the anomaly of vindicating the more
hopeful view. Some platitude I brought
forth about the soul finding in another world
the fulfilment of unsatisfied aspirations, and
I asked her whether she doubted immor-
tality.
We were leaning on the broad wooden
railing of the promenade, looking seaward.
The Countess was turning her ring absently
on her forefinger.
‘ There ought to be immortality,’ said
she, ‘ to recompense us, not for what we have
suffered in the world, but for what we have
enjoyed!’
‘Yes. you could not have hit upon a


THE COUNTESS ’S RUBY. 103
stronger argument,’ returned I after a
moment’s thought.
‘ Is it strong enough ? ’
‘Strong enough certainly to justify hope.’
‘Ah, my God, one hopes without any
justification at all. You conceive, monsieur,
I am not of those who believe all we are
told of the holy Greek Church. To believe,
and after all to be deceived! I could not
bear it. I have not found anyone so wise
as to make all doubts seem foolish. But
I have found many things that tell me,
“Destiny mocks you.” Yes,’ she added,
turning towards me with a kind of fierceness
in her look, ‘ yes, destiny mocks me.’
‘This girl has sustained some terrible
injustice in her life,’ I thought to myself. ‘ It
glows in her words like the fire in her ruby.’
After a pause she spoke again.
‘ Figure to yourself, monsieur, a life that
feels itself strong and capable of all enjoy-
ments and aspirations; and this life, in the
midst of its joy and freedom, one day meets
its destiny, which says, “You are a slave:
your aspirations are ashes; your joy shall
make you weep; you shall become all that
you despise. If you struggle to be free, you
shall but dig your dungeon deeper. So it
shall be to the end; but I do not forbid
you to hope.” Well, is not that mockery?’
‘Destiny has not that power over us. I
who speak to you have suffered, mademoiselle,
but I have not found that suffering degrades.
It chills, perhaps.’
WA8QMMLLT;M w. ;


104 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘Ah, you speak of men. I am a woman ;
it is another thing that ! But behold me who
discourse thus to you, who see me for the
first time-who think me mad.’
‘Oh, Countess! . . .’
‘ Do you know why I say to you these
things, which I have said before to no one—to
no one, Monsieur Campbell ? It is because
they grew in my mind as I looked at your
picture—your picture, that is now mine as
well. Many hours have I looked at it, and I
said, “The man who has conceived that he
has known what are the secrets. of life. If I
meet' him I will tell him these secrets of
mine; he is worthy to hear them. He can
interpret mysteries.” But your interpretation
is profound, monsieur; not everyone can
read it.’
‘If I could always paint for such as you,
Countess, I might some day realise my
ideal.’
She stood meditatively, her hands hang-
ing folded and her eyes dreaming.
‘When I saw that picture,’ she said at
length,’ ‘ I felt that it was the picture of my
soul. There she sits within her rampart, which
was once whole and sound. But now there
is a breach, and that breach will never be
built up again--never, never. Once the
enemy has entered; and though for years
and years she may watch and guard, yet
at some hour, some moment even, her eyes
will droop and her hand waver. . . . Then
he springs and clutches her, and it is ended.


IIIE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 105
See him where he lurks there outside among
the bushes. He waits; he is sure. And
she—regard that terror in her eyes. Mon-
sieur, it is a sublime thing to be a great
painter.’
She held out her hand to me impulsively ;
there were tears in her eyes, but she smiled
them away with a wilful defiance. Our
hands just touched; then she withdrew
hers. ‘You see I have not had your pic-
ture for nothing; I have looked at it,’ she
said.
I was deeply touched. ‘You have seen
through it into the heart that conceived it.’
‘Let us talklof other things,’ she ex-
claimed abruptly in a lighter tone. ‘Come,
let us walk, else madame my mother will
think again that I am lost.’
We resumed our promenade accordingly,
but for awhile in silence.
‘ You look at my ruby. Do you find it
handsome?’ She had been turning and
twisting the ring upon her finger, and my
eyes had more than once been drawn to it.
Almost as soon as she had spoken sheslipped
the ring off and laid it in my hand.
‘It is a real antique,’I said, concealing
the surprise this sudden act inspired in me.
‘It is an heirloom in your family, perhaps ?’
‘It is a magic ring; there is a spell
connected with it,’ said the Countess, laugh-
1n .
g ‘ Let me 'not be the breaker of the spell,’
I rejoined, holding it towards her. But in-


106 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
stead of taking it from me, she extended her
long taper finger, and I put the ring on it.
‘There, you have put it on, and now it
will never come off,’ she said with a strange
smile. ‘ It is the ring of my destiny.’
‘ Yours should be a rich destiny, then.’
‘Yes, I shall be rich ; I shall make a figure
in the world,’ she replied still smiling. .
‘ Nevertheless the spell is a curse; for so
long as I wear the ring I must be miserable,
and if I lose it I shall be wicked.’
‘ Is there no third alternative i”
‘ There was, but now the moment is
passed. That is your fault, monsieur.’
‘ My fault ? ’ v
‘ If, when I gave you the ring just now,
and it was in your power, you had flung it
far, far away into the sea, then the curse would
have left me, and I should have been free
always.’
‘If that be all I’ll soon set you at liberty.
Give me the ring.’
She shook her head. ‘ It is now too late.
Such a chance can come only once. Have I
not told you destiny mocks always P Behold
my mother who beckons us.’
We approached Madame, who took her
daughter’s hand affectionately in hers. ‘ My
very dear, we dine to-day at half-past four ;
we must make our toilette early. But, my
God! how your hand is cold, my child. You
have been chilled by that fog this morning.’
The Countess Almara laughed. ‘It was
not I ; it was that poor young man with


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 107
the black hair and the blue eyes who was
swimming so far out; that he should have
been chilled Icould believe it. In effect it
was droll,’ she continued, turning to me.
‘ Figure yourself this little man—he was very
little—little like that,’ and she held her palm
about four feet from the ground. ‘Well, he
swims out a fine distance, even as far as I go
in the canoe. When the fog comes I hear a
splash ; I look round ; I perceive this unfor-
tunate infant. I think he shall be drowned,
and I go towards him to preserve him. Then
I see that this infant it is a man; and this
man he seems to fear me more than to be
drowned, for he swims away when I approach.
So I return towards the shore, but slowly, so
that he may see me and follow me ; and, in
fine, when we are nearly arrived the fog dis-
solves itself, and behold us.’
‘ Do you by hazard know this gentleman ?’
inquired the Countess Semaroff of me. ‘ He
has the air of an Englishman.’
‘ N o ; he is an American,’ I answered
with a touch of prevarication.
‘ Ah, these Americans, how I hate them !’
murmured the Countess Almara.
Madame rose with a shrug of her
shoulders. ‘We shall have the pleasure of
seeing Monsieur Campbell at the dance this
evening ?'
‘Without doubt—that is—no. I am to
depart by the diligence even at the present
hour.’
‘ Depart to-day ? Impossible! After
having met Monsieur to lose him so soon!’


108 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘ Madame, I am desolated, but—affairs.’
‘ You will not go to-day,’ said the Coun-
tess Almara, in a voice so low it could have
been audible only to myself.
‘ Perhaps, indeed, I could manage to
postpone for a few days ’ I resumed, still
addressing myself to Madame. '
‘ Good. We remain here but a few days
longer ourselves ; and when we go you shall
accompany us. That will be charming. Is
it agreed ? ’
‘ Madame, a thousand acknowledgments.’
‘ Till this evening, then.’
I bowed low. The Countess Almara laid
her hand in mine, our eyes met, her lips
seemed to form the word ‘ Merci,’ but she
did not utter it aloud; then she turned
brusquely and followed her mother, and they
were soon out of sight.

VII.
I DREW a long breath, stroked my beard
thoughtfully, looked at my watch, and set out
at a brisk pace for my lodgings. Before I
had gone far I heard my name called, and
turning, saw Mr. Jefferson Montgomery, who
signalled to me with one gloved hand while
with the other he lifted his hat in adieu to an
elderly gentleman with. a tremendous sweep
of moustachios. My friend now hastened t0-


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 109
wards me, his white teeth flashing, his blue
eyes beaming, and with a general air of pro-
sperity and benevolence. ‘
‘ I am so glad to see you, dear Campbell.
But they told me you were going to leave us.
Surely you’re not ?’ ‘
. ‘What an idea! I shall be here at least
a week.’
Jeff took my arm with perfect cordiality
and good faith. I did not want him, but
there was nothing for it but to let the poor
little man come. . Arrived at my house, I
sent him upstairs while I stopped to have a
word With my landlady.
‘Madamc Enault, I shall be able to re-
main another week.’
Madame Enault was delighted, but would
Monsieur pardon her ?
‘ Freely and completely. What then ?’
Only that, since Monsieur’s notice to leave
another monsieur had engaged the rooms,
and Madame Enault had agreed with him
for a month.
‘ Then let him know that you misunder-
stood me and that he must go elsewhere.’
To a marvel ; only, alas I this gentleman
had deposited the hire of the rooms in
advance.
‘ You will return his deposit to him.’
Perfectly, but that, having had a heavy
bill to meet, Madame Enault had been con-
strained to pay the money away.
‘Ah! and Madame requires me to supply
her with the cash in question ?’


no THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
Monsieur had exactly divined the ne-
cessity that unfortunately existed.
Providence had treated me too well for
me to be severe with so thrifty and unim-
peachable a landlady; accordingly a financial
transaction took place, the porter was re-
manded, and I went upstairs. I
‘ And so you have been introduced,’ said
jeff. He was reclining Adonis-like upon the
lounge, exquisitely dressed.
‘ To whom do you refer ?’
‘ Now don’t be English and reticent.
Whom should I mean but my countess? I
do so want to hear your opinion of her.’
I could not help laughing a little, for to
be seriously angry with the bard of Beacon
Street was not easy.
‘ Unless you wish to write yourself down
irrevocably an ass, my dear boy, you will not
again apply the possessive pronoun to the
Countess Almara. It sounds much as if a
horse-fly should speak of his proprietorship of
a four-in-hand.’
‘ My dear Campbell, you are really im-
polite.’
‘I know it, and I hold you responsible
for forcing me to address you with such
brutality. I’m not accustomed to it.’ '-
‘ How you do go on !’ sighed Jeff, wipin
his eyebrows with his cambric handkerchief.
‘ One never knows when you’re in earnest.
But really don’t you think we shall make a
first-rate match ?’
‘Gracious Powers! Do you know that.


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. III
there are probably not two men living for
whom the Countess Almara 'would not be
more than a match ?’
‘ Exactly. In fact, there is only one who
could mate with her on equal terms, and—
well, I happen to be he.’ Jeff uttered this
with perfect modesty and conviction.
‘ My young friend, your chances with that
young lady are not hopeless; they are ridi-
culous. She actually cannot maintain gravity
at the thought of you. Must I reveal that
she speaks of the “ pauvre enfant,” that she
is convinced you are only four feet high,
and that she declares she frightened you
terribly in the fog this morning? Eloquent
looks and sympathy of souls indeed!’ and I
laughed rudely.
‘ I don’t believe a word you say,’ replied
Jeff, laughing also. ‘ But there is one thing
'that I do begin to believe.’
‘What is that?’
‘ That I’ve got a rival, eh ? ha, ha, ha!’
‘You have an entirely too lively ima-
gination,’ was my cold reply.
‘ Ah, Campbell, you are very deep—very.
If I were less sure of my countess than I am
I declare I should feel uneasy.’
‘ Merely for curiosity’s sake, where do
you find encouragement?’
‘You were in earnest, then, when you
said this morning that you knew less than I
about women? Your difficulty is, probably,
that you regard woman as a species of man,
when in fact no woman who amounts to any-


112‘ THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
thing has a particle of masculinity about her.
They may pretend to it sometimes, just to
bamboozle fellows who are inexperienced;
but they drop it- in the presence of a man
who sees through them.’
‘ Through their backs. I understand.’
‘ Exactly. Well, then, my countess, when
I have my eye upon her, is her simple
womanly self, because she knows my insight
is unerring; but with you I’ll wager she talks
literature, and art, and morals, and things of
that kind, eh?’
‘ I will not deny it, Jeff.’
‘ Of course she did, and why? Because
she knew she could make you believe she
really cared for such things ; and, womanlike,
she couldn’t resist humbugging you.’
‘ And her laughing at you, her contemp-
tuous allusions to your stature and so forth
were also impositions upon my na'i've igno- ‘
rance of the sex ?’
‘ Indeed, my dear Campbell, they were.’
‘ It is me, then, and not you that she con-
siders ridiculous ?’
‘At all events you can see that it’s not
me,’ said jeff leniently. ‘ Why, just consider
the points in me which she professed to con-
sider laughable. My height! Now the last
thing a woman bothers herself about in a man
is his height. When there is a question of
physical attractions, she looks first at his
shoulders, then at his eyes, then at his feet
and hands, then at his chin. If these please
her his heigl1f may take care of itself; and if


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY; 113
you won’t mind my saying it, the less it has
to take care of the better. Look at Napoleon
Bonaparte, Martin Liither, Frederick the
Great, Benjamin Franklin, Plato, General
Grant. Why, pretty nearly everybody who
has stood a head and shoulders above his
generation has been under five feet eight.’
‘ Bravo, Jeff! You are both eloquent and
sagacious. Beacon Street should be proud
of you.’
‘ Knowledge of this kind is a matter of
temperament and intuition. Experience can
but confirm what the soul has already
divined; and if the previous divination do
not exist, age and experience are just so
much to the bad, if you won’t mind my say-
ing so. And so she ridiculed the fog incident ?’
‘ She alluded to it with an apparent spice
of humour,’ I said diffidently.
‘Dear girl,’ murmured the poet tenderly.
‘That seeming ridicule was almost as direct
an avowal of affection as a modest woman
could have made. That mutual voiceless
self-revelation of ours, which my dear Camp-
bell professes to discredit, has evidently
stirred my Countess to her depths. It has
aroused the potent germs of the master
passion of her life. She trembles to confess
herself to herself; how, then, could she do
otherwise than veil herself from a stranger?
and what better veil than a simulated mirth
and mockery? But really now you don’t
need me to tell you this; it’s the A, B, C of
the feminine nature.’
I


!I4 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘Jeff, you .puzzle me; you are either
more or less than human. At all events you
are an incarnate solution of the old problem
how to make the best of it. Well, what are
your proximate intentions P ’
‘To dance the “Boston” with her this
evening.’
‘ You will be at the ball, then P ’
‘ Indeed, yes. Shall not you ?’
‘I shall; for since you are definitely
resolved upon playing the donkey, I want to
be in a position to hear your opening bray.’
‘At ten o’clock, then; but it will be a
variation upon A- Midsummer Nag/it’s
Dream,’ answered the poet with imper-
turbable geniality ; and so we parted.
VIII.
THE ball-or rather the soz're'e damanfe—
was announced for nine o’clock, and at thirty
minutes after that hour I passed through the
doorway.
An oblong hall, the floor space framed in
on three sides by an embankment of benches,
with the orchestra on the fourth. This
orchestra comprised a piano, two violins, and
a trombone, all in evening dress. The
assembly to whom this unexceptionable
quartette discoursed was by no means so
rigorously attired. There were coats and
trousers of all hues, and skirts and waists of


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 115‘
all fashions and degrees of lowness. ’The
scene was a motley one, but all incongruities
were harmonised by the universal element of
uncomPromising enjoyment, pervading black
and grey, high and low alike, and animating
the heels and heads of the spectators upon
the benches as well as the actual performers
upon the floor. The orchestra sawed and
thrummed with hearty good-will, and the
lamps on their brackets and the windows in
their frames jarred and rattled to the
rhythmic fall of feet. In the pauses of the
dance and clatter the roar of the surf came in
through the open door upon the wings of the
cool salt breeze.
The most polished people in the world
dance, if not ideally, at least really. There
is no languishing, no shilly-shallying, but
downright roundabout, vigorous hard work.
A Frenchman who has danced over night
must needs feel the effects of it on getting
up in the morning; and as for his partner,
who has danced for herself and for him on
two separate counts, it is a wonder she ever
gets up at all. Their scheme of a waltz is
simple and telling, being based upon the
primitive principle of planetary motion-
revolution round their own axis and revolu~
tion round their orbit This double motion
is kept up with mechanical regularity until
nature—or more frequently the orchestra—-
gives way. The orbit of one couple being
the orbit of all, the general effect of a lively
waltz is of a voluntary human whirlpool com-
I 2


!16 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
posed of self-centred te’te-d-z‘éte eddies. By~
centrifugal law the centre of the whirlpool
remains empty.
A moment’s inspection of this whirlpool
satisfied me. that it did not contain the
Countess Almara. As I was proceeding to
a scrutiny- of the benches the frou-frou of a
crisp skirt along the aisle caused me to turn
and find my face within eighteen inches of
the clear firm cheek of the beautiful pagan. '
She and her mother passed without appear-
ing to see me; and they were followed by a
military-looking personage of some fifty years
of age, bald-headed, broad-shouldered, and
bulky, whom I fancied I had noticed once or
twice before. After seeing the ladies into
their seats he returned past me up the aisle
and went out.
Presently I came down, exchanged greet-
ings with my friends, and sat in a vacant seat
near the Countess Almara. Her manner
was distraught and preoccupied; her smile
only came from her lips, and though she
looked me in the face occasionally with a
certain intentness, she seemed scarcely to see
me or to comprehend my words.
Her personal appearance was more
diabolically handsome than ever. As usual,
her colours were black and red, but, being
in silk, they were exceptionally effective.
There was a glimpse of Warm white neck
and smooth rounded arms; her hair, coiled
on the top of her head, revealed the graceful
bend of the nape. Her bracelet and neck-


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. II7
lace matched the earrings of the morning,
and beneath the delicate film of her glove
was discernible the form of the great ruby.
‘ Might I have the honour of this dance ?’
‘ Not yet, not yet. In this moment I feel
myself unable. Let us rather talk. I am
not myself; you see it. Listen to the sea.
My God! how it roars! I wish I were out
on it in my canoe with the great waves.’
I laughed to disguise the concern which
her manifest agitation caused me.
‘In that case, mademoiselle, you would
be without the advantage of my society ; and
I doubt whether my little friend Montgomery
even would venture to swim after you on
such a night as this.’
‘Oh, he is your friend, then, this Mon-
sieur Mont—Mont-go-merie? And I have
spoken of him to you slightingly. I did not
know, and I am foolish; I speak without
forethought. You will forget‘it ? Yes.’
‘ If anyone should apologise it is' I, for not
having warned you beforehand of our tender
relations. Butbe reassured; Monsieur Mont-
gomery is a poet, and intends making you the
heroine of an epic. If you are gracious to
him this evening he will forgive you any-
thing.’ '
‘It is not of him that I shall demand
pardon,’ said the Countess with the slightest
imaginable intonation of scorn. ‘But he is
your friend, and you shall see how I will be
polite.’ She breathed and moved nervously,
her thoughts being evidently absorbed in


118 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
some subject foreign enough to anything I
could guess. Her eyes were restless, and she
fanned her flushed cheeks in vain.
‘What day is this?’ she demanded
suddenly.
‘ The fifteenth of August.’
‘ I shall remember it always—always.’
The hand that held the fan drooped, and,
seemingly by accident, touched my own.
The momentary glance that swept my face
showed an “inward trouble and appeal, and,
if I read it aright, a something deeper and
more passionate beyond. With the un—
expectedness that was one of her character-
istics she rose to her feet.
‘Come, I feel better at present: let us
dance; come.’
In her preoccupation she had not per-
ceived that the music had ceased some
minutes, and the dancers all left the floor.
‘What hast thou, then, dear one ?’ in-
quired the Countess Semaroff, looking up
indolently through her eye-glasses.
Almara perceived her blunder, and I could
mark a pulsation of anger pass through her
body while she muttered behind her teeth,
‘That I am imbecile!’
‘Don’t you find it very warm here?
Suppose we take a turn to the door,’ I sug-
gested. She thanked me with a look, ex-
changed a glance and a word with her
mother, and taking my arm, we began to
move down the aisle.
Presentiments, though commonly decep-


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 119
tive, do nevertheless exist. Just at this
time I had a presentiment that some crisis
was impending. If I could secure a few
‘minutes’ privacy with the young Countess,
I was resolved to tell her a secret which
already burned within me, though I myself
had not known it until this very evening.
But I felt conviction, I felt confidence, and
.I felt that there was no time like the
present.
Events the most insignificant upset pur-
poses the most momentous. There were two
'doors to the hall, and in order to reach the
one at which we were aiming it was necessary
to cross the floor. As we stepped on the
floor at one side a couple of gentlemen
appeared on the other; we met in the very
centre of the hall, but it was not until I
felt the Countess press my arm that I
thought to notice who either of the gentle-
men was. To my ineffable annoyance I then
recognised the infatuated Jeff leaning on the
arm of the bulky gentleman with the mous-
tachios, who was positively in the act of in-
ftroducing him to my partner.
‘ The Countess seemed as much taken by
surprise as myself. She returned Jeff’s
elaborate obeisance with a grand curtsey, and
then stood erect and silent, her hand still
resting within my arm. The music struck up
another waltz.
‘ May I have the honour of this dance?’
inquired Jeff with his sweetest emphasis.
I waited to hear the Countess say she


120 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
was engaged and to pass on with her; but
after an instant’s pause she slowly relinquished
my arm, and uttering the conventional words,
‘je veux bien,’ she resigned herself to the
triumphant Bostonian. '
Then, when it was too late, I realised
that our engagement had been, for the pre-
vious dance, and not for this one, if indeed
there had been any definite engagement at
all, and that, as I had heard jeff’s request in
silence, the Countess had been forced to
suppose that I desired we should part. It
was one of those absurd misapprehensions
which occur in ball-rooms as well as in
other places, but which I had never found so
vexatious as in the present instance.
Meantime jeff and she had eddied
away from me; another couple, revolving
up from behind, came into collision with me.
I felt myself in a false position, and beat a
retreat to the Countess Semaroff, beside
whom I seated myself with the gloomy grin
of a baffled man.
But the Countess made herself particu-
larly gracious and entertaining, and I was
perforce obliged to give her a good deal of
attention, though my real interest was mono-
polised by the proceedings of jeff and his
partner. jeff was undoubtedly the best
dancer in the room, and the ‘ Boston’ step
which he danced was not only more grace-
ful and easy than the ordinary Whirligig,
but, by the device of ‘reversing,’ enabled
him to perform his evolutions undisturbed in


122 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
said the Countess Semaroff with a glance at
the Count, ‘ we will venture to entreat of you
a great favour.’
‘I despair of expressing to you the
extent of the obligation which your condes-
cension would impose upon us,’ added the
Count with his bland, impassive politeness.
‘Am Ireally, then, so fortunate as to be
able to contribute in any way to the pleasure of
the Count and Countess ? What happiness ! ’
‘ Behold how it becomes ravishing!’
exclaimed the Countess. ‘ Almara, my
very dear, Monsieur Campbell will perhaps
consent.’
I The young Countess had been sitting
with her hands folded listlessly in her lap,
absorbed apparently in her own thoughts,
which were who knows how far removed
from the confiding chit-chat which poor
Jeff was babbling at her ear. She now
raised her head and turned her eyes upon
me. The deep sentiment contained in that
look would have drawn from me, had she
required it, the sacrifice even of that happi-
ness which was to be the substance of my
life. She said not a word.
‘ Thou must ask Monsieur; do thou ask
him, Almara,’ continued the Countess, smiling,
‘ since it concerns thee.’
‘Is it that you would paint a portrait of
me ?’ said Almara simply.
‘ Merely a sketch, dear .monsieur,’ put in
the mother persuasively. ‘The opportunity
may not again occur for us. It is not often


711E COUNTESS’S RUBY. .123
one has the fortune to meet Monsieur
Campbell.’
‘And there can be but one Monsieur
Campbell in the world,’ added the Count
with a bow.
‘ Something at all events—a likeness
merely—a work of three days,’ subjoined
Madame earnestly.
I had had time to suppress the first
impulse of delight, and to command my face
to an expression of polite affability. In this
so-called favour I recognised the agency of
the Countess Almara. To the father and
mother it meant securing a likeness of their
daughter from the hand of the first portrait-
painter of the day; but to that painter and
to that daughter it meant hours spent in
comparatively undisturbed enjoyment of one
another’s society—hours of silent sympathies,
of low-spoken words that sounded little but
meant much; hours that would count for
years in the progress of a mutual under-
standing where each sought to reveal all and
withhold nothing.
‘ It will give. me great pleasure to sketch
Mademoiselle,’ said I. ‘ Four or five sittings
will suffice. To-morrow, after the bath, we
will speak further on the subject. At present
I must retire. Madame the Countess,
monsieur, mademoiselle, au rewz'r.’
‘ Good-night, Campbell,’ spoke up Jeff as
I moved away. ‘ Thank you ever so much ;
but you must expect to find me a severe
critic. Au revoir.


124 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
IX.
BUT our drama was not to reach its conclu-
sion withouta modicum of the tragic element,
and this modicum was to be introduced by
no less heroic a character than the little poet
of Beacon Hill.
It is yet early to point the moral of my
tale; but I may remark that we are not
seldom helped along the path of life, and
even have our true direction pointed out to
us, by ineffective obstacles. The person or
circumstance obstructing us first arouses us
to appreciate the advantages of a course
which we might else never have thought of,
or, having thought of, might have lacked
energy to pursue.
In this sense it may be said that I owed
my introduction to the Countess Almara,
and still more the colour which that ac-
quaintance immediately assumed, to the
unintentional influence of my Boston friend.
His vague rhapsodies first drew my atten-
tion to a woman whom I had till then
admired without appreciating her. His
transcendental lovemaking had shown me
how truly she was lovable, and his infatuated
pursuit of her had stimulated me to adecision
whose gravity might else have given me
pause. Left to myself, I should doubtless
have fallen in love, but I should have been a
great deal longer about it. At the age of


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 125
five-and-thirty the passions are more endur-
_ ing than in youth, but do not ordinarily kindle
so readily. jeff was the match that set me
afire, and he the goad that drove me at a
pace which surprised myself. But I do not
care to dwell upon this phase of my romance.
To have been the rival of one you contemn
is unpleasant, and the superior nature cannot
avoid remorse in looking back upon such a
contest. '
However, the sittings began and fulfilled
all our anticipations—Almara’s and mine.
The further I penetrated into her mind and
heart the richer did these appear. Our
speech and bearing still observed a chivalrous
sort of ceremony towards one another; we
did not as yet permit ourselves to be frankly
lovers. But our reserve was only an in-
stinctive device for gaining a deeper realisa-
tion of our happiness. Strong natures often
illustrate this paradox : they are repelled for
a time by the intensity of their attraction to
each other.
Moreover, we were never left entirely to
ourselves; the customs of Continental
etiquette are immovable, and so was the
Countess Semaroff from my atelier or from
the little antechamber opening out of it.
But the restraint was purely formal, and even
addedto the zest of our enjoyment by giving
it the air of being something to intrigue for.
It may not be creditable to human nature,
but it is a fact that the most precious gifts of
love are the smuggled ones.


1‘ 26 THE cowvrsss’s RUBY.
But why did I not declare the state of
affairs at once to the Count and Countess,
and thus settle a question of such vital
moment to me? In the first place, I could
plead the lover’s excuse—the desire to keep
the secret of his heart for a time veiled, even
from her he loved. But, besides this, I felt
uncertain how the avowal would be received,
not by Almara herself—I was sure of her—
but by her parents. A marriage between
even an eminent artist and a woman of noble
birth is not an everyday occurrence; and I
felt the prudence of sounding the views of the
Count and Countess on this subject before
putting my fate to the touch. In case of
refusal, indeed, I should not hesitate to take
Almara in spite of them, feeling as I did that
our love would be compensation for all losses;
and it may be that I contemplated the possi-
bility of a hostile turn of the die with some-
thing like a pleasurable thrill. A man likes
to prove his power in the teeth of obstacles ;
and, as I looked at Almara’s proud and
passionate beauty, I thought how grand
would be the response to the summons of her
heart. It would be almost a pity to forego
that spectacle.
Another source of my hesitation had to
do with the mystery which still continued
to invest my beautiful sitter—that mystery
which seemed concentrated in her ruby.
\Vhat it might be I knew not; Almara quietly
but resolutely foiled all my attempts to lead
the conversation up to the subject. Of course


THE COONTESS’: RUBY. 127!
I was not able, situated as we were, to make
any serious attack upon her reserve; but it
was evident that her secret would probably
remain a secret until all concealments were
finally at an end between us. All that
troubled me in the matter was a fear lest it
should turn out to be a hindrance to our union;
but, as time went on, this apprehension faded
from my mind. Almara was gradually losing
those traces of depression and anxiety which
she had betrayed in our first interviews. The
sunnier side of her character came out; she
chatted with gaiety and abandon ; the shadow
of pain and revolt was passing away. She
still turned and twisted the heavy ring upon
her finger, but now rather caressingly than im»
patiently. And once, I remember, as she and
I and the rest, including Jeff, were sitting
after sundown round a table outside the
casino, laughing, gossiping, admiring the
afterglow along the western horizon, and sip-
ping iced coffee out of tall glasses, on this
evening of the last day but one of the sittings
I saw her lift her hand to her lips with one
of those unexpected movements of hers and.
bestow a quick kiss upon the ruby. N 0 one
seemed to notice this strange gesture, which
indeed was so managed as to have escaped
any eye less keen than a lover’s. What was
the meaning of it ? Almara’s glance met mine ;
for a moment she seemed disconcerted, but
the next moment laughed and said saucily—
‘ Monsieur Campbell, do you know a cure
for burnt fingers ?’


128 THE C'OUNTESS’S RUBY."
The next day at noon the last sitting was
over. I sat alone in the atelier, adding the
finishing touches to the portrait. At four
o'clock the whole party, not forgetting Jeff,
were to be present for the ‘ private view.’
No one, not even Almara, had thus far
been permitted to see the picture; and as for
my Boston friend, I had not suffered him
even to be present at any of the sittings.
Besides that the little man had a disturbing
effect upon me I wished these hours to be as
far as possible sacred to my sitter and myself
—oases of serene communion uninvaded by
Bostonian ineptitudes. On the other hand, I
must plead guilty to having used Jeff (or
allowed Almara to use him) outside the studio
in a manner perhaps inconsistent with the
strict loyalty of friendship.
N o definite words had passed between her
and me on the subject, but, by a tacit agree-
ment, the unsuspecting poet was madeto do
duty as a blind. Almara, in short, made show
of a particular and sentimental interest in him,
thus closing people’s eyes to the state of feel-
ing between ourselves. She acted her part
so well, and the delighted Jeff so purred and
beamed under her condescension, that I some-
times felt remorse. He deserved it, no
doubt; it would teach him a lesson ; and yet
I disliked seeing even Jeff make such a fool
of himself. The fact that he would have
scouted my representations, had I sought to
enlighten him, did not remove my responsi-
bility. Almara did not seem to share my


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 129
scruples; women never look at these things
as men do. She fascinated Jeff without
mercy; they canoed, dived, and danced to-
gether. A stronger brain than his might have
failed to detect any insincerity in her manner.
Perhaps, indeed, she was not for the time
being any less sincere with him than she was
with me. The histri'onic side of a woman’s
nature is generally strong, and is sometimes
developed to such a pitch that what they
enact seems as real to them as what they are
in sober earnest about.
About half an hour before the time ap-
pointed for receiving my visitors there was a
knock at my door, and Jeff came in. He
was as neat, complacent, and pretty as a
miniature on ivory. I had just put the last
touch to the canvas, and was standing back
in thoughtful contemplation of the work.
‘ Well, how do you like it ? ’ I asked him
after the first words.
‘Campbell, I am almost satisfied; and
that, from me, is the highest eulogy that can
be bestowed upon you.’
‘You never told me that you were the
final umpire in art criticism.’
‘ Oh, I only pretend to be the final umpire
on the subject of Almara.’
‘Come, Jeff, let this farce have an end,’
said I, laying my hand kindlyon his shoulder.
‘ From this hour you must give up your pre-
tensions in that quarter. To use the homely
phrase, the Countess Almara is meat for—
Well, let us say for your elders.’ -
K


130 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘Oh, my dear fellow, not at all; we suit
each other perfectly. But I knew we should ;
you remember my telling you so ? I should
think you would have noticed it this week
past yourself.’
‘What I have noticed, my poor Jeff, has
caused me more than one twinge of conscience.
You must try and forgiVe me. The fact is,
the Countess Almara and 1—3
The poet interrupted me with an arch
laugh.
‘Twinge of conscience, did you say?
Twinge of jealousy you mean. My dear old
Campbell, if I have anything to forgive, I
forgive it with all my heart. But my object
in coming here so early was to ask you to
forgive me.’
‘Ah, I fancy I understand you, and I
admit having thought you rather repre-
hensible on that score. Considering that
your father made that provisional arrange-
ment regarding y0ur income in case you
thwarted his wishes ’
‘ Yes, but that was only in case I
‘In case you married anyone but the
lady he had selected for you. Exactly.
And you decided that you preferred the
Countess to the income.’
‘Really you are mistaken, Campbell. I
have no idea of risking my income. I
know the value of money.’
‘All I was going to say was that you
have not been acting quite ingenuously
towards the Count and Countess Semaroff,

9


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 13!
not to speak of their daughter. They look
upon you as a young gentleman able to
dispose of ten thousand pounds a year.
Now, if you had proposed to them for her
hand without letting them know ’
‘ Propose to them for it ? But, my dear
Campbell, that was all settled from the begin-
nmg.’
‘ Do you mean to say they have admitted
you as a suitor?’
‘ Why, what else could I mean ?’
‘And you omitted to tell them that in
case you married her, you would have but
three hundred pounds income ? ’
‘ Indeed, I told them nothing of the sort.
Why should I ?’
‘ Because an honest man in your place
would have told them!’ I replied coldly.
‘You are sailing under false colours. You
are giving yourself out to be a millionaire
when you have only the' salary of a clerk.’
‘But isn’t a clerk with ten thousand a
year a pretty decent millionaire?’
‘ But you will have ten thousand a year
only as long as you are unmarried.’
‘ That is so far the case that, after I’m
married, I shall have twenty thousand a year
—my wife’s income added to my own.’
‘Well, Montgomery, I don’t care to beat
about the bush with you. If you can re-
concile your conduct with your own code of
honesty it’s no concern of mine. But as
regards the Countess Almara—I am going to
marry her myself.’

K2


132 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
‘You ? Oh, you are joking.’
‘I have loved her from the first; she
loves me ’
‘Oh! I say! ha, ha, ha! Has she told
you so? ’ '
‘We have not openly declared ourselves
in so many words—you are welcome to what-
ever consolation that may afford you-but:
there are other means of coming to an under-
standing than by words.’ _
‘Well, that is true, at any rate:' it is for
that I came to ask your pardon, Campbell.
But really was it not in great measure your
own fault ?’
‘ Upon my word, Montgomery, I fail to
catch your drift.’ ~
‘Well—the long and short of it is she’s
been flirting with you.’
‘With me ? You surprise me.’
‘You see she didn’t want you to sus-
pect our engagement. You remember that
first conversation you had with her, when
she made those allusions to my height,
andv said she hated Americans, and so
on ?’
I made a sign of assent.
‘When she said those absurd things,
though only in fun, she did not know that I
was her intended; and when, a few hours
later, we found each other out, she naturally
felt annoyed at having spoken of me to a
stranger in such terms. You understand ?’
‘Pray go on,’ I said, taking up my
palette and brushes and standing before the


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 133
. L-_._____ .,_-_Q_,
canvas, so that my face was turned from the
speaker. .
‘So she begged her mother and me not
to let you suspect; and the more thoroughly
to lull your suspicions (and also because the
girl is a born flirt, as all feminine women are)
she—just—you know what—made love to
you in a mild way, I suppose.’
Jeff paused. ‘ The man is mad—raving
mad !’ I muttered, still making pretence of
retouching my background. Jeff flowed on.
‘ Of course a man like you, a man of the
world, a great artist, and getting on in the
forties-_-of course I knew you’d only be
amused, and would take nothing seriously;
and you know you scoffed at the notion of
matrimony when I asked you about it. But
still she can be so attractive when she
chooses that latterly I began to fear you might
be the least bit fetched, after all. I told
Allie I’d never forgive her if it turned out
so.’ -
‘ Told—who .? ’
‘ Allie—Almara, you know. We always
called each other “ Allie” and “ Jeffie” in our
letters.’
‘ Letters ? You corresponded, then ? ’
‘ Regularly—for the last five years.’
‘I see; and—and so it’s been a settled
thing—but—is this your first meeting ?’
‘ Yes, and that is what made it so amus-
ing. It had been arranged, you know, that I
was to meet them in Paris on the 20th ’
‘Meet whom? You must excuse me,


134 THE COUNTESS’S RUBY.
but you have such an unsystematic way of
imparting your information. I’m a bit con-
fused.’
‘ To meet the Semaroffs. The Count is
the Russian commissioner with whom we
are in treaty about the cigarette-holders.
We were to be formally betrothed in Paris,
Allie and I ’
‘ Would you mind calling her the Countess
Almara in speaking of her to me? 1—1
have unpleasant associations with the other
name. Go on.’
‘The point is that, happening to stop
here on my way, I was a good deal taken
with the “ beautiful pagan,” without of course
knowing who she was; and I might have
made myself very unhappy about her if it
hadn’t been for you.’
‘ Eh ?’ -
‘Yes, a fact. The first I knew of my
pagan maid being one and the same with
Allie—Countess, I mean—was your mention-
ing her name to me that first day at break-
fast. Don’t you remember my remarking how
strangely things came out ? It was accident
our both happening to be here, but it was you
who made us known to each other. Wasn’t
it curious ?’
‘ Very curious, very amusing, the whole
thing-ha, ha! And so that story about the
three hundred ayear was—part of your poem,
I suppose ? ’
‘Not at all. But the Countess Almara
being my papa’s selection, I risked nothing


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. 135’
in marrying her. I tried to explain it to you
at the time, but you pitched into me so, and
insisted upon my leaving her and marrying
somebody else, that at last, just for the fun of
the thing, I allowed you to believe that I
was really as great a fool as you took me for.’
Hereupon ensued a pause of some
minutes. Jeff, I believe, lit a cigarette.
What I did I have no recollection; but I
must have remained standing before the
easel. At length I felt that Jeff was standing
behind me.
‘It couldn’t be better, really,’ he said.
‘ They’ll like it so much at home.’
‘ Beg pardon ?’
‘ It’s to go to Boston, you know, to give
papa and mamma an idea of how their
daughter-in-law looks. Ah! you’ve put in
the ring, too. I’m glad of that. Handsome
ruby, isn’t it ? ’
‘An antique. Such rings are not made
nowadays.’
‘ Except by Tiffany; he manufactures
them after the antique models. I got this at
his store in New York six months ago, and
paid fifteen hundred dollars for it. By the
way, my dear Campbell, how much will this
sketch be ?’ _
‘ Hum, let me see. How long have I
been over it ?’
‘ Just six days.’
‘ Well, then, I’ll let it go for six thousand
pounds. I don’t care to make money out of
friends.’


THE COUNTESS’S RUBY. . 137
palette. The company was now prepared to
depart.
‘ Before you go, Countess, I wish—merely
out of curiosity—that you would tell me one
thing.’
‘ Well, monsieur ? ’
‘ Are you an angel or a devil ?'
Then at last she raised her face, pale as
marble, and her black eyes met mine in a
quiet, strange look. She shrugged her shoul-
ders slightly. ‘
“I know not—well, I am a woman.
Adieu. You will not forget me.’ And
there, at all events, she spoke no more than
truth.
The modest price which I had put upon
my portrait appeared to overtax the resources
of Beacon Street, and the work remained
upon my hands. That night Madame
Enault’s chimney caught fire—an occurrence
unprecedented in the middle of August. I
explained that I had burnt up some rubbish,
which had proved to be remarkably inflam-
mable, and made the fullest apologies; but
the good lady’s nerves did not recover their
tone until after the exhibition of tincture of
argentum—a sound dose. This, so far as I
can recollect, was the last noticeable episode
of my summer holiday.


138
A LOVER IN SPITE OF
HIMSELF.
I.
AT first, I simply laughed the idea to scorn.
I refused to regard it, even for a moment, in
a serious light. I jested with myself about it,
and became positively witty on the subject.
I let slip -no opportunity to cast ridicule upon
it. My chief regret was that I had no ac-
quaintance in town to whom I could expatiate
on the complete absurdity of the suggestion.
In default of this, I took out of my toilet
drawer the nine square inches of cracked
mirror before which I was accustomed to do
my shaving and cravat-tying, and, gazing
curiously at the heavy-browed, rugged-featured
visage therein reflected, I sarcastically in-
quired of it how soon it intended getting its
portrait painted on ivory, and hung in alocket
round a fair lady’s neck? I entreated it, with
sardonic humour, to give an example of a
winning smile—of an ardent glance—of a
beseeching gaze. Then I threw myself in
my chair, put my feet upon my table, filled


I40 A LOVER [N SPITE OF HIMSELF.
including the sums received for my pictures,
because I had never yet sold any) did not reach
fifteen hundred thalers; and though I knew
that at least twelve per cent. of this sum went
into my German-American, friend’s pocket
under the name of ‘commission,’ yet even
that douceur would not suffice to bring him a
mile and a half away into the outskirts of the
Neustadt, and up three flights of dark and
devious staircases, to pay me a complimentary
call. However, had he, in spite of probability,
actually made his appearance, I should not
have hesitated, in my then state of mind, to
kick him downstairs again.
, Well, that day passed, and was followed
by a restless and weary night; and I awoke
in the morning to confront the fact that'my
attack had now lasted no less than forty-two
mortal hours, and, so far from abating, showed
every symptom of being on the increase.
I was now seriously alarmed. Here was
I grappling with an insidious and potent
enemy, who apparently knew all my weak
places, and how to take advantage of them.
but of the proper methods of defending myself
against whom I was fatally and completely
ignorant. I had done what I could, only to
prove that I could do nothing: and in this
case, doing nothing was not a negative but
a positive evil. The more I pondered
over my helplessness, the more disturbed
did I become. What did it all mean?
What should I do? What was to be the
end of it ?


A LOVER IN SPITE 0F HHIISELF. 141
I ate my breakfast of coffee and rolls in
silence and humility: old Joanna had no
cause whatever to complain of violent mani-
festations from me. I spoke to her submis-
sively and gently. I even entertained the
question whether it might not be prudent to
lay the case before her and entreat her advice
upon it. But shame prevented me; I could
not steel myself to endure her gaze of incre-
dulity deepening into contempt. No—as I
had struggled in the solitude of my own heart,
so in the same solitude would I suffer and
submit. If I was really to become a slave,
let me at least conceal my fetters. Joanna
could not succour me, for she had never made
the resolutions and embraced the principles
that I had—only to see them, at this late day,
violated and broken. In a word, I determined
to hold my peace and to put the best face
possible upon my discomfiture.
By the time I had arrived at this decision
it was already afternoon, and my customary
walking hour was at hand. Should I go out
as usual, or not ? I had refrained from going
yesterday, but no good effects had come of
my forbearance. On the other hand, if I
found reason to remain at home to-day, the
same reason would be in as good force to-
morrow, and the day after; and the logical
result must be that I should never go out at
all. Now this was a prospect which I could
not bring myself to contemplate. In the first
place, I was naturally of an active and ener-
getic temperament, and my health demanded


142 A LOVER IN SPITE 0F HIJISELR
plenty of vigorous exercise in the open air.
Secondly, although my pride was fain to put
up with the lot of a slave, I was scarcely as
yet prepared to regard myself as a prisoner
likewise: and finally, if I did go out, the
chances were a hundred or perhaps a thousand
to one that I did not meet her. Moreover,
what if I did ? I could not well be worse off
than I was now; and there might be a remote
possibility that a more deliberate scrutiny of
the object of my infatuation would tend to my
disenchantment.
Since I have thus betrayed my secret, I
may as well pause here and make a thorough
confession. Yes—there could be no doubt
about it; I-Thomas Wyndham-_was in
love at last, and that, too, with a woman I
did not know and who did not know me.
Nothing could have been more inopportune,
nothing more undesirable, nothing more
impossible-but nothing was more certain!
I loved. It had come upon me no less
abruptly than overwhelmingly. A' chance
encounter in the street—a look—an indrawn
breath—and I, who up to my five-and-
twentieth birthday had laughed at scars, now
felt a wound which not all the drowsy syrups
of the East could medicine. There was no
palliating feature in the case; it was not
only love, it was love at first sight; it was
not only love at first sight, it was love un-
requited. And once more, the lover _was
Tom Wyndham!
But I perceive that some further explana-


144 A LOVER IN SPITE 0F HIMSELF.
Here, then, were good and sufficient obstacles
enough against matrimonial entanglements;
and there were others behind. I was as
poor as I was unattractive; I was destitute
of the faculty of money-making, and I was
as incapable of winning a rich wife by my
personal merits as I should have been of
living upon her bounty afterwards. In short,
and not to multiply objections, confirmed
bachelorhood was my category by every law,
moral, mental, and material ; notwithstanding
which, I had committed the inconceivable
imbecility of losing my heart and head at the
same moment, and . . . but it is enough that
I lost my temper at the time ; to lose it over
again now would be undignified.
Let me rather record a few particulars of
my previous history. My father had been a
wealthy Englishman; he married the daughter
of a rich American planter. My mother died
when I, her only child, was but a few years
old. My father returned to England after
her death, and I was brought up there in the
lap of luxury. I was sent to Rugby, and
thence to Cambridge; and it was there I
first met my cousin Floyd Wyndham—the
son of my father’s younger brother. We
were as different as white and black, but we
were the greatest friends in the world.
There never was such a lovable fellow as
Floyd, and he was the most popular man in
our College, and, indeed, wherever he went.
He had all the social graces and instincts
that I lacked; it was as inevitable to him to


.A LOVER 11V SI’ITE OF HIJISELF. I45
charm people as it was to me to repel them ;
andthe best of it was, his success never cost
him the least effort—on the contrary, he
rather turned up his nose at it. What he
saw to like in me I’m sure I cannot imagine ;
but all the same he did love me with his
whole heart, and would have done anything
in the world to oblige me. Dear old Floyd!
with your lazy blue eyes, your quiet, auda-
cious manner, your drawl and your fun:
what a contrast you were to me, to be sure!
I never knew anything of his family,
there being some misunderstanding or other
between my father and his ; but our rooms at
the College were contiguous, and we were
together every day. There was a picture on
the wall over his mantelpiece—a portrait of
our maternal grandmother, and a lovelier
face no painter ever drew. \Vhenever I
dropped in to have a chat with Floyd, I used
to sit where I could keep that face in view;
it was the only woman’s face I ever ventured
or cared to look twice at. Floyd used to
laugh, and say it was like me to be spoony
on my own grandmother: adding, that he
had a little sister growing up who was going
to be exactly like her, and that I had better
begin paying my addresses to her immedi-
ately. But, jesting aside, I honestly believe
that the memory of that portrait had a good
deal to do with my bachelorhood. As for
Floyd’s sister, I never had seen her or had
the opportunity of testing her alleged resem-
blance.
L


146 A' LOVER IN SPITE OF HIIIISELF.
About the middle of our third year at
Cambridge, something happened. My father
had a stroke of paralysis. I was summoned
home, to find him speechless and helpless.
I was not yet of age, and the property was
under the management of our business
agents—as, in fact, it had been during the
last ten years. While I was waiting to see
whether or not the malady were going to
take a dangerous turn, a letter came from
America; which I, my father being as he
was, opened and read. It told me that my
American grandfather was dead, and that his
estates, valued at over a million of dollars,
were bequeathed (with certain conditions
which I need not specify) to myself.
This bequest gave me no pleasure, for I
already had far more money than I knew
what to do with. As I folded up the letter,
the thought entered my mind, ‘ I wish Floyd
had it!’ For my cousin, who was intended
by nature for another Monte Cristo, possessed
barely more than sufficient means to keep
up appearances withal. ‘ And why shouldn’t
he have it?’ was my next inspiration; and
with that I sat down in a chair to think it
over.
If Iwere skilled in that sort of thingI
dare say I might write a very interesting
passage here. But since I am not, I will
tell the upshot of my meditations in the
fewest words possible. I made over my
bequest to Floyd, arranging matters in such
a way that he should be under the impression


A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIJISELF. 147
that it came to him direct from the testator,
without my intervention. I said nothing
about what I had done either to our own
business agents, Messrs. Frisby and Faust,
or to my father, who was not in a condition
to hear anything yet. Everything being
settled, and my father appearing to be on the
mending hand, I went back to Cambridge,
and dropped in quietly at Floyd’s rooms.
The dear old boy was in great spirits,
though, as his manner was, he showed little
of it on the surface; but he told me what
had happened, and I congratulated him with
an artful assumption of surprise. He was
going to start for America in a month, and
‘run’ his estate himself, leaving his father
and sister in England. ‘That sort of life
wouldn’t do for them, you know,’ said he,
leaning back against the mantelpiece and
putting his hands in his pockets. ‘But it’ll
suit me first-rate; I rather guess I’ll make
just about the everlastingest tip-top planter
ever you see! Of course,’ he added in his
usual tone, ‘the governor and Sis will come
in for their full share of the plunder all the
same: I mean to settle a hundred thousand
sterling on her the first thing.’
We talked together till the small hours
of the morning, and I must say I had never
enjoyed an evening so much in my life.
Floyd was just the fellow to be rich, and I
had had the good luck to make him so with-
out his being aware of it. At last we .shook
hands and said good-night, little thinking
L2


I48 A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF.
that we were not to meet again. But next
morning came the telegram announcing my
father’s death. I went home by the next
train. After the funeral came the crash.
Old Mr. F risby, the senior partner of the
firm of our agents, came to me in a pitiable
state of shame and anguish, with the news
that Faust had stolen nearly the whole of
my fortune. and had absconded none knew
whither. If I realised what was left, it would
amount to barely eight thousand pounds. In
other words instead of being heir to twelve
thousand a year, I must content myself with
about two hundred and fifty.
I took pains to keep Floyd from any
knowledge of my sudden poverty, because,
especially should it ever chance to leak out
that his estate was a present from me, I knew
well enough what his generous heart would
prompt him to do. So I let him sail for the
New World without seeing me again. He
remained -on that side of the Atlantic; and
after writing me one letter, which, upon re-
flection, I thought it best not to answer, we
became lost to each other, so far as any com-
munication was concerned. Nevertheless,
I always thought of him as my dear and
only friend, and I never doubted that I was
as dear to him as he to me.
I may as well add, lest I should acquire
a reputation for generosity which I was far
from deserving, that my changed fortunes
troubled me very little. In fact, I rather en-
joyed the new order of things. I had always


A LOVER IN SPITE OF IIIMSELF. 149
fancied I could paint pictures, and cherished
a secret ambition to live by my brush. Here,
then, was my opportunity. I went on the
Continent; became a student of the Quartier
Latin in Paris; wandered thence to Italy:
and so, after several years of careless Bo-
hemian existence, I found myself at length
in Dresden. I hired part of a small third
e’z‘age on the Bautznerstrasse, set up my easel,
and divided my time between that, the
Gallery, and the music gardens. For six
months all went well; then happened the
event whereof I am now to write, and which
threatened to upset my plans, my ambition,
my self-respect and my peace of mind. And
now, my digressions having run themselves
out, I can no longer put off recounting the
mortifying particulars.
Really, now I amv in for it, there seems
to be next to nothing to tell. I had left
my rooms, as usual, about half-past two in
the afternoon, and passing through the
Neustadt, I crossed the old bridge, and
entered the Alstadt by way of the Georgen
Thor. At the window of the Porzellan-
Fabrik I stopped to look at a beautiful
painted vase which was on exhibition within.
While I was standing there, a lady and
gentleman passed, and the lady, catching
sight of the vase, made her companion
pause while shelexamined it. I knew that
this was occurring, though I did not turn
my head to look. But as I was about to
withdraw, I happened to see the dim reflec-


150 _A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIJISELF.
tion of the lady’s face in the broad pane of
the window. It struck me as being a face
with which I was familiar. I turned, startled
and by no means pleased, and gazed straight
at her. The suddenness of my movement
attracted her attention, and she returned my
look for a moment. Did I know her! I
turned red, pulled off my hat, and made
my awkward obeisance. All I got in re-
turn for it was a half-puzzled, half-repellent
glance of non-recognition. She was right,
of course; I did not know her, after all. I
must have been of a fine crimson by this time!
But stop—could I be mistaken? Did I
not know her? . . . Yes !-No! . . .
I suffered a misery of embarrassment and
shame during these few moments. That is
a good phrase of the Easterns—‘ My heart
turned to water within me!’ I appreciated
it then in its full significance. I shall never
know what I said or did, or how I escaped.
When I came to myself I was walking rapidly
along an alle'e of the Grosser Garten, mutter-
ing to myself with a kind of helpless itera-
tion, ‘ Fool—fool—fool ! ’
As for my apparent recognition of her, it
was perfectly inexplicable to me, turn it which
wayI would. I could neither account for
having supposed that I did know her,
nor for having been mistaken in my suppo-
sition. It was easy to say that I had
never in my life met, much less been
acquainted. with any young lady answe"ing
to her description: but it was just as un


’A LOVER 1N SPITE 0F HIMSELF. 15;
deniable that every feature in her face was as
familiar to me as the Dresden Madonna or
the Venus of Milo. Here were two cer-
tainties, in irreconcilable conflict with each
other, and it was my unlucky lot to have
stumbled between them. I began to have
serious doubts whether I were not bewitched
--whether my head were quite right. Could
it be that my solitary habits, my unsociable~
ness, my taciturnity, had begun 'to affect my
reason? I am not exaggerating my feeling
in the least. A genuine logical paradox is
about the most appalling thing that can con—
frOnt a man in this world. Leaving all con-
sideration of my embarrassment and awkward-
ness out of the question, the predicament of
being at odds—so to speak-with possibility,
was beyond measure distressing.
However, I cooled down at last, and,
wisely resolving to give the mystery time to
resolve itself, I bent my steps towards the
concert-ground and sat down at one of
the vacant tables. The band struck up one
of Mozart’s Sinfonies. Ilwas just beginning
to forget my troubles in the music, when a
slight stir near me' attracted my notice, and
looking round, what was my dismay to
behold approaching the identical personages
of my late adventure ! Guided by fate, they
sauntered on until they reached the very
next table to my own. It happened to be
the only disengaged one in the vicinity.
They did not seem to see me at all ; and after
a few moments’ deliberation, they sat down.


A LOVER IA" SPITE OF HIMSELF. I53
portraiture to be, I scarcely needed a glance
at her, as she sat at that neighbouring table,
to inform myself of every detail of her
appearance. Her image seemed to have
been present to my inner consciousness
before I met her—to employ a metaphysical
periphrasis for what was to me a very certain
and definite fact. An hour previous to our
encounter before the Porzellan Handlung, I
could have taken my pencil and sketched the
outline of her features as accurately as now
that she was before me. The only difference
between her and this strange anticipation of
her (or whatever it was) in my mind was, as
I now had leisure to observe, that her hair
and eyes were a good many shades lighter
than those of my forecast. The eyes that I
had thought of were dark grey, almost
black, and the crisp locks a deep lustreless
brown.
The band was playing the second move-
ment of the Sinfonie, and while the music
lasted, she sat in quiet and pleased attention,
her chin resting on her half-opened hand,
and her glance ‘directed musingly towards
the little group of statuary that stands at the
outer extremity of the concert-ground. The
old gentleman, meanwhile, studied the pro—
gramme and took a pull or two at the schop-
pen of beer which the kellner had brought
him. When at length the intermission came,
the two engaged in conversation, and then
all the sparkle and mischievous charm of the
young lady’s face came to the surface; and


154 A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIIWSELR
if she had been beautiful before, her loveli-
ness was now well-nigh intolerable. Presently
the old gentleman lit a cigar, and, getting up
from the table, walked off to smoke it, leaving
his daughter temporarily alone.
It will not be necessary for me to observe
at this point, that I was already in love:
although I do not think I had yet realised
the fact myself. Never having experienced
any sensations of the kind before, I perhaps
failed to attribute to them their full signi-
ficance. But an incident which now occurred
informed my ignorance. A guttural voice
from somewhere behind me made itself heard
above the low hum of general conversation
round about. ‘Ach Herrje!’ it exclaimed,
in a tone of impertinent admiration, ‘ was fur
eine Schonheit! ’
I turned about in pure amazement, unable
to believe that any human being could have
the audacity to launch his impudence against
this gracious paragon. But I could not
doubt the evidence of my own senses. An
overgrown young lieutenant of cavalry was
sitting at a table close by, his hands resting
on the hilt of his long sabre, and his pale-
blue prominent eyes fixed insolently upon
my young lady—I say, upon mine! There
was in his manner an insufferable swagger
and self-complacent conceit which would
have been hard enough to put up with at
any time, but which under these circum-
stances made my hands turn cold and my
face hot with ire. I knew something of the


A LOVER 11v SPITE 0F HIMSELF. 15;
fellow—he was a certain Von I/Vurst, reputed’
to be immensely rich, and he occupied the
first e'tage of the same building whose sky
parlour was dedicated to my muse. He had
a scandalous reputation in Dresden as a
gambler and libertine; and if I had never
troubled myself to verify the reports of his
ill-fame heretofore, I had not the least hesi-
tation about believing the worst of them
now.
But just as I was on the point of obeying
the impulse I was under to clutch him by the
scruff of the neck and kick him out of the
grounds, it came upon me like a blow in the
face that I had no business to interfere. Von
\Vurst had as yet done nothing actively un_
lawful, and the mere expression of his im-
pertinent admiration was not a warrant for
a perfect stranger to both parties, like myself,
to pick a quarrel with him. Moreover, the
young lady’s father was not far off, and could
be summoned in case of need; ,and finally,
she herself did not appear to be frightened.
She took not the slightest notice of Von
Wurst, for, though looking straight towards
him, her glance seemed to pass over him or
through him without informing her of his
existence—in a way which, had there been
a grain of manly decency in his composition,
would have made him wish the earth to
swallow him: and nothing but a slight dis-
dainful quiver of her upper lip betrayed that
she had heard his remark at all. I restrained
my wrath, therefore, as best I might, and


I56 A LOVER IN SPITE 'OF HIAISELF.
contented myself with turning round in my
chair and staring at the lieutenant in as
offensive and insulting a manner as I could.
He noticed my behaviour, and doubtless
divined the cause of it: and by way of show-
ing, perhaps, how little he cared for my dis-
pleasure, he presently summoned the kellner
and sent him off for a bouquet of flowers.
The man soon returned with a very large
and showy one.
‘ Take it to that Fraulein there,' said Von
Wurst, with a leer of defiance at me, ‘and
present it to her with my compliments.’
The man looked rather frightened at this
commission, but obeyed nevertheless, and
laid the bouquet before the young lady with
a deprecatory air and an inarticulate mur-
mur.
By this time the attention of most of the
people round about had been attracted, and
everyone watched with interest to see what
the young lady would do. As for me, I was
pretty nearly at the end of my tether, and
only awaited the first symptom of distress on
her part to take the lieutenant by the throat.
He could probably have settled me with one
hand, but at the moment I forgot to think of
that.
Amidst a general pause of suspense, the
young lady quietly took up the bouquet and
examined it critically. The colour in her
cheeks deepened a shade, and her eyes
sparkled beneath their lashes, but otherwise
she betrayed no signs of uneasiness or indig-


A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF. 157
nation. At length she laid the flowers down,
put her hand in her pocket, and pulled out
her pocket-book.
The kellner shifted nervously from one
leg to the other, and glanced hurriedly
towards Von Wurst, whose insolent smile was
losing itself in an expression of something
like bewilderment.
The young lady opened the pocket-book,
and took out of it a gold piece of the value of
six thalers. Handing it to the astonished
kellner, she said in German and in a low
even tone, which was distinctly audible to all
the curious listeners : v
‘I am not accustomed to buy flowers of
pedlars, but I suppose this person must be
very much in want of money, since he offers
them to me in this way ; so I will take them
out of charity. Give him this, please, and
send him away.’
There was dead silence for a moment;
but as the unfortunate kellner turned to
perform his new orders. one or two persons
snickered, and others joined in, and almost
immediately there was a universal explosion
of derisive mirth at the gallant lieutenant’s
expense. ‘Sacrament!’ stuttered he, jumping
to his feet, his clumsy features of a dull
crimson hue, while he strove by an enraged
stare to awe the laughers into silence. But
it was in vain; others, hearing the uproar,
hurried to the spot, and soon added their
quota to the chorus of contemptuous merri—
ment ; and at last even the kellner pricked


158 A LOVER IN SPITE 0F HIMSELF.
up the courage of numbers, and as he laid
down the gold coin upon the lieutenant’s
table, he suffered a broad grin to make itself
visible on his countenance likewise. At this
juncture the white-bearded old gentleman
came' shouldering through the crowd, in a
tempest of apprehension and wrath; on
finding his daughter safe, he stood with one
arm in hers, glaring round on every side in
search of a foe. But the only individual who
might have answered to that term had by
this time taken his departure, pursued by the
taunts and jeers of the whole assembly. And
then the young lady, who, while unprotected,
had borne herself so firmly, suddenly bent her
lovely face against her father’s shoulder and
burst into tears. As he led her away, a low
murmur of s) mpathy and admiration followed
her; for although a Dresden crowd is in
general anything but a gallant one, their
hearts were thoroughly taken captive for
once. For my part, my mind was a medley
of emotions; I remained seated at my
table with my head in my hands, unable to
think coherently. Whether Mozart’s Sinfonie
was played to the end or not I am unable
to say; at all events, I heard nothing of'
it. But towards evening Ifound myself at
home; and then began the futile struggle
against love and fate which I have already
described.
I have also stated how, on the third day,
resigning myself with the best grace I could
to the inevitable, I prepared to make my


A LOVER IN san 0F HIMSELF. 159
customary afternoon stroll. I had accord-
ingly put on my well-worn Tyrolese hat, and,
grasping my walking-stick, was just about to
issue forth-when a loud ringing at the hall
entrance, soon followed by a firm step along
the passage and a resounding knock at my
own door, made me pause.
‘Can it be the old gentleman?’ flashed
across my mind, and the thought fetched the
heart into my mouth. ‘ Idiot!’ I exclaimed
the next instant, ‘ of course it can only be a
messenger from that scoundrel Von Wurst,
with an invitation to a duel. And by
Heaven!’ I added, flinging the door open
savagely, ‘ there’s no man in the world I shall
have so much pleasure in shooting!’
II.
‘ ‘I-IoLD hard there, stranger!’ cried a deep
laughing voice, penetrated by a preposterous
Yankee accent. ‘ You’d better keep your
shirt on. I guess. If carving livers is your-
game, I’m thar; but ’
‘Floyd!’
‘Hullo, Tom! Ha, ha, ha! Why, you
looked as wicked as a catamount for a
moment—Dear old chap, how goes it ?’
‘ We had grasped hands; bilt the next
instant we threw our arms round each other,
and hugged each other like a couple of Ger-
mans.


160 A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIJISELF.
Floyd had grown an enormous moustache
and was as thin and almost as brown as an
Indian ; but he was the same old Floyd, lazy,
audacious, and full of fun. We sat down and
gazed at one another in silence for more than
a minute.
‘ How did you get here ?’ I asked at
length. .
‘ Well, I dropped round from the planta-
tion. Tired of niggers—thought I’d take a
rest. Want my portrait painted.’
‘I never was so glad to see a fellow in
my life! ’
‘ So I thought, from the way you opened
that door.’
‘ Six years since we parted, Floyd !’
‘We never parted at all, if I remember
right. You sneaked out of it—too proud to
say good-bye to a purse-proud aristocrat like
me, I suppose. Much obliged to you for the
legacy, all the same.’
‘ What do you mean ?’
‘ Nothing particular. I only found you
out about three months ago. However, we’ll
com? to that presently. Been enjoying your-
self . ’
‘Oh, I’m all right—at least, until within
the last two or three days,’ I added, a little
embarrassed.
‘ Ah! Well, you know you always were
an eccentric chap ; and it looks as if you
hadn’t changed much, so far as that goes.
When a man with twelve thousand a year in
the three-per-cents. takes to living in a


A LOVER 1N SPITE OF HHIISELF. 161
German attic on six shillings a day, and
painting pictures that won’t sell for a living
. eh?’
‘The fact is, I lost a good deal of money
——after you left, you know : and—well, I see
you must have heard something about it.’
‘ Me ? Oh, no, don’t imagine such a
thing,’ returned Floyd, with a lazy sparkle in
his long mischievous eyes. ‘I never hear
anything, and never suspect anything; I just
take things as they come, and never stop to
ask where they come from. It wouldn’t do,
you see; I have such extraordinary luck. It
isn’t every man, I guess, who would have the
luck to inherit a fortune of a million or so
from a fellow who didn’t know of his exist-
ence—and who thought all the time he was
leaving it to somebody else. But, bless you !
I think nothing of a thing like that.’
‘ What sort of a notion have you got into
your head now ?’
‘ A notion that you’re a hypocrite, for one
thing. But never mind for the present;
time enough for me to walk into you to-
morrow. I say, Torn, haven’t you anything
to wet a fellow’s whistle with? Where I
hail from, strangers liquor up when they meet.’
I laughed and rang for beer, which hap-
pened to be the only beverage at that
moment subject to my orders. Old Joanna
brought in bottles and glasses on a tray, and
as she set the tray down, I observed that
there was a note upon it, in a rather soiled
envelope, though ornamented with a hand-
M


162 A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF.
some monogram. I took no further notice of '
it at the time, my mind being occupied with
other thoughts. The hints which Floyd had
dropped made me uneasy. I could not
doubt that he had by some means either
found out the whole truth about my transfer
of my grandfather’s bequest, or at least
learned enough of the circumstances to enable
him to ask me very pertinent questions. And
inasmuch as I possessed nothing of his com-
mand of countenance and readiness of wit
and self-possession, it was plain that I was
destined to let the cat out of the bag when-
ever he chose to make me do so. Be that as
it might, I was resolved to allow of no read-
justment of the property; and as I had
reason to believe that my tenacity of purpose
was fully equal to his, whatever my inferiority
otherwise, I consoled myself as well as the
case allowed.
Meanwhile Floyd had produced a gigantic
cigar~case, which seemed to be the only thing
in the way of luggage that he had brought
~with him, and held it towards me. The
cigar which I laid hold of proved to be
upwards of six inches in length and thick in
proportion, while the aroma which proceeded
from it, even before it was lighted, was such
as would have made the least enthusiastic
smoker devoutly bless his stars.
‘They’re wretched little things, I know,’
murmured Floyd, as he stuck one of these
brobdingnags into the corner of his mouth, and
scratched a match. ‘As a general thing, of


A LOVER 1N SPITE OF HIJISELR 163
course, I only smoke them before breakfast,
or between courses at dinner. My regular
weeds—the big ones—are in my trunk at the
“ Saxe.” Raised ’em myself. Well, now go
ahead, Tom, old man ; let’s see what sort of
an account you can give of your adventures
since the old Cambridge days—eh ?’
Now my rejoicing at Floyd’s unexpected
arrival had been twofold : first, I was glad to
see him for his own sake; secondly, because
of the sympathy and advice which no man
was better qualified than he to give me in
my present love difficulty. In a word, I
regarded him as sent by Providence especially
to be made a confidant of. His proposal that
I should give an account of myself since our
last meeting afforded me a good opening
whereby to lead comfortably up to the
intended revelation. Such topics, when one
is really serious and in earnest, require to be
softly approached as well as delicately
handled; and it seemed to me, now that I
was actually face to face with my confession,
that I could not begin too far back or work
my way along too circumspectly.
Accordingly, I made my start in the
extreme distance, and gossiped away volubly
enough ; but after a while I perceived that I
was making very little headway. I dilated on
unimportant matters, and was no nearer the
crucial question than when I began. Instead
of preparing Floyd’s mind for what was to
come, I was leading him off on entirely dis-
cordant lines of thought—if, indeed, he were
M 2


164 A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF.
attending at all to my narrative, and not
rather following out a train of ideas of his
own, under cover of the smoke-wreaths he
was coiling about him.
Irritated at length both with myself and
with him, I broke short off in the current of
talk and said abruptly :
‘ By the way, Floyd, you haven’t told me
yet how you happened to turn up here in
Dresden.’
‘Ah—yes—is that all, then? A very
interesting story too, my boy,’ he grunted,
with a yawn; and throwing his arms above
his head, he indulged in a hearty stretch. It
was too evident that he had not listened to a
word. What, then, could be the subject of
his extraordinary preoccupation ?
‘Ah-what was that you asked me? Oh,
how I came here. Well, you know I wanted
to find you. . . . But come, Tom, since
you’ve made a clean breast of it, so will I.
I’ll make you my confidant, old fellow. The
fact is, I’m here in a threefold capacity—as a
friend, as a brother, and as a humph ! ’
‘ A what ? ’
Floyd rose to his feet and sauntered to
the window. A pot of heliotrope stood
upon the sill, and he pulled off the largest
cluster of blossoms, and began abstractedly
to pick away the flowers. I began to
have my suspicions as to what he meant,
but I said nothing. After a pause be con-
tinued, keeping his face turned towards the
window:


A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIIVSELR 165
‘Well, you see it’s this way. In the first
place, I decided to come over here on your ac-
count-the reason why I’ll tell you presently.
Then, thought I, I shall see "Gwendolen (that’s
my sister, you know), whom I haven’t met
for I don’t know how many years; and instead
of letting her know I’m coming, I’ll give her
a surprise-party ; appear before her unexpect-
edly—she falls into my arms with a shriek—-
and all that. Now, after my dear old gover-
nor’s death ’
‘ Is he dead, Floyd ?’
‘ Eighteen months ago—yes. Well, after
that she wrote me that she was going to live
at her uncle’s—our mother’s brother—a good
fellow, I believe, though I never saw him.
So, as soon as I landed in Liverpool, I went
straight there. They weren’t at home,
and the house was locked up. I made
inquiries, and was told that they had started
on their travels about three months before,
and the fellow in charge of the house said
he believed they had intended to take a
run on the Continent first and then go to
America.’
‘ To give you a surprise-party, I suppose?’
‘Yes. However, I thought I’d try the
Continent first, for I knew you must be some-
where thereabouts, and I couldn’t go back to
America without you in any case. So I
crossed over to Paris, and began beating up
the ground carefully. By-and-by I came
across some obscure intelligence about you;
but, not a word could I hear about Miss


156 A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF.
Gwendolen. I’m pretty well convinced, now,
that she is this moment on my plantation in
Maryland.’
‘ What a pity! I should like to have seen
her, too.’ '
‘ Oh, I mean you shall some day, Tom ;
I’m told she’s good-looking, though I can’t
speak to that on my own knowledge ; in fact,
if she is, she must be very much changed
from the scrawny, freckled little fidget she
used to be seven years ago. However, she’s
out of the question just at present. But . . .’
‘ You’ve accounted for yourself as a friend
and a brother; now for the other thing—the
“humph”?’
‘ You know, Tom,’ said Floyd after some
hesitation, knocking the ash from his cigar
with the remains of the heliotrope blossom-
‘you know I never was like some fellows——
susceptible-always falling in love, and all
that sort of thing—eh ?’
I could not help grinning at this exordium.
Floyd, so long as my acquaintance with him
had lasted, had been without exception the
most fickle and incorrigible flirt I ever saw.
He was always in and out of love, and his
longest attachment seldom lasted six weeks.
The effrontery with which he now recom-
mended himself to my admiration as a model
of continence in this respect was too much for
even my gravity.
‘ I’ve known very few fellows like you, at
all events,’ was my non-committal reply;
‘and from what I do know, I should think it


A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIIIISELF. 167
1very probable your time might have come, at
ast.’
‘Well—only this is no laughing matter,
mind you, Tom,’ said Floyd, turning round
upon me with a countenance of extreme
solemnity-‘it's very natural you shouldn’t
quite understand how a man like myself feels
when his heart is really touched for the first
time; you’ve always been out of the way of
such things, you know—you never took to
women. But my whole soul is in this affair;
it’s a matter of life and death, I might say ’
At this point I could restrain myself no
longer, but laughed openly. Floyd was
so categorically reproducing the old Floyd
of college days, who was wont to rave
precisely thus about each latest mistress
of his fancy, that the depths of mirth
were stirred within me. He was a good
deal annoyed at first; but finally the corners
of his moustache began to twitch, and his
imperturbable good nature to reassert it-
self. ‘ I am in earnest, though, this time,’ he
persisted, when gravity was restored. ‘ You
know, we’re not boys any longer, Tom. You
must allow a man to have one serious feeling
before he dies.’
‘So I do, Floyd; it was only the old
associations that tickled me ; and also another
thing, that will surprise you when you hear it.
But first—go on with your yarn. Who and
what is she ? ’
‘ I haven’t an idea!’
‘ You don’t know?’


168 A LOVER IN SPITE OF HITVSELF.
‘All I know is, Tom, that I have seen
her, and that I adore her. I have never
been able to get speech of her, or even so
much as find out her name. If she were like
other girls, I’d soon scrape an acquaintance ;
but she awes me and abashes me, and I’d no
more think of being unceremonious with her
than with her Majesty Queen Victoria. I
must get presented in regular form or not at
all. But nobody seems to know her; she
seems to be travelling incog. They never
stop at hotels, but always go to private
lodgings, so there’s nothing to be learnt
through feeing waiters. I first caught sight
of her in Paris, and have been trotting round
at her heels ever since, sometimes losing her
for a while, but not for long. Yesterday,
though, I thought she had given me the slip
finally ; but by accident I heard it rumoured
that some one answering her description
had taken the train from Berlin southwards
four days ago. I came on here, on specu¥
lation; got here early this morning; and
sure enough I had a glimpse of her as she
drove by in her carriage, not three hours
since.’
‘By Jove, Floyd! . . .’ said I musingly;
and paused.
‘ That’s my yarn, so far as it’s gone.’
I rose, and joined him at the window,
and we both leaned over the sill and gazed
thoughtfully down on the street beneath.
The' coincidence that the objects of our
respective adoration should both happen to


A LOVER IN SPITE OF HINISELF. 369
be in town at the same time, impressed me.
It confirmed me, too, in my design of making
Floyd my confidant, as he had made me his.
Our destinies were entangled' and the fact
that his predicament of not knowing so much
as the name of his mistress was identical with
my own, encouraged me to proceed. Exactly
what I expected to gain from my confession,
I did not pause to consider. Matrimony
must, of course, be as much against my
principles now as it had been yesterday;
nevertheless, somehow or other, the magnet-
ism of Floyd’s presence had the effect of
causing me at least to reconsider the matter.
It might be worth my while, at all events, to
hear his opinion upon it: it would be an
opinion founded upon good sense and know-
ledge of the world. The chances were, I
reflected, that he would but confirm my own
views as to my unfitness' for the married
state : had he not already insinuated as
much, while ignorant of my infatuation? I
would speak out, then, fearlessly: and I
would speak at once.
‘ Floyd ’
The loud rattling of a carriage over the
stones beneath interrupted me. We both
looked down, and at the sight which met our
eyes we both started. Floyd was the first to
speak.
‘ Quick ! look there, Torn,’ cried he, catch-
ing my arm with more of excitement in his
manner than I had ever before known him to
betray ; ‘look, man, there she is !’


170 A LOVER 1N SPITE OF HIMSELF.
‘ She ? ’ I cried ; ‘ why, how did you know
her P ’
‘ Know her? Know the woman I
adore ?’
‘You—adore
‘She’s the one I’ve been telling you
about—the one I love! 0 you beauty !’ and
he kissed his audacious hand at the retreating
carriage.
I left the window without a word, and
walked to my chair. The truth was re-
vealed; Floyd’s ‘she’ was mine: we both
loved the same woman! The carriage had
contained three persons—the white-bearded
old gentleman; another old gentleman who,
from the hurried glance I had obtained of
him, reminded me very much of Mr. Frisby,
our former business agent; and last and
above all, the lovely heroine of the Concert-
garden adventure.
Floyd still remained at the Window,
gazing down the street after the vanished
vehicle : and I took advantage of the oppor-
tunity thus afforded me to hastily review my
position, and decide what course of action I-
ought to pursue. It was to be noted, in the
first place, that although I had been made
aware of the insoluble dead-lock between my
friend and myself. he was entirely ignorant of
it. The accident of his having been before-
hand in exclaiming at sight of the carriage
had made all the difference. Had my tongue
been an instant quicker, he, and not I, would
have been the disconsolate one. It was fate:
)


A LOVER IN SPITE 0F HIAISELF. 17!
and I reflected, with perhaps a moment’s
bitterness, that fate had always been as kind
to him as she had been unkind to me.
But this unworthy mood did not last. If
it was no fault of mine that I was unlucky,
certainly Floyd’s good fortune was no fault
of his. And as for the present affair, I ought
(consistently with myself) to rejoice rather
than grieve at the turn it had taken. If I
did not wish to marry, my disinclination now
bade fair to be respected; destiny was work-
ing on my side, after all. I ought to esteem
it a happiness, moreover, that it had fallen
to my lot not only to endow my best friend
with a fortune, but with a wife likewise: and
to do him these favours, too, without his sus-
pecting that it was from my hand they were
' received. All this, I say, was very delight-
ful from the moral point of view; but I will
not be so uncandid as to pretend that, at the
1 first blush, I was at all delighted. On the
contrary, I felt, for the first time, that I was
by no means so averse from marriage as I
had supposed: and that my only chance of
happiness in that relation was now passing _
away before my eyes. True, the chance had
at the best been but a slight one ; few things
were less probable than that I, without
money, influence, or personal attractions,
could ever have won so fair a prize as that
which I had dreamed of. Yet I perceived
that I would have striven to win it with all
my strength. I recognised the folly and
insincerity of my apparent reluctance. I had


172 A LOVER [N SPITE OF HIIIISELF.
dallied with my great opportunity while it
had been mine, and now that it was for ever
lost, I saw my mistake. Well—Floyd would
have her; be it so. At least, I would not
play the 'dog in the manger with him. I will
act as I know he would have acted in my
place; and though it might be with a bad
grace at first, I must trust to time and reason
to reconcile me. ‘
‘ Wasn’t she divine?’ sighed Floyd,
slowly withdrawing himself from the window
and returning to his chair. He took a deep
draught from his beer-schoppen, selected
another huge cigar from the cigar-case, lit it,
and sighed once more.
‘ You don’t know her-do you ?’ he next
inquired, turning a lazy glance upon me.
‘What do you mean? I know nobody
here.’
‘I was only thinking,’ rejoined Floyd,
without observing my confusion, ‘ how nice it
would have been if you could have intro-
duced us. Though, to be sure, no one could
know a girl like that without falling in love
with her himself; so maybe it’s better for me
as it is-eh? ha, ha, ha!’
.‘Ha, ha! I see—you dread a possible
rival in me—ha, ha!’
‘ Dread isn’t exactly the word, Tom, old
fellow,’ said Floyd, in a changed tone, per-
haps fancying (for his perceptions were as
acute as his heart was generous) that his
jesting allusion had hurt my feelings. ‘If
you were in love with this girl, I would


A LOVER IN SPITE OF HLMSELF.~ 173
give up my chance to you in a moment—and
do all a man could to promote your success
too. You know what I think of you, Tom ;
but, hang it! we’re Anglo-Saxons; we can't
be always bursting into tears and swearing
that we love one another! But I know
what you’ve done for me; and I mean to
do something for you, when my time comes.’
‘ All right, Floyd,’ said I hastily. ‘Only
don’t talk as if you owed me anything,’ I
added presently; ‘because you don’t.’
‘ Oh, I don’t mean to go to work strictly
on the debit and credit principle,’ he answered .
with a smile. ‘But—since we’ve got to
talking in this vein somehow, we may as
well have it out and done with it. I found
out, quite by accident, the little ruse you
played off on me six years ago. I stumbled
upon the revelation only three months back.
And that led to my discovering your poverty.
Altogether, Torn, it took the wind out of
me for a moment.’
‘ Remember one thing,’ I interposed; ‘it
wasn’t until after I had done that, that the
robbery came to light. I expected to be
richer than you ’
‘I know—I understand. But now, use
your imagination for a moment, and put
yourself in my place. If I had enriched
you beyond the dreams of avarice, and then
turned out a pauper myself, you would not
feel exactly comfortable, I take it. And if, in
the course of six years, you had proved your-
self a good steward of the property, and had


174 'A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIIVSELF.
increased its value by upwards of one-half,
wouldn’t you consider it no more than a fair
and even thing, conducive to the comfort and
respect of both parties, to make that increase
over to me, with your best bow, and so live
happily ever after ? Eh, Tom?’
‘Thanks, Floyd; that’s all reasonable.
enough, and the only reason I don’t say yes '
to it is this : I am a great deal better off as I
am. Money would not do me a bit of good
—quite the contrary. I like to feel that I
have none of that kind of responsibility, and
I like to imagine that I must Work for a
living. Of course, it is nothing more than
imagination, for my income supplies me with
all I need. But it is good for me to have an
occupation, and to feel some sort of obli-
gation to pursue it. I’m naturally prone to
the blues—and if I had nothing to do but
to lie back and enjoy myself, I should have
them all the time. We are constituted
differently, that’s all. But—thanks, all the
same.’
Floyd lay calmly back in his chair, and
puffed half-a-dozen smoke-wreaths ceiling-
wards ere he spoke again.
‘ If you think,’ he then said, ‘ that I have
been doing nothing all these years except sit
still and enjoy myself, you are confoundedly
mistaken. I have worked like a horse—-
though I mayn’t look like it now. The pos-
session of this fortune has made all the
difference between my being an industrious
and productive member of the community,


176 A LOVER [N SPITE 0F HIJISELF.
‘ It’s a little idyl—a bit of a romance, you
know, that I had imagined. I hoped to take
you back to America with me, when I went,
and I expected my sister would come too.
Well, she’s there already. But I thought,
don’t you see, that you would meet and per-
haps see a good deal of each other; and I’m
certain she’s a girl of fine character, though
she may very likely be no great beauty to
look at; and of course she has half of all I
own, and will probably decide to settle down
over there; and I’ll defy any woman who
knows what you are to help falling in love
with you.’
Floyd was actually stammering and
getting red in the face. I never felt my
heart so go out to a man, before or since.
Dear old Floyd ! how little he knew What an
impossibility he was proposing.
‘ I’m not a marrying man, Floyd,’ was all
I was able to reply at the moment; but I
knew that he understood, from my tone and
look, how deeply his suggestion had touched
me.
After this ensued a rather long silence.
At last he remarked, carelessly taking up the
note which old Joanna had brought in with
the beer, and which I had quite forgotten.
‘Apparently I’m to take your assertion
that you know nobody in town with a reserva-
tion. This looks like an invitation from some
of the upper ten. The monogram is big
enough.’
‘An invitation ?--that can’t be.’ On


A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIJISELF. I77
opening the envelope, however, I found that
he was right. It was an invitation to a
private fancy ball, at the house of no less a
person than my banker.
‘ It’s very strange; I never spoke ten
words to him in my life, and my balance is
none of the largest. It’s to-night, too—short
notice!’
‘He didn’t want to give you time to
refuse. Of course you’ll go. Let me look
at it-“ Mr. Wyndham and friend ”.-that
means me. We’ll go together.’
A good deal to my own surprise, I found
that Floyd’s proposal was by no means so
distasteful as I should have supposed. The
truth was, I much needed some distraction.
This fancy ball would serve to pass away
what otherwise bade fair to be a very uncom-
fortable evening. After a little discussion,
therefore, I consented to accompany him
thither; and as evening was already coming
on, we sallied forth to procure dominos. A
few hours later saw us ensconced in a drosky,
and rattling over the uneven pavements to
our destination.
‘I shouldn’t wonder, by the way,’ re-
marked Floyd, as we alighted, ‘if that divine
creature were to be there.’
Had this suggestion been advanced
earlier, it would have made an important
modification in my plans ; but it was now too
late to draw back. I bethought myself, too,
that it was highly improbable—considering
how short a time she had been in town—that
N


I78 A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIMSELF.
she should have received an invitation; and
if the worst came to the worst, I could slip
away whenever I chose. We went on up the
illuminated staircase, therefore, and having
delivered our credentials to the doorkeeper
——a warrior of the sixteenth century, armed
cap-a-pie in panoply of proof—we advanced
to pay our respects to the host and hostess of
the occasion, who smiled to us in the guise of
Nutcracker and Sugardolly.
‘It is the greatest pleasure that I meet
you,’ said the former, in broken English, but
with entire cordiality, holding my hand affec-
tionately as he spoke. ‘We have too little
seen of you here—you are too much to your-
self. It shall be our hope that you now do
us the honour very often. You shall find
some of your compatriots here to-night, I
think, all very anxious to enjoy the favour of
your presentation. Dear sir, till our next
meet ! ’
Meanwhile, Madame Sugardolly was say-
ing something equally civil to Floyd. That
was natural enough; his wealth and conse—
quent importance were probably well known ;
but I was at a loss to understand'such a
sudden access of flattering attention to me.
I was nobody, and accustomed to be treated
accordingly. Could my worthy banker be
labouring under the delusion that I was some-
body else?
Leaving this question to solve itself, I took
Floyd’s arm, and we threaded our way slowly
through the brilliantly and grotesquely attired


A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIJISELF. 179
crowd. Many a quaint and graceful figure
was there, but none with which either of us
was familiar. I saw that Floyd was keeping
a keen lookout for some one, and had no
difficulty in guessing who it might be. But
we made the circuit of all the rooms in vain.
We drifted at length into the haven of a small
side-room, curtained off from the other apart—
ments by a heavy portz'e‘re hanging across the
doorway., Lights were burning in it, and a
comfortable sofa stood at one end, but there
was no one there. It was a discovery of our
own.
‘Tell you what we’ll do, old chap,’ said
Floyd. ‘It is now eleven o’clock. Let us
separate here, and pursue our several fortunes
for the 'space of an hour; after which—that
is, at twelve precisely—we will rendezvous in
this room and compare notes. What say
you ?’
I made no objections, and we separated
accordingly, he going in one direction and I
in the opposite one. For my own part, how-
ever, I had no fancy to seek adventures, and
happening to come upona convenient entrance
of a window, I took refuge within the shadow
of the curtains, and there fell into a brown
study. There was one aspect of the affair in
which my cousin and I were involved which
had latterly begun to disquiet me not a little.
It was this :—I could not believe that he was
entirely and thoroughly in earnest. I had a
misgiving, which I could not rid myself of,
and which his every word and act tended to
N 2


‘180 A LOVER 1N SPITE 0F HDWSELF.
-.- w- ‘ ““
- ibw~113fl .a'? A -~&;-. -=J_ _- ___
confirm, that he was not seriously in love at
all, but was merely amusing himself (as he
had done a hundred times before) with the
pretence of being so. If I were correct in my
suspicion, then the game which was fun to
him was death to me. And yet, what could
I do? Unless I knew for an absolute 'cer-
tainty that this View of the case were a true
one, I could not in honour lift a finger to
avert the consequence; and absolute cer-
tainty, in a matter of this kind, was unattain-
able. The upshot of my brown study was
therefore a conviction of my own helpless-
ness : and as I arrived at it, I raised my eyes
to the clock, and saw it wanted but two or
three minutes of the appointed hour.
Edging along through the press as
rapidly as I could, I soon came to the
curtained doorway, and pushing aside the
portz'e‘re, I went in. The room was still
empty-Floyd had not yet returned.
‘ Is it possible he can have met her?’—
thought I.
Even as the thought came, I heard a low,
distinct woman’s voice, apparently close at
hand; and following it, a coarse, guttural-
one. I knew both, and all the blood in my
veins tingled. Looking about,I noticed for
the first time that the room I was in opened
into another, the door of which was also
closed by a portz'ére. The next moment
I had thrown it open and stood within.
I saw the young lady crouched away in
the farther corner of the room, her face


A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIIVSELE 181
l)ale, her lips set, her eyes sparkling; and
before her, with his back towards me, I saw
the overgrown bulk of Von Wurst. He was
attempting to get his arm round her waist,
at the same time thrusting forward his coarse
face to kiss her.
As her glance met mine, a light of relief
entered into her face which, even at that
crisis, filled me with a grand tremor of un-
reasoning delight. Von Wurst saw it too,
and seemed at once to divine what had
happened. He faced about immediately,
his hand clutching at the hilt of his sabre.
But before he could draw it from its
sheath, I had thrown myself upon him, and
seizing him by the collar of his uniform
and by one of his epaulettes, I exerted all
my strength and flung him violently back-
wards. He staggered, but did not fall. I
perceived that the fellow had been drinking,
and was in a mood to commit any violence
or outrage. His face was red, and the
veins of his forehead were swelled with
passion.
With an oath he drew his sabre, and
delivered his point full at my throat. The
movement was so rapid that I was prepared
_ neither to parry nor to avoid it, and it would
have gone hard with me; but before the
keen steel could quite reach me, my right
arm was caught by two slender nervous
hands, and I was dragged forcibly to one
side. Von Wurst, overbalanced by the
weight of his own thrust, stumbled forward;


132 A LOVER I.V SPITE OF HIJISELF.

the sheath of his sabre tripped him up, he
whirled round and fell heavily on his back,
striking his head as he did so against the
sharp corner of the porcelain stove. The
blow stunned him, and he lay motionless.
And there stood I, unhu‘rt, saved by her
whom I had saved, and who still clung to
my arm, panting and tremulous. It was a
moment Worth more than a lifetime : it was
but a moment.
As I turned towards her, she vlet go
my arm, smiled faintly, and sat down upon
the nearest chair.
‘ I’m very much obliged to you, I’m sure,
said she.
‘I think the obligation is on my side,’ I
answered, as awkwardly as possible.
‘Oh no—I thank you—I thank you!’
Her eyes fell upon the insensible lieutenant,
and she shuddered. ‘Do you think he’s
dead ? He deserves to be hurt as badly as
possible, but not quite killed—I shouldn't
want that: I should have to think of him
then, you know.’
Several hours later. I bethought myself
to smile at this conceit; but at the time I
was quite too much embarrassed and excited
to think of such a thing. Moreover, I was
very badly frightened, and that for a cause
sufficiently whimsical, namely, that I was
hopelessly entangling myself with the woman
to whom Floyd had a prior and superior
claim. Unless I escaped at once, I knew I
should never get away at all—until I had '


A LOVER IN SPITE OF HIIIISELF. 183
asked her to love me, and she had refused
point-blank. And that would be too late for
my self-respect. Oh, Floyd! why could you
not love somebody else! '
‘I think I must go now if you will ex‘
cuse me,’ I stammered. ‘I have an engage-
ment.’
‘But I can’t be left alone with t/zat!’
she exclaimed piteously, at the same time
indicating the unfortunate lieutenant with
her foot. I forgave him from that moment.
‘VVon’t you wait with me in the other room
until my uncle comes back ?’ she continued :
‘ he should have been here before this.’
Her uncle ; not her father then !
She had risen and taken my arm; I gave
myself up for lost. As we drew aside the
curtain to go into the outer room, the curtain
of the door opposite was simultaneously .
pulled aside, and in came—first, the white-
bearded old gentleman; second, Floyd;
third, a military gentleman in the uniform of
a colonel; and fourth and last, my old friend
Mr. Frisby.
‘ Here she is !’ cried the old gentleman.
‘Gwendolen, my dear, allow me to make
you acquainted with your brother, Mr. Floyd
\Vyndham. Who is this gentleman? can
this be ’
‘ My cousin, Mr. Thomas Wyndham,’
interposed Floyd, with a solemn bow.
‘Gwenny, your most devoted!’ He took
her by both shoulders, and kissed her on the
forehead and cheek. At the same time he


A LOVLR [N SPITE OF H].MSELR 185
claimed the Colonel grimly. ‘I have been
told about you, Herr Faust. Yes. sir, you
will dispense with the “von” for the future
and spell your name correctly—you are the son
of a swindler and a convict. To-morrow you
will appear before a court-martial. We shall
see, sir, what shall be done to a fellow who
disgraces his uniform by insulting ladies and
—-but go, sir !- Ladies and gentlemen,’ added
the old officer, turning to us and bowing,
‘ pardon me that I so much forget myself.’
After the poor lieutenant had slunk away,
the conversation had become general, and
numberless were the questions asked and the
explanations volunteered. But I have only a
dim and hazy recollection of what was said.
I kept as far away from Miss Gwendolen as
possible, and scarcely looked at her; but for
all that, she was the only person in the room
whose every word and motion I felt and saw.
I did not know whether to commiserate
Floyd, or to envy him. Perhaps he scarcely
knew himself, at first. But since, afew years
afterwards, he married the beautiful Miss
Maryland, of Baltimore, and has been the
happiest of husbands ever since, I have
ceased to feel anxious or conscience-smitten
on his account.
Shall I go on and tell you how it all
turned out? My wife, who is leaning over
my shoulder as I write these last words, says,
‘ No.’ And I submit; for once, years ago,
when she was a Miss Wyndham, she made
me the happiest of mankind by saying, ‘ Yes.’


186
KILDHURM’S OAK.
CHAPTER I.
OLD LADY MAINWARING.
I SEE by the papers that this grand old lady
is dead. She had passed her eighty-ninth
birthday. Born in a year when Warren
Hastings was still on his trial for high crimes
and misdemeanours, the only child of Sir
Philip Kildhurm of Kildhurm Tower, she
was married at seventeen to Captain Frank
Mainwaring, of His Britannic Majesty’s
Navy—a man who enjoyed the distinction of
being wounded at Trafalgar. Captain Main-
waring (knighted in 1811 on acceding to his
uncle’s estates) died in 1840; he left two
sons and a daughter. Both the sons died in
the cholera epidemic of 1832, unmarried.
The daughter was wedded to a gentleman of
family and estate, and accompanied him to
India, where he held some official position.
But his whole family (several children had
been born) were murdered in the Sepoy out-
break. Thus it came about that, for the last
twenty years, Lady Mainwaring has been the


KILDHURJI’S OAK. 187
sole survivor of her race; and now she is
gone, they are extinct.
She was a grand, serene old lady: with
a noble face, whose beauty time could not
altogether take away, and a majestic figure
that scarcely stooped beneath the weight of
fourscore years and nine. Her eyes were
remarkable-large, black, and keen, and
innocent of spectacles to the very end; but
her hair, famous two generations since for its
sable luxuriance, became in later times snow-
white, although the long arched eyebrows
kept their former hue. A wonderful old
lady: endowed to the last'with singular
personal fascination, her manner the perfec-
tion of gentle dignity, in looking at her, or
listening to the inflections of her low deep
voice, you felt that hers was a spirit of no
ordinary capacities and powers. But she
was the descendant of no ordinary ancestry.
Several of her progenitors had been endowed
with gifts of the kind that modern science is
always no less quick to explain away than
slow to explain, but in which the folk of
a less sophisticated age did powerfully and
potently believe. I am not at this moment
concerned to enter upon a discussion of
supernatural phenomena, so called. beyond
remarking that no physiologist can pretend
to any right to be heard at all on the subject:
the credulity which can believe witchcraft
and sorcery to be the bugbears of a diseased
imagination being too gross to command
attention. Reasonable people believe that


188 KILDHURMS OAK.
the human body has a soul; that there is a
spiritual sight answering to the bodily sight;
and that when this spiritual sight is opened,
it must inevitably behold the objects of a
spiritual world. Concerning the spiritual
world two or three facts, at least, are self-
evident. Being a world of the mind, only
the laws of the mind can hold sway there; it
is therefore free from the trammels of space
and time. Further, it is a world of real
substance, in contradistinction to the apparent
substantiality of the world of matter. Thus
far logic carries us ; and we do not at present
need to go farther. For if man, living as to
his body in the material world, lives at the
same time as to his spirit in the spiritual
world, then prophecy, soothsaying, second-
sight, or whatever ‘miracle’ involves the
transgression of no spiritual principle, becomes
. only the corollary of our theorem. The
wonder-workers of old are justified. As for
the Charlatans, they are not tricksters merely,
but rofaners, whose doom is spiritual death.
t was not unknown to some of the more
intimate of Lady Mainwaring’s friends that
she possessed abnormal powers; and though
she was constitutionally reserved in her
communications, she occasionally came out
with some noteworthy utterance on the
subject. But if she saw and knew things
beyond the ordinary scope, these influenced
her spiritual rather than her material exist-
ence. She was well poised; there was no
one-sidedness in her character; the spirit


KILDHUR‘M ’S OAK. 189
was so soundly and healthily wedded to the
body that neither was in excess; they per-
formed their several functions in such
harmony that one was seldom engaged apart
from the other. But although this was
happily the case with Lady Mainwaring, it
had been otherwise with some of her ances-
tors. They could not walk the world with
even and measured steps, but ever and anon
plunged or soared into abysses which no
mortal plummet has sounded. In Lady
Mainwaring’s later years, a spirit of sweet
and dignified garrulity occasionally inspired
her, under the influence of which she would
relate to discreet and sympathetic ears many
strange particulars both of her own and of
her forefathers’ history. Now that she is
gone, I am at liberty to reproduce some of
these communications; giving them, so far
as is possible, a connected and consecutive
form. Her singularly fascinating narrative
faculty, however, I cannot pretend to imitate.
She was full of unrhymed and unwritten
poetry of an elevated and mystic stamp.
She had no ambition to be a writer, and after
all she could never have done herself justice
on paper. Whoever had listened to the
subdued melody of her tones, flexible, various,
controlled, and reflecting every emotional
phase of the tale as it was told; whoever
had felt the blood shrink to his heart at
crises of the story, marked by a slight move-
ment of her long white hands, a quiver of
the black brows, an unexpected hush in the


190 KILDHURJI’S 0.4 K.
voice—whoever had had experience of this
would have known that it was not to be
sought on any printed page. Yet there was
nothing histrionic in Lady Mainwaring’s
demeanour. A person sitting a dozen yards
away from her could not have distinguished
a word she said, and would scarcely have per-
ceived that she was making use of gestures
to enforce her meaning. It needed a close eye
to catch all the subtle play of that venerable
countenance.
The story I have compiled begins at a
period now distant; yet the series of events
appears compact and coherent. What fact
is there more tough and undeniable than
an oak in an English park? Yet, firmly
rooted though it be among the things of to-
day, its beginnings. date back a thousand
years; it is a creature of the Dark Ages,
a contemporary of legendary heroes and
heroines, giants and fairies. It is a tangible
proof of the mysterious past; but, in bringing
vanished ages into the light of the passing
moment, it takes from them the very reality
whereof they testify.


KILDHURIII’S OA If. 19!
CHAPTER II.
SIR BRIAN’S TROUBLES.
THE Oak of Kildhurm does not date back a
thousand years. Its exact age is not known,
but it grew to be a sturdy vegetable, great of
girth and royal in its spread of limb. It was
first recognisable as a tree in the hither out-
skirts of Queen Elizabeth’s time, or in King
James’s earlier years: about the epoch, say,
of the Gunpowder Treason, when the
struggles between King and Parliament
which culminated in the rebellion of two-
score years later were just beginning: when
people wore ruffs and tight waists, and culti-
vated a stiffness of aspect as if they were
continually sitting for their portraits; when
the names of Bacon, Raleigh, Shakespeare,
and Drake had as yet acquired no legendary
halo; when gentlemen were haughty and
punctilious, wore long swords with .basket
hilts, and were bloodthirstily polite in using
the same; when women were almost as
beautiful and virtuous as they are at the
present day, but less squeamish upon certain
points ; when Spain was as much of a scape-
goat for English vituperation as Russia is
now ; when popery was not merely a pictur-
esque opinion, but a matter of blazing faggots
and iron virgins; when El Dorado still
gleamed along the horizons of the Spanish
l/


192 KILDHURJI’S OAK.
main. At about this time it was that two
men, riding in opposite directions along a
lonely road, met beneath a huge oak tree,
whose gnarled limbs, thickly clothed with
sombre foliage, extended nearly across the
way.
The name of only one of these men has
been preserved to us by tradition. Sir Brian
Kildhurm, a valiant knight of Queen Eliza-
beth’s manufacture, had fought with dis-
tinction in the Spanish wars, and afterwards
(though himself of Irish descent) had un-
sheathed his sword for the repression of the
Irish difficulties of that day. He owned
fair estate on the coast of Cumberland, a
castle with a broad-bottomed tower on its
seaward corner, a little black-haired son, and
a very beautiful wife. With regard to this
same wife, however, there was a difficulty, it
would be hard to say exactly what: but, at
all events, the personage who chanced to
encounter Sir Brian beneath the overhanging
branches of the oak tree on the lonely road
was, in Sir Brian’s opinion, in some way
responsible for it.
They reined-in their horses, and ex-
changed a few words, which were doubtless
of a courteous but hardly of a conciliating
tendency. Each wore some light armour on
head, arms, and breasts, high heavy boots,
and the customary sword and dagger. But
it is to be noted that, whereas Sir Brian’s
sword was of the rapier description, that of
his opponent was a ponderous double-edged


KIL DH URJI ’S 0.4 K. 193
weapon, fitter to be wielded with two hands
than with one. Its owner, however, was a
man of vast size and strength, broad of
beam and massive of limb, and with a
great sheaf of rough red beard blowing about
his face and chest; and he could flirt the
huge sword about as lightly as if it had been
a bamboo walking-stick. Sir Brian, on the
other hand, like all the men of his race,
was tall, lithe, agile, and terribly skilful of
fence.
It will be understood that these details
would not have been dwelt upon, had the
encounter between the two gentlemen been
destined to pass off peacefully. But peace
was far from the hearts of either of them.
They meant deadly mischief to one another ;
and Sir Brian at least had long looked for
an opportunity of doing his share of it. Ac-
cordingly, after levelling a proper amount of
fantastic and quaint abuse at one another,
these two sons of Adam dismounted from
their steeds, placed themselves face to face
on the greensward beneath the oak tree, and
then and there presently set to work to spill
each other’s life-blood. Meanwhile, their
horses peaceably cropped the herbage, and
took the little intermission in their labours in
very good part.
Sir Brian never appeared to have a
chance against his gigantic adversary. What
avails a cunning guard, when sheer strength
beats it down, and when blow follows blow
so rapidly and with such outrageous force,
0


194 K ILDH URM ’S OA R'.
that the wiriest opponent has much ado to
hop out of the way of them, leaving all
attempt at retaliation out of the question for
the present? In spite of Sir Brian’s best
activity, the giant’s weapon several times
reached his body, crushing the light plates of
iron armour, and once or twice biting through
themto the flesh. ‘The caitiff must needs
wax scant of breath ere long,’ thought Sir
Brian to himself, as he saw that steel flail
flash up and down; but it was dangerous
work waiting for that time to arrive. In a
moment a blow fell upon his helmet, sheared
away the left side of it, and grazed the scalp,
so that blood rushed forth and made gory the
knight’s face and gorget. A little giddy from
this shock, Sir Brian staggered, his knees
bent, and his neck felt an inch or two shorter
than was comfortable. Perceiving this, his
enemy reso1ved to make an end of him forth-
with; for there was no question of giving
quarter in this fight, but one or both must
never fight again. Grasping his sword with
both hands, therefore, he poised it for aback-
stroke into which he threw the whole force
and weight of his body. Sir Brian, glancing
dizzily up, saw the keen blade glitter above
him ; then down it came—but not all the way
down! For in mid-descent it came in con-
tact with a low-lying limb of the oak tree—
nine inches thick of hard living wood—
sheared through it to the last half-inch, and
the hilt flew from the striker’s grasp. His
arms dropped to his sides, tingling to the


KILDHURM ’S OAK. 195
shoulder. At the same moment Sir Brian
had lunged forward with the strength of des-
pair, and his rapier passed clean through the
neck of the other, who fell backwards with a
groan and a gurgle, breaking the rapier-blade
short off in the wound. He never spoke a
word, but bled like a bull, and in a few
minutes was dead.
Sir Brian Kildhurm leaned upon the frag-'
ment of his sword, recovering his breath, and
staring at the red-bearded face of his dead
enemy. _
‘ So much for my Lady Ursula’s sweet—
heart ! ’ he muttered to himself.
After standing a little longer, he wiped
his sword and slapped it home in the sheath ;
unlaced and flung away the pieces of his
helmet; and at length, kneeling on one knee
beside the burly corpse, he cut open with his
dagger the front of the doublet. A broad
gold chain and locket were revealed, the
sight whereof caused Sir Brian’s lean visage -
to wrinkle itself painfully. He took up the
locket, sticky as it was with blood, and opened
it. It contained, not the lock of crisp black
hair that he had put in it ten years ago, but
a soft brown coil of a woman’s braid. He
, closed the locket and thrust it into his bosom.
He took his enemy’s dagger, which was richly
inlaid and wrought; and finally he broke off
from the branch whose interposition had
saved his life a twig with a cluster of acorns
growing upon it. These also he dabbled with
blood; then he mounted and rode slowly
O2


1 96 KILDHURM ’S OAK.
away, leaving the corpse and the other horse
beneath the oak tree.
This fight took place on acool and breezy
afternoon in the month of October, in a small
valley between Dent Hill and Ennerdale
Water in Cumberland. The horse remained
beside his dead master until nightfall, because
the latter’s beard, blowing to and fro in the
breeze, made him seem to be alive. But at
night the horse trotted away, and by sunrise
was standing at the gates of a Catholic mon-
astery, fifty miles south-eastward of that fatal
spot.
CHAPTER III.
FATHER, MOTHER, AND SON.
SIR BRIAN rode north and west, crossing a
small river, where he stopped to bathe his
wounds, and then forward again for six or
seven miles, until he came to the sea-coast
and to the Kildhurm estates. It was already
dusk when he dismounted in the courtyard of
his castle. He had been absent for some
weeks, and he had not been expected home
so soon ; nevertheless he was welcomed back
most respectfully. He made no allusion to
his late encounter at Ennerdale, but put on a
gracious demeanour, and seemed altogether
in unusually good spirits. When his wife
came out to meet him, holding their little son


K ILDH URM ’5 0A A’. 199
Kildhurm, snatching back her half-extended
hand. ‘ Brian—what man was this ?’
‘What man?’ he repeated with a short
laugh. ‘What but a robber, Ursula, who
would rob me of what I hold most precious?
Butv methinks his ill deeds are at an end
now!’
‘What hast thou done to him?’ she
asked, trembling very much.
‘ Nay, I did but pass my rapier through
his weazand,’ replied the knight, keeping his
black eyes on her face. ‘Indeed, he was
not worthy to die by the hand of a true man,
but should rather have been hanged on the
tree beneath which he fell, as a warning to
all such vermin. But in the hurry of the
moment I stood not upon ceremony. . . .
Do not turn so pale, Ursula! Comfort thy-'
self, dear wife—I got but a scratch or so,
which will be healed long ere the crows have
made a meal of his carcase.’
‘This afternoon—by the Oak of Enner-
dale?’ said Lady Kildhurm in a dull voice,
her eyes wide open and fixed.
‘And, by the bye, I took a trophy from
him—a pretty trinket enough—and have
brought it to hang about thy neck as a
keepsake. See—pure gold it is, and in its
shape strangely like the one I gave thee years
ago, and which thou hast doubtless kept so -
religiously ever since. But this has in it,
not my hair, but a braid cut from some
woman’s head—his light-o’-love’s, I take. it.
Throw that away as unworthy thy chaste


zoo KILDHURIII ’S OAK.
ownership: but accept the gold from thy
loving husband, Ursula! ’
When Lady Kildhurm beheld this sure
evidence that what she had perhaps foreboded
had come to pass, her trembling ceased, and
she became strangely composed. She held
out her hand for the locket.
‘ Give it me,’ she said. ‘ Ay, it is pretty,
indeed; and I thank thee for it more than
for any other gift of thine. Why, this too is
smeared with blood; but my lips shall
cleanse it—I will kiss it, kiss it, till all is
kissed away. And I will wear it in my
bosom, Brian, and it shall never come forth
thence—never while I live, I promise thee
Thou canst not say I did not prize this giftI
The cluster of acorns—give me them also.
Hast thou anything else for me?’
‘ Here is his dagger,’ returned the knight
with an attempt at a sneer. ‘Thou mayest
find a use for that, perhaps!’
She took the dagger, and then, standing
erect before her husband, she met his glance
unflinchingly. ‘Farewell, Brian,’ said she.
‘Thou hast been a hard and unloving
husband to me. Often, when I would have
clung to thee, thou hast put me aside with
cold and sneering words, and hast shut me out
from that confidence and fair entertainment
which a wife should have. For years thou
hast confined me to this solitude! travelling
abroad thyself, and leaving me here, your
wife only in name, and as yielding meek
obedience to your tyrannous will. Thou


KILDHURJI ’S OAK. 201
hast neither loved, honoured nor cherished
me, and since these two years I have known
that thou hast held me in suspicion. God
alone knows, or ever shall know, whether the
suspicion was just. This is my revenge-—
that I will leave thee in doubt! But hadst
thou been kinder to me, Brian—hadst thou
answered the craving of my overwrought
heart—hadst thou been true to thy duty as
a husband, thou wouldst not have thought
me failing in mine as a wife. But I do not
ask forgiveness: be God judge between us,
which has most wronged the other! ’
‘You have much to say about God,
madam,’ broke in Sir Brian : ‘but my fear is,
your deeds are less heavenly than your
words.’
‘ Look to thy own deeds! for they shall
condemn thee for ever!’ exclaimed Lady
Kildhurm, raising both her hands, one hold-
ing the dagger, and the other the cluster of
acorns, and then letting them droop slowly
towards him. ‘ Thou hast slain a good and
holy man, whose shoe’s latchet thou wast not
worthy to unlace. Evil shall be thy portion
in this world: and if ever thou turnest thy
steps heavenward, may the blood which thou
hast this day shed cause thee to slip and
stumble in the way! ’ ,
Having thus spoken, Lady Kildhurm
retired to her chamber. Sir Brian sat alone
in his high-backed chair by the fire-place, rest-
ing his lean cheek upon his hand, and staring
at the embers. When a servant came to


202 K ILDII URJI ’S OAK.
bring him supper, he gave the man so black
a look as to send him frightened back; and
during the rest of the night, no one ventured
to approach the room. As the hours passed
away, every sound was hushed, except the
heavy thundering of the surf against the
shore, and the whipping of the wind-driven
foam against the windows. Once Sir Brian
fancied he heard an outcry and a sobbing, as
of a child in distress,-—the voice of his little
son ; but by degrees the sobbing died away.
In the early morning, as Sir Brian stood
at the window, he saw the grey sea hurling
itself 7 at the bare coast, and the sea-gulls
skimming and eddying amidst the bitter foam
of the great breakers. The grey walls of
Kildhurm Tower, which stood scarce a
hundred paces from the shore, were hoary
with clinging flakes of froth. Directly oppo-
site the window Where Sir Brian was standing,
on the verge of the low headland, lay a heap
of something that had not been there the
evening before. Was it a mass of sea-wrack,
cast up by the waves during the night? Sir
Brian could not see clearly ; the window-pane
was dim with salt, and his eyes were heavy.
He stealthily left the room, descended the
staircase, and, bareheaded as he was, crossed
the wind-swept breadth of turf that inter-
vened between the tower and the headland.
There lay the body of his wife, face
downwards, with arms outstretched, and
hands that clutched the turf. It was a spot
to which she had often come to sit, and to


KILDHL’RJI ’S OAK. 203
gaze for hours westward across the waves
towards Mona, where she was born. Sir
Brian stood looking down at her, as he had
stood by that other dead body the day before.
He had been the death of them both. At
first, indeed, he did not quite believe that she
was dead. He watched for some movement
of those fingers which clutched so sharply
into the turf, those soft white fingers that
yesterday had been so tremulous. But there
was no tremor in them now ; they were rigid
as iron: the wind that fluttered her gar-
ments could not stir them. Poor little hands!
Perhaps, after all, Sir Brian had not pressed
them so lovingly, or so often as he might
have done. He remembered how, sometimes
when they had touched his hair or his cheek,
he had moodily disregarded their touch, or
had brushed them impatiently away. What
hands would caress him now ? ‘ Hadst thou
not failed in thy duty as a husband;’ and
again: ‘Mayst thou slip and stumble in the
blood which thou hast this day shed!’
Those were words which could never be un~
spoken. And yet Sir Brian waited beside
the body, as if he expected it to arise and
speak to him.
But at length, setting his teeth together,
he laid hold of the body, and placed it face
upwards across his knee. As he did so, the
cause of death was revealed. She had
planted the dagger point upwards in the
earth, and had fallen upon it. Something
else she had plantedthere, though at the time


204. K ILDH URM ’8 0A R'.
Sir Brian did not know it—the acorns from
the fatal oak of Ennerdale; and she had fer-
tilised them with her very heart’s blood.
Some of the servants, who had been
peeping out from the castle windows, aghast
at so grim a spectacle, now made bold to ap-
proach and offer their assistance. Sir Brian,
however, as if he had not seen them, rose,
lifting the corpse in his arms, and stalked in
silence up the ascent to the castle gate,
neither staggering nor pausing by the way.
The servants followed in a group after
him.
When he got to the gate, he was met by
his little son, who had his father’s black hair
and eyes, and his mother’s tremulous indig-
nant mouth. The child’s nurse had in vain
striven to keep him out of the way, and from
a knowledge of what had happened. He
seemed, indeed, to know more about it than
anyone else.
‘My dear mamma is dead!’ quoth the
infant heir of Kildhurm, his cheeks flushing
scarlet and his childish voice vibrating.
‘ You have killed her, you wicked father, and
I will never, never forgive you.’
Sir Brian stopped short, and his teeth
began to chatter.
‘ Take the brat away ! ’ he cried out.
But at the same moment his strength for-
sook him, and he would have fallen on his
own threshold, had not those behind upheld
him, and carried him and the dead woman
into the castle. The stark warrior never


KILDHURM ’S OAK. 205
fully recovered from the effects of this adven-
ture.
CHAPTER IV.
THE OAK BEGINS TO GROW.
THIS is the legend of the planting of Kild-
hurm’s Oak. It has, indeed, been affirmed
that the child’s words were literally true, and
that Lady Kildhurm died actually and not
figuratively by her husband’s hand. But
there is no trustworthy evidence in support
of such a charge, and it may therefore be dis-
credited. The fact remains that father and
son were never reconciled; not because the
latter held to his childish threat, but because
Sir Brian conceived an unconquerable dread
of him, and would never willingly have him
in his presence. All accounts agree in re—
presenting this hitherto fearless man as
having become a victim to superstitious
terrors, and as having lapsed into an alto-
gether morbid state of mind. In his sleep he
was often heard to shriek out unintelligible
words in a choking voice, and sometimes, in
the midst of company, he would have the air
of suddenly being confronted with sights and
sounds to which none but he were sensible.
He would point to the ground with his finger,
it is said, muttering and staring, and occa-
sionally drawing back his feet, as if to avoid


206 KILDHURJI ’S OAK.
treading upon some imaginary horror. This
latter peculiarity was first noticed in him on
the day of his wife’s funeral. All the chief
personages in the neighbourhood had been
invited to the ceremony, and a large con-
course of people had assembled out of curio-
sity. The darksome procession had entered
the churchyard of the Gothic church that
stood in the midst of the village about a mile
from Kildhurm Tower. The coffin was
being carried in beneath the arched portal,
when Sir Brian set his foot on the first of the
seven stone steps which led up thither. All at
once, to the surprise and discomfiture of the
beholders, he halted abruptly, and then gave
back a pace or two. His eyes, meanwhile,
were observed to be rigidly fixed on the
clean and smooth-worn steps 'before him.
Sir Brian slowly extended his arm, with
finger outstretched, and seemed to trace there-
with the course of some sluggishly-moving
thing that crept towards him along the flags,
and which, assuredly, nobody except himself
could perceive. .
‘ Look, look! ’tis running down the steps!
Merciful God! where should so much come
from ?’ he whispered between his chattering
teeth.
Whispered though the words were, they
were caught up by those nearest him, and by
them communicated to others. An awkward
and irresolute pause followed; the funeral
(ortege wavered, and forsook its narrow
regularity, and a group of curious, startled, ~


KILDHURIII’S OAK. 207
and questioning faces grouped themselves
around the knight, who still glared down-
ward, shivering and distraught. At length
the clergyman of the parish, an elderly, stern-
visaged man, made his way through the
press, and laid his hand upon the stricken
man’s shoulder. ‘
‘ Honoured Sir Knight,’ said he, ‘let not
a grief which is most natural, and worthy of
all respect, overcome you at this moment;
for all the people stand amazed, and know
not what to do. Go forward, I entreat you,
into the church, that the last sad rites may be
performed, and the assembly dismissed.’
Thus admonished, Sir Brian pressed
both his hands across his eyes, and made a
.hurried and desperate attempt to reach the
church door. But on the first step he slipped
and fell headlong, shrieking out in a voice
that rang over the crowd and penetrated to
the coffin-bearers within the aisle—
‘ I am cursed! Her blood is upon me!’
It was an ugly and an ominous spectacle.
No further attempt was made to induce him
to enter the church, nor is it likely that any
such attempt would have succeeded. From
his behaviour. and from sundry obscure sen-
tences that fell from him, it was inferred that
the arched doorway, to his apprehension, was
sentinelled by some grisly phantom that
waived him back. And it is worthy of note
that from this time to the very end of his life, he
never made his way into the house of God, or
even would accept the ministrations of any


208 KILDHURM’S OAK.
member of the sacred profession. To strive
to bring his mind into a religious frame was
tantamount to throwing him into one of his
fits of superstitious delirium; so that those
last words of his wife, on parting with him
for ever—‘ May the blood which thou hast
this day shed cause thee to slip and stumble
in thy way heavenward!’_would seem to
have found a sufficiently ample fulfilment.
The fact that he never saw his wife
buried, by the way, may account for the
notion which constantly possessed him that
she was still in some shape or other (a very
appalling one, seemingly) above ground. In
other words, the man was haunted for the
remainder of his days by a spectre; possibly
by more than one: but that is a point not
easy to determine, since he was the only
person to whom it or they were visible. He
contracted a habit of betaking himself at
certain hours to that particular point on the
cliff where the body of Lady Kildhurm had
been found: being thereto impelled, we may
suppose, not because the place was agreeable
to him-for it is probable that no place in the
world was less so—but by that perverse
horror which is known by the name of fasci-
nation, and which drives the fluttering sparrow
into the open jaws of the snake. Having
regard to all these eccentricities of his, it is not
surprising that he came to be considered as a
man accursed_incapable of being of use to
any human creature, and therefore to be
avoided of all. It must be recollected that


KILDHURJI’S OAK. 209
this was the beginning of the seventeenth
century; nobody allows himself to fall into
delusions nowadays. And it will be easy
for the philosophers of our enlightened age
to account for Sir Brian’s mania, and his
notions about phantoms, as a result of that
astounding buffet on the head which he
received from him of the Red Beard; a
buffet rude enough, certainly, to have dis-
organised brains stronger than those of the
Knight of Kildhurm. There remains, it is
true, the question why such a cause should
be followed by such an effect; but to insist
upon this would be, perhaps, but the refine—
ment of idle curiosity.
The violent extinction of these two lives
——of Lady Kildhurm’s and of him of the Red
Beard—was suffered to pass without legal
inquiries, or at all events without legal penal~
ties. The north of England, at this period,
was not in a particularly peaceful or settled
condition ; and, what is more to the purpose,
the red-bearded man was known to have
been ardently attached to the Roman
Catholic religion ; and he was doubtless sus-
pected by some of having affiliations with
the authors of the Gunpowder Treason.
No one, of course, who set any value upon
the security of his own vertebra, would care
to espouse the cause of a person of whom
such things could be said, especially after
taking into consideration the fact that the
person was no longer alive. As for Lady
Kildhurm, if it were true that she had carried
P


210 KILDHURJI ’S OAK.
on an intrigue with a traitor and conspirator,
what more probable and easy to be believed
than that she should have sympathised with
his political and religious views into the
bargain? For when women give them-
selves up to love, it is their happiness to give
themselves without reservation of soul, mind,
or body. Let Lady Kildhurm and her
lover, therefore, if they needed avenging,
manage the matter for themselves, and in
their own way.
And, surely, no one who was present at
the' deathbed of Sir Brian Kildhurm would
have ventured to affirm that the blood of
those two was unavenged. But over that
grim scene let a veil be drawn. After all,
Lady Kildhurm may have been innocent;
and if Sir Brian found this out when it was
too late, his fate was in no respect an enviable
one.
I
CHAPTER V.
THE PROPHECY OF THE OAK.
RALPH KILDHURM—tllat bold-spoken young_
ster who bearded his father at the castle gate
--had a grand career. His life covers the
period of the Puritan Revolution. He was a
devoted adherent of King Charles; probably
not more from personal sympathy with that
iunhappy monarch, than because he knew


KILDHURM’S OAK. 211
that the Stuarts’ cause would have been his
mother’s, had she been alive. He met his
death valiantly at Naseby. But he had
married two years previously, and two sons
came of the union, one of whom was born
six months after his decease. This younger
son was destined to be his successor.
Our affair being the story of the Oak,
and of the family mainly in so far as it
was involved therewith, I can give few
further details about Sir _Ralph. He was
the first baronet of his line. Ralph, it is
said, had always taken great interest in
the growth of the infant oak tree; as
was no wonder, considering that it had
been planted by his mother under circum-
stances so darkly impressive. At the time
of Sir Brian’s death, the tree had grown
to about the height of a man: it flourished
with strange vigour. The story of its origin
was not unknown in the neighbourhood, and
many quaint and fantastic sayings and
prophecies concerning it were rife among the
people of the neighbourhood. Its rapid
growth was plausibly ascribed to the blood
which had drenched the soil at its planting;
and it was affirmed that this blood had been
absorbed into the life and substance of the
tree, imparting to it a kind of semihuman
vitality; so that, although in outward sem-
blance an oak, much like other oaks, it was
in reality a species of oak man—an offspring,
in fact, of the valiant race of Kildhurm, born
of the alleged unhallowed union between
P2


212 KILDHURIII’S OAK.
Lady Kildhurm and the Red-Bearded one.
Therefore its destiny was bound up with
that of the Kildhurms; but whether for weal
or for woe was a question as to which dif-
ferent people held different opinions. Some
said that, since from evil no good could come,
and since Lady Kildhurm had died in sin,
the tree that sprang from her blood was an
accursed growth instinct with a demon of
violence and mischief, and sure, sooner or
later, to work harm upon its human kindred.
Others, on the contrary, maintained that the
charge against Ursula was-in its blacker
construction, at all events—a calumny; that
he of the Red Beard had been a priest or
a monk in disguise, and that the intrigue in
which the two were concerned had for its
object nothing worse than the furtherance of
some religious scheme. Consequently, urged
these charitably-disposed persons, the blood
which fertilised the planted acorns was the
blood of innocence wrongfully accused ; and
might be expected to carry with it a blessing
rather than a curse.
But hereupon the first party would reply
that, whether Ursula were guilty or innocent
of the crime charged against her, there could
at all events be little doubt that she had
taken her own life, and no doubt at all that
the latest words she spoke to her husband
were a deliberate curse. Now, it was a fact
established upon Scriptural authority that the
evil effect of a curse descends from father to
son even unto the third and fourth genera-


KILDHURM ’S OAK. .2 X 3
tion—and this, whether the person who
pronounced the anathema desired such an
amplification of it or not: curses being like
demons, which, once evoked, are not easily
laid again. Upon the whole, therefore, it
seemed probable that the Kildhurms would
fare badly with their oak; yet it appears
never to have occurred to anybody to try the
effect of rooting the oak up, or cutting it
down. But very likely nobody would have
been found venturesome enough to act upon
the idea, even had it been suggested. Such
a proceeding, under the circumstances, would
have been regarded as little better than
murder, if not a good deal worse: for
although Dante could scarcely have been
familiar to the Kildhurm family, and still less
to the peasantry of that epoch, a belief was
widely prevalent that if an axe should be laid
to the tree, or so much as a twig torn off it,
blood would flow from the wound. And to
such a pitch was this grotesque notion
carried, that during many years the dead
leaves and fallen boughs of the oak are said
to have been religiously buried, as if they
had been veritable human remains. I do
not care to vouch for the truth of this legend,
but that it should have existed even as a
legend is significant of the serious light in
which the whole matter was viewed.
It was during Sir Ralph’s lifetime that
some local Mother Shipton produced the
famous prophetic verses which were ever
thenceforward quoted when the Oak and its


214 K ILDH UR!!! ’S OAR'.
attributes came up for discussion ; and as to
the true meaning of which a great deal of
speculation and dispute were rife. What
may have been the merits of the question
can be inferred only from the sequel; but
meanwhile it is certain that the prophecy
itself so far appealed to the pride or interests
of the Kildhurm family, that they caused it
to be engraved Upon a silver disc, and hung
round the bole of the tree by a silver chain.
There is no evidence of this chain and the
disc ever having been removed; and the
story goes that they were gradually over-
grown by the substance of the tree ; until, by
the time the prophecies were ripe for fulfil-
ment, the silver record of them had dis—
appeared. The verses, according to the
most trustworthy accounts, ran somewhat as
follows :—
Here stand I, Kildhurm's Oak,
Ne’er to fall by age or stroke ;
E’er Two Hundred Years be run,
Death of three and wealth of one.
At the period to which these verses are
assigned, the Kildhurms had no lack of
worldly goods, so that the concluding words
might have seemed uncalled for. But they
did not long continue to lack significance.
For, after King Charles had suffered on the
block, and the Protector ruled over England,
those Englishmen who had favoured the
dead King’s cause were bound to suffer both
in life and lands. Sir Ralph, as we know,
had already paid the former penalty; but his


KILDHURM’S OAK. 2r;
surviving relatives were constrained to pay
the other. In addition to a fine in money of
many thousands of pounds they were de-
prived of by far the larger part of their landed
possessions; nothing, indeed, was left to them
but half a dozen acres of barren land, and the
Tower of Kildhurm itself. Of course it was
a cause for thankfulness that the Tower was
not taken too ; it was not every Royalist, in
those days, who could boast of owning a roof
to cover him. Probably, on the other hand,
the Kildhurms could have got on better,
from a practical point of view, with a little
less stone and mortar and a little more gold.
All but two or three of the servants had to
be dismissed ; the domestic expenses had to
be cut down to the very lowest figure; and
there was the once rich and powerful family,
now reduced to half _a dozen persons all told,
living in one corner of a castle capable of
accommodating fifty- guests with their retinues.
It was a fine place, no doubt, for children to
play at hide-and-seek in ; but a sad place for
the elders who remembered the glories of the
ast.
P The Oak had now completed its first half-
century, and was already a noble and stalwart
tree. It was an object of almost religious care
on the part of the family: they cherished for
it the same gloomy and perverse sort of pride
that other old families do for the exploits of
some godless ancestor, or for some hereditary
vice or physical defect in themselves. A low
railing had been built round the tree to pro-


216 KILDHURIII’S OAK.
tect it from careless and irreverent approach,
and the little space of turf therein enclosed
was kept scrupulously free from rubbish.
The tree, however, possessed so much vigour
of its own, that it would have flourished
under the most adverse circumstances. It
bade fair, if opportunity were given it, to
become one of the great oaks of England.
The trunk was modelled on lines of exceed-
ing strength ; the lower main branches, three
in number, diverged from one another at
equal angles, and extended their level lengths
so far that the seaward limb overhung the
verge of the cliff. The foliage was thick and
dark, and the leaves, in autumn, if seen
against the light, showed a deep tinge of
crimson. Rain could not penetrate through
their manifold living roof: and the shadow
they cast upon the ground beneath is said to
have been so sombre and so cold, that even in
the greatest heat of summer it would strike a
subtle chill through the blood. Those per-
sons who had the temerity to take a nap in
this shadow, or even to stand in it too long,
were visited by appalling dreams, and gener-
ally got an ague which lasted them the rest
of their lives. It should be noted, however,
that these untoward effects did not occur in
the case of the members of the Kildhurm
family who, on the contrary, were fond of
lingering about the tree: seeming to be
sensible of a brotherhood with it, and to
be agreeably affected by that which others
found hurtful: insomuch that the chil-


KI LDH URJI ’S OAK. 2 I 7
dren were brought to lie in their cradles
beneath the boughs; and as they grew to—
wards youth, their favourite playground was
there.
In winter, when the tree stood forth
stripped of its leaves, the peculiarities of its
conformation were disclosed. Above the three
main boughs already described, the trunk
rose nearly erect for a considerable height,
and put forth two thick limbs, which, after
growing outwards nearly horizontally for half
their length, thence ascended perpendicularly
with a sudden crook like an elbow; and
finally divided and spread abroad in smaller
claw-like branches. The effect, therefore, as
viewed from a suitable distance, was as if a
gigantic but distorted human figure were
standing upon the lower trunk as a pedestal,
and were uplifting above its head two long
and rigid arms. Were those arms raised in
defiance of heaven, or in supplication to it?
Did they threaten mankind below, or scatter
benisons upon them ? , These may have been
disputed questions among the people of that
age. Doubtless the popular imagination,
stimulated as it must have been by the many
wild stories current about the Oak, had much
to do with giving the semblance of reality to
these human-like attributes; and the Kild-
hurms themselves, having little except the
tree left to put them in mind of their former
dignities, would naturally do what they con-
scientiously could towards heightening the
mystery and the interest which surrounded it.


2t8 KILDIIUIJJI’S OAK.
Nevertheless, after all proper and due allow-
ances and deductions have been made, much
still remains which, to say the least of it, is
singular and suggestive, and which in an era
unenlightened by electricity and evolution
may well have seemed portentous.
CHAPTER VI
THE UTTERANCE OF THE OAK.
THE coast of Cumberland, at the point where
the Oak stood, is not more than twenty feet
above ordinary high-water mark, and it
opposes a face of dull white rock to the waves.
But in storms, the Irish Sea drives down
upon the shore with tremendous force, and
the great rollers sometimes rise to the height
of the natural parapet, and the gale bears
their crest across it. The growth of an ordi-
nary tree might have been stunted by such
oceanic familiarities; but the Oak of Kildhurm,
so far from shrinking from them, seemed to
find refreshment therein, and never failed to
greetthe rough play of the storm-inspired
waves with out-stretched arms of invitation,
roaring back an answer to the hoarse clamour
of the surf, and tossing its branches gleefully
in the shriek of the blast. Occasionally it
would send a cluster of leaves whirling out
to sea, like a message to the spirit of the
tempest: and often in return, wreaths of dark
I


KILDHURIVI’S OAK. 2I9
seaweed were found suspended on its limbs--
tokens of the ocean’s savage amity. And
again, when the winds were down and the
shining waters came lapping liquidly under
the crag, the swarthy Oak was fain to bend
its boughs over the verge, and see its dark-
some image in the mirror of the tide, and, one
might fancy, silently communicate some mys-
terious secret, over which the smiling surface
would close for ever, with only a gurgling
whisper of acknowledgment, which no human
ear could understand. And at night, when
the moon was up, the sea would heave and
break slowly in long complaining murmurs
against the shore, as though calling to some
friend that tarried late. And then, to those
who looked from the castle windows, their
eyes straining through the deceptive dusk,
the solid Oak would seem to melt slowly
away like a shadow, and so to vanish into the
yearning bosom of the deep, leaving naught
save its gloomy memory behind it. Yet, in
the morning, when the yellow sun stood on
the bare edge of the inland hill, the Oak of
Kildhurm still towered in its place, staunch
and immovable ; with nothing about it to tell
of its nocturnal ramble, unless it were the
long shadow trailing athwart the glistening
beach. The sea and the oak knew how to
keep each other’s' secrets.
One October day in the midst of the
seventeenth century, Lady Kildhurm, in her
widow’s weeds, walked slowly out of the
castle gate, leading her two little sons each


220 KILDHURM’S OAK.
by the hand. The elder, named Maurice,
was six years old, his brother Rupert about
five; and this was Maurice’s birthday. As
the heir of Kildhurm, all his birthdays were
of course of particular importance; and,
although he did not get quite so many testi—
monials of feudal devotion from the neigh-
bouring peasants and farmers as his grand-
father at the same age had been accustomed
to expect, nevertheless he had spent a
pleasant forenoon receiving the gifts and
congratulations of an adoring household. It
was now afternoon, the air clear and undis-
turbed by any wind, and sea and land slept
in soft tints beneath the slanting sun-rays.
Not a ripple disturbed the pale blue surface ;
nor was any movement perceptible among the
dark leaves of the mysterious tree. The
mother and children proceeded to the cliff,
and, opening the gate of the little enclosure,
they seated themselves beneath the shadow
of the Oak. Far away in the offing a vessel
lay becalmed, her dim white sails vainly
stretched out for a breeze; near at hand a
flock of fitfully-screaming gulls swooped and
hovered over some floating quarry. A ban-
ner, hoisted on the Tower in honour of little
Sir Maurice’s sixth anniversary, hung in
motionless folds about its staff. All nature
seemed to be at pause, dreaming of the past,
or, it might be, hushing herself in anticipation
of some event to come.
Lady Kildhurm sat in a low rustic chair,
with her hand beneath her chin, and her eyes


KIL DH UR!!! ’S OAK. 22 1
fixed thoughtfully on the banner drooping on
its staff. The children were playing on the
mossy green turf at her feet. By and by Sir
Maurice said to his brother, in reference to a
small toy sword which had been absorbing
their attention :
‘ Thou mayst take it awhile, brother; but
thou must say it is mine and not thine, else I
will take it back.’
Rupert received the sword in silence, and
then said :
‘ Buzzer Mau’ice, dis s’ord is mine !’
‘ Now I shall take it back!’
‘ No ! ’
‘Yes ; and I am the eldest; and the
sword and everything belong to me, and
nothing to you. You shall not have it !’
‘No! I de eldest!’
‘ Rupert! that was a—not true! ’
‘ Well, I keep de s’oard !’ returned the
unabashed junior, dwelling upon the noun at
exasperating length.
Maurice made a snatch at the disputed
weapon ; Rupert drew it quickly beyond his
reach: then the two little fellows faced each
other with defiance in their port ; and abattle
seemed imminent.
But all of a sudden a low and deep sound
began to make itself heard. It was like a
whisper, hoarse, yet roughly melodious,
issuing out of the very heart of the else
omnipresent stillness; and gradually gather-
ing volume, until it roared on the ear like the
far-heard music of a cataract. Lady Kild~


222 KILDIIURJI’S 0 I K.
hurm, roused from the reverie into which she
had fallen, lifted her head and listened in
surprise, and the children postponed their
fisticuffs and listened also. What caused the
- sound? No wind had arisen; there hung
the banner, idle as before; yonder stretched
the sea in glassy immobility. A dark cloud,
however, had crept before the face of the sun ;
and as the mother raised her glance, she
perceived a strange commotion in the Oak.
Its huge limbs swayed to and fro, and the
thickly clustered leaves hurtled hither and
thither, as though under the stress of amighty
breeze. It was from the Oak, then, and
only from the Oak, that the multitudinous
murmur came. Amidst the autumnal hush
of that peaceful afternoon it was uplifting
its voice in a many-toned tumult of har-
mony; and as the sound gained reson-
ance, it seemed to the now pale-checked
woman as if a voice, indistinct at first, was
gradually shaping itself to intelligible utter-
ance, approaching through numberless repe-
titions nearer and nearer to articulate
speech.
Yes, after fifty years, the genius of the
tree was full-born and awake, and striving -
with ten thousand tongues to give expression
to his will. As the cry rose higher, he shook
his swarthy arms towards the sea; and there-
upon a long tidal wave, which had noiselessly
been advancing shore-wards across the
smooth expanse, burst in mellow thunder
along the resounding shore. Slowly the


KILDHURM’S 0.41;. 223
echoes died away, and slowly, likewise, the
wild voice of the tree subsided and was still.
Everywhere the calm of the October day
reigned as before—everywhere save in the
mother’s frightened heart. The cloud, more-
over, still lingered before the sun.
Little Sir Maurice, who had observed
this portent attentively throughout, now took
hold of his mother’s dress and looked up in
her face.
‘ Didst thou hear, mother ?’ he demanded.
‘The Oak said“ Maurice! Maurice! Maurice!”
over and over again. Why does it call me?
Does it want me to go anywhere, or do any-
thing? Tell me, mother!’
‘ Hush, child, thou talkest foolishly! can
trees talk ?’ returned Lady Kildhurm, trying
to hide her uneasiness beneath an assumed
asperity. The next moment she bent down
and kissed the boy with yearning tenderness
on cheek and brow. Then she glanced
fearfully at the unmoving masses of sombre
foliage.
‘ Pray God he be not called from me!’
she said half aloud. ‘But how strange a
thing! Pooh! it was my fancy !-nay, for
he heard it also !-and then that great wave,
like an answer from the sea! But—pshaw!
I am more foolish than my children. It was
but some sudden wind-gust. I will think of
it no more. Maurice, and thou, Rupert, come
now into the house. The air is not so warm
as an hour since.’
Rupert, it may be remarked, had kept


224 KILDHURAI’S 0AA".
stubborn hold of the sword all through this
adventure, in which, for the rest, he had seen
nothing at all remarkable. But he was a
politic as well as an obstinate baby, and he
now executed a diplomatic stroke which
would have done credit to an older head.
‘See what I dot, buzzer,’ he said, as he
and Maurice followed their mother towards
the castle. He held up a cluster of acorns.
‘ Oh, how did you get them ?’
‘ Dey fall on ze g’ound; dey very pooty !’
‘I wish I had found some. I have
always wanted some.’
‘I give ’ou dese, if ’ou say I keep de
s’oard,’ said the diplomatist, hazarding his
stroke.
‘Oh, have you the sword still? I had
forgot it. ‘Well, I cannot give you the sword,
because mother gave it to me; but if you
will give me the acorns, you shall keep the
sword till I want it.’
‘Well, I keep de s’oard,’ said Rupert, as
he handed over the acorns. And it is to be
feared that he added a mental rider to the
effect that he would himself be the judge of
the time when his brother should want it
back again.
Lady Kildhurm, turning at the castle gate,
saw the acorns in Maurice’s grasp.
‘ Thou shouldst not have brought them,
son,’ she said nervously. ‘ Thou knowest we
do not use to touch the fruit of the Oak.
Run back and pht them again where thou
didst find them.’


KILDHURAI ’S OAK. 22 5
‘ No, mother,’ said Maurice, ‘let me keep
them. This is my birthday, and the Oak
has given me these for a birthday gift.’
‘ Yes, muzzer, he keep ’em,’ put in Rupert
who perceived that, if his brother was de-
prived of the acorns, his own possession of
the sword might be thereby endangered.
And the mother yielded, having no very
valid arguments on her side, and being,
besides, unwilling to cross the little heir on
his birthday.
It was destiny, no doubt—destiny that
would have fulfilled itself in some other way,
if not in this. No outcry of child or demon
disturbed Lady Kildhurm that night, after
she had kissed the two boys in their cribs
and bidden them farewell. Her sleep was
peaceful and dreamless; but Maurice slept
more soundly yet, and never woke in this
world. It was afterwards discovered that he
had taken his acorns to bed with him; and
the inference was that he must have eaten
one of them, and that it had poisoned him.
At all events, the Oak of Kildhurm had
claimed and taken its first victim; . and
Master Rupert was free to keep the sword.


226 KILDHURM’S OAK.
CHAPTER VII.
THE OAK BIDES ITS TIME.
WHEN this strange story, with suitable exag-
gerations, got abroad, it added greatly to the
Oak’s reputation. The notion that it was to
be a sort of Banshee of the Kildhurms,
speaking with miraculous voice before the
death of any member of the family—this
notion had great vogue for a time; but the
Oak itself declined to countenance it. Its
soul, if it had one, was of a rank superior to
that of Banshees, and would not be classed
with them. Several members of the family
died in due season, and in an ordinary
manner, without any sign from the Oak.
The tree, for a great number of years
behaved in all respects as another tree might
have done. But it never could divest itself
of its sinister reputation. Not uneducated
people merely, but often those who pretend
to some degree of culture, betray a disposi-
tion to put faith in a thing precisely because
they are unable to explain it. Possibly some
leaven of the inexplicable may be indispen-
sable to a healthy mental organisation. It is
inexplicable, so far as our knowledge of
natural laws extends, that the leaves and
branches of the Oak should have swayed
and rustled independently of the action
of the wind. On the other hand, if we


KILDHURM’S OAK. 227
assign a conscious and self-acting spirit to
man, what shall prevent us from assigning
the like to a tree ? Before giving a too cre-
dulous ear to those who would persuade us
that this or that is incredible because it is a
miracle, it were prudent to require them to
put their finger on something that is not mi-
racul'ous.
Let the reader, therefore. form his own
conclusions as to the special miraculousness
of Kildhurm’s Oak: noting, meanwhile, that
little Rupert, the stubborn and wily, grew up
to be a courtier; and, while still no more
than a boy in his teens, was able on one
or two occasions to render some important
service to the second Charles, who was then
awaiting with what patience he might the de-
mise of the terrible Protector. On Charles’s
accession to power, Rupert was attached to
his court, and, if all accounts be true, he
approved himself a congenial abettor of the
merry monarch’s frolics. It was here that he
made the acquaintance of John, Earl of
Rochester, and the connection benefited him
little either in health or reputation. Nor
did its ill effects stop there; for having, in
the year 1678, invited a party of dissolute
young nobles, of whom Rochester was one,
to spend a few days at Kildhurm Tower, a
most stupendous orgy forthwith began, which
lasted nearly a week, and ended in the castle
taking fire. There was no means of putting
out the flames; and within six hours the
only part of the building that remained habit-
Q 2


K [LDH URIII’S 0A K. 229
unconventional genius, of uneven temper and
behaviour. His mind, in some of its aspects,
was amazingly lucid and sane; but in others
it seemed to forsake all rationality and
clearness, and immersed itself in clouds of
mysticism and paradox. The family Oak
had, as might readily be supposed, a pro-
found attraction for him. He spent much
time in studying it, and posterity is indebted
to him for having gathered together all avail-
able scraps of its past history, both actual and
apocryphal. Among other discoveries he
made the somewhat curious one that the
Oak differed from all known species of the
Quercus family, and was of another variety
even than the Oak of Ennerdale, whereof
tradition made it an off-shoot. Sir Norman
boldly accounted for this difference by ascrib—
ing it to the strain of human blood which
flowed in the tree’s veins. Perhaps he may
have known for a fact that a fluid which
was not vegetable sap coursed beneath the
rough bark; and, indeed, there is a rumour
that he once dared to lop off one of the lesser
branches, doubtless with a view to putting
this questionable ichor to a chemical test.
Whether the tree forgave the liberty in con-
sideration of the importance of the result to
be obtained, is open to question ; though pro-
bably any being directly connected, as the Oak
was, with the operations of destiny, would be
superior to petty emotions of revenge or par-
tiality. It cannot be denied, on the other
hand, that Sir Norman’s connection with the


2 30 K ILDH URIII ’S OAK.

Oak was foreordained to end disastrously for
him.
It is not to be expected of a man such as
Sir Norman is described as being, that he
would be socially inclined; and yet it is
probable that his poverty was at least as
much the cause of his seclusion, as was any
innate aversion from, or quarrel with, his
kind. Misanthropist or not, he married,
when about thirty years of age, a daughter of
Bishop Ferrand. The young lady might
have made a more brilliant match ; Kildhurm
was quoted in the matrimonial market at by
no means a high figure: we are forced to
the conclusion that she must have fallen in
love. She was no ordinary woman. In point
of mental cultivation she was her husband’s
equal. As regards personal appearance, her
features were rather too strongly marked to
fulfil the ideal of feminine beauty; but her
figure was stately and tall, her bearing digni-
fied and graceful. She was ardently attached
to her husband, and devoted herself in every
way she could to his happiness and COmel‘I.
Not only did she square his worldly cash
accounts for him, she assisted him also in his
literary and philosophical labours; she even
—so it is hinted-aided him in certain un-
orthodox efforts of his to pierce through the
natural veil of things, and to explore secrets
which are conditionally withheld from common
approach. This may mean that Sir Norman
had in some degree pretended to anticipate
the exploits of the future Cagliostro; and


KILDHURM ’S OAK. 23 1
used his lady as a passive but effective lens,
to apprise him of matters which he was
impotent to master by his own unfettered
eyesight. '
Be this as it may, there is reason for
supposing that the Lady Kildhurm of this
epoch was a person of exceptional tempera-
ment; that her manifestations were not
always entirely comprehensible; that, in
short, despite her cleverness, there was a
screw loose in her somewhere. Sir Norman
and she were not unfrequently referred to in
critical social circles of the vicinity as the Crazy
couple, the mad Kildhurms. They bore their
reputation philosophically, and were very fond
of each other. A year or two after their mar-
riage a son was born to them, and they ap-
proved themselves affectionate parents. But
they were almost intolerably poor; and when
poverty amounts to an inadequacy of means
to ends, it becomes irksome. It was highly
desirable that their financial resources should
be increased. I cannot say whether Sir
Norman, in addition to his other investiga-
tions, made any search for the philosopher’s
stone; but there can be no doubt that he
stood greatly in need of some such implement.
He was angry with fortune ; he conceived that
wealth was his due, not on account of his
station merely, but by reason of personal
merit. From a state of mind such as this-
from a keen perception of the injustice of
fortune—it is not always a long step to
attempting to force fortune’s hand. The


'23: KILDHURM’S OAK.
Baronet’s philosophical studies may have so
expanded his views as to enable him to
consider the feasibility of acquiring money
by means divergent from what is vulgarly
called morality. He was a slight-built,
nervous man, of a bilious temperament, with
the features and peculiarities of his race
strongly pronounced in him ; but he possessed
in addition—what most of his ancestors did
not——a soft and winning tone of voice, and a
tongue which could be persuasive when he
chose to make it so. Few women could
withhold their confidence from him, if he set
himself to gain it: and not a few men had
acknowledged the pleasant cajolery which he
could employ on occasion.
Soon after the baby was born, a widowed
sister of Lady Kildhurm’s—Mrs. Harriet
Chepstow by name—came to the Tower and
took up her abode there. Mr. Chepstow,
deceased, was a younger son of a wealthy
family, and had obtained some share of the
property; consequently, there is every reason
to suppose that the widow did not eat her
host’s bread without paying him a fair
equivalent for it. The subject is a delicate
one, but it is necessary that we should touch
upon it. There was nothing in the affair to
cause Sir Norman any mortification. The
widow needed a home, and he needed a few
pounds a week; it was a fair exchange.
Nevertheless, the Baronet was, in his own
way, a very proud man, and it is easily con-
ceivable that he did not enjoy the syectacle


KILDHURJI’S OAK 233
MWugrnm~v --qw_ _ A
of the descendant of his forefathers enacting
the 1'076 of a lodging-house keeper ; and that
his desire to find the philosopher’s stone, or
some equivalent for it, should grow more
than ever urgent. Lady Kildhurm sym-
pathised with him, and tried, no doubt, to
quiet and console him. She liked poverty
no better than he did; but she was not
rebellious at heart, like him, and still less was
she capable of entertaining the unorthodox
views as to moral responsibility which have
been above alluded to. Sir Norman felt
this, and had the good sense, or the pre-
caution, never to attempt to argue such
hazardous questions with her. A man must
become a very bad man indeed who does not
like to see his wife more honourable and
more virtuous than he is himself. Let it not
be inferred from this remark that Sir Nor-
man had contemplated any definite criminal
act. All that he had done thus far—and
thousands of guiltless men have done as
much—was to ask himself whether circum-
stances might not make some wrongs more
justifiable than certain rights. At that point,
or very little beyond it, he paused: circum-
stance and opportunity might carry the matter
further, or might let it stand where it was.
There was no telling.
..z~;tn€‘


234 KILDHLRM’S OAK.
CHAPTER VIII.
A HATFUL OF DIAMONDS.
MRS. CI-IEPSTOW, unlike most newly made
widows, had little or nothing to say about
her late husband ; she was much more com-
municative concerning a redoubtable cousin
of hers, a military gentleman, who had
latterly been on service in India. Nothing
had been heard of Colonel Banyon for up-
wards of a year, and Mrs. Chepstow began
to express fears regarding his safety. She
was a comfortable, round-bodied, fresh-faced
woman, easily moved to tears or to laughter ;
and it would have been evident, even had
she more‘striven to conceal it than she did,
that if her valiant kinsman would only return
home, and avail himself of his chances, he
might have one of the most admirable and
affectionate wives in the world. The
Colonel, as she described him, was a charm-
ingly gallant and romantic fellow, much
addicted to harebrained adventures and
clashing escapades; delightfully fortunate,
moreover, and at the same time contemptuous
of fortune. His way through the world was
always from good to better, from bright to
brilliant; and since he was as generous as he
was lucky, he was altogether just the sort of
person one would like to be acquainted with.
‘ we were very fond of each other, and I


KILDHURM’S OAK. 23;
don’t mind saying it to you, sister,’ the widow
observed to Lady Kildhurm, on more than
one occasion. ‘We seemed to get on to-
gether so well, if you know’ what I mean.
And I was very sad to have him go to the
Indies, so soon after my husband died, too.
And I remember, the day he went away, he
promised he’d bring me back his hat full of
diamonds.’
‘A hatful of diamonds?’ repeated Sir
Norman, who had come into the room with-
out being observed by Mrs. Chepstow, and
had overheard her last sentence.
‘Oh, Sir Norman. how you startled me.
Yes, indeed, his whole hat full; and he has
a good-sized head, too, I assure you.’
‘How did he expect to come by the
diamonds ? ’ '
‘Oh, from these Indian idols, as he
called ’em. He says they're covered with
’em. Idols, I suppose you know, Rebecca,’
she continued, turning to Lady Kildhurm, ‘I
suppose you know they’reakind of magistrate
they have over there: so I understood from
the Colonel. And he said they sometimes
had diamonds in place of eyes; butI think
,. he was only jesting then. And he said he
should loot ’em—that was one of his words
he was always using—as he had the right
to do, because England was at war with the
Indies, and then, besides, idols are always
the enemies of Christians. But I should
think it would be more Christianlike for us to
convert ’em than to loot ’em ; and I mean to


2 36 KILDHURM’S OAK.
tell the Colonel so, if ever I meet him again.
Heigho! poor fellow! I hope he’s not dead.
If he is, I should never forgive myself, for I
should always be thinking it was in getting
me the diamonds that he lost his life. And
he was always too venturesome-and having
made a promise, he would be sure to try and
keep it; so I fear all the idols may have got
together and killed him. And oh! I had a
dream last night ; I dreamt I saw him floating
in the sea over the cliff there, near the Oak,
and he had a place crushed in on his head.
I hope it won’t come true! It isn’t worth
losing one’s life for, Rebecca, is it ?’
Lady Kildhurm, during this conversation,
if conversation it could be termed, had been
mending a hole in one of her little son’s
stockings; and the child himself was sitting
on her knee, his attention divided between
his own bare toes and the movement of his
mother’s darning-needle.
‘What isn't worth losing one’s life for,
my dear?’ she asked.
‘ A hatful of diamonds,’ answered the
widow.
‘ A hatful of diamonds ?—No ! ’ said Lady
Kildhurm, bending to kiss her son’s cheek,
and thinking, perhaps, how many lives and
how many diamonds into the bargain she
would be ready to sacrifice for his sake.
‘ A hatful of diamonds ?-I don’t know ! ’
murmured Sir Norman, glancing meditatively
out of window, where the Oak stood dark
against the afternoon sea of tender purple grey.


K I LDH URJI ’S OAK. 237
Presently afterwards he left the room and
the Tower, and walked slowly down to the
cliff. He sat himself down beneath the Oak,
and, with his head thrown back, gazed up
into its depths. Very gloomy it was, and very
still; not a leaf stirred upon its twig. But
after a long time, an acorn fell, and smote
him smartly on the forehead. This broke
his reverie ; he rose, and laid his hand upon
the ponderous bole of the tree, as upon the
shoulder of a friend.
‘ Come, old demon!’ he said, half aloud,
‘ I have waited long enough : it is time some-
thing should happen. Awake, and do your
best, or your worst ; the prophecy is ripe for
fulfilment. “ Death of three and wealth of
one!” If I be not the one, ’tis very sure I
shall be of the three, and that speedily!
Come—promise me a hatful of diamonds! or
even a handful.’
The tree made no sign: it only seemed
to become gloomier than ever. Sir Norman
emitted a long tremulous sigh.
‘It is all folly!’ he said dejectedly and
with bitterness. ‘Why could I not go to
India and win diamonds for myself? Much
good my calculations and my horoscopes and
my hopes and fears have done me ! A man
may rob in India and be called a hero for it :
why am I in England, where robbery is
hanging? Here have I stayed, as if I were
a rooted tree myself, and have gathered to-
gether the legends about this dumb old Oak,
and pondered over them, and believed in


KILDH Usz ’S OAK. 239
while all the evening round about was still as
death. Sir Norman stood there in a mood
of mingled awe and exultation. He was be-
holding what no other living eye had beheld :
what none living besides himself, perhaps,
had ever dared believe in. The miracle of a
century ago was true again to-day. The
demon was awake once more and was
training his myriad tongues to speech. Sir
Norman listened, and his ears were filled with
a sound that was, and yet was not, articulate
utterance. It spoke to his thought; but then
his thought laid hold of it and seemed to be
itself the speaker, or at least the shaper, of
the word. And when the stormy voice was
at its loudest, suddenly it sank into broken
whispers and sighings, and soon was alto-
gether hushed. The message had been
given. What that message was, Sir Norman
only could know.
The adventure had left him excited and
tremulous, and for several minutes after he
was as one overawed and distraught. By
degrees, however, his mind began to recover
from the first poignancy of the' impression
that had been made upon it; and he ques-
tioned with himself whether the occurrence
had really been as miraculous ,as at the
moment it had appeared to be ?—whether
his own imagination, in combination with
certain natural causes, had not been answer-
able for at least the greater part of it? But
this was only the instinctive effort of the
amazed reason to deliver itself from the


24o KILDHURJI’S OAK.
thraldom of the inexplicable. Further and
quieter consideration showed the Baronet
that he could not have been mistaken; and
that there was no alternative between regard-
ing himself as utterly insane, and acknow-
ledging the miracle of the Oak. He preferred
the latter horn of the dilemma. This night,
then, was to be a momentous one for him
and for his fortunes. Sir Norman issued
forth from beneath the shadow of the Oak,
and looked westward. It was just past sun-
set. He strolled across the breadth of lawn
towards the Tower. On passing round to
the outer gate, he was surprised to see a
horse standing there, saddled and bridled,
and bearing evidences of having made a long
journey. a
He called out to the gardener, as a bent old
pauper was entitled who pottered about the
grounds for a certain number of ineffective
hours eVery day, and asked him where the
horse came from. The gardener replied that
a few minutes previous a gentleman had
ridden up to the gate, dismounted, and
having thrown his rein over the gate-post,
had gone into the house. He had seemed
to be in a great hurry.
‘ What sort of a gentleman was he ?’
‘Tall: and face brown like my hand:
and he looked an active body: and his eyes
were blue and merry : and he had a beard.’
‘Take the horse to the stable. I sup-
pose there is some hay there: take off his
saddle and rub him down. This must be


KILDIIL'RIII ’S OAK. 241
‘I am Colonel Banyon: are you Sir
Norman Kildhurm? Sir, I have to ask
your pardon for my lack of ceremony.
Seeing no one outside, I rushed upstairs
unannounced to find my cousin and kiss her
hand.’
‘Colonel, my pleasure in meeting you is
second only to Mrs. Chepstow’s. We have
heard many things about you from her ; and
you have been long and anxiously expected.
But may I ask where you are going ’
‘Only to the stable,’ said the Colonel,
laughing and showing a sparkle of white
teeth through his brown beard. ‘I always
make a point of seeing to my horse myself.
And as I must resume my journey in three
hours’ time, it is the more needful that he
should be well cared for meanwhile.’ So
saying, the Colonel threw the rein over his
arm, and led the steed to the stable door,
which the old gardener was holding open.
‘Thank you, old chap,’ he said to the
latter; ‘that’s all I shall ask of you at present.’
He put a gold piece into the man’s hand,
and, leaving him to stare at it in bewildered
incredulity, he proceeded rapidly to unsaddle
the horse and to rub him down vigorously
with wisps of hay.
Sir Norman had followed him to the
stable. ‘Surely, Colonel,’ he exclaimed in a
tone of remonstrance, ‘ surely you don’t mean
to leave us again in three hours? Before
that time it will be dark night. and there are
signs of a storm coming on. I trust you will

it


24,: K ILDH URM ’S OAK.
not hold our hospitality so cheap as to give it
but a three hours’ trial ! ’
‘ By no means, Sir Norman,’ replied the
other heartily. ‘I hope to return hither a
week or ten days hence, and to make a
longer stay. But at present I have no choice
but to make a forced march. The ship
which brought me from India, you must
know, was driven from its course by contrary
winds, and I was landed last night at some
port up here to the north, a hundred miles
out of my way. I must report myself at
Chester to-morrow; so you may know I have
no time to lose. Luckily, my horse is one of
the best in the world. But I should have
been angry enough at my mishap, had I not
found that it would enable me to pass Kild-
hurm Tower, and to catch a glimpse of my
fair cousin; and to thank Lady Kildhurm
and yourself for your kind care of her. Faith,
she looked twice as pretty and as happy as
when I bade her farewell a year and six
months ago !’ j
‘The hour of welcome better suits beauty
than that of farewell,’ observed Sir Norman
with a smile. ‘And now, Colonel, if you
have made your horse as comfortable as the
poor accommodation will admit, return with
me to the house, and we will try to do the
like by you. We have but homely country
fare to set before you, but it is cordially at
your service. And I think there is a bottle
or two of wine in the cellar that will compen-
sate some deficiencies.’


KILDHURM’S OAK. 243
‘I am the last man in the world to be
particular about what I eat,’ said the Colonel,
as he and his host left the stables ; ‘ if I were at
the table of the King of the Cannibal Islands,
I should devour what was set before me with
gratitude and gusto—especially if I felt as
hungry as I do now! But, in fact, the plea-
sure of seeing my dear cousin once more-
and of making the acquaintance of Lady
Kildhurm and yourself—is better to me even
than a meal.’
Sir Norman bowed to the compliment,
and led his guest upstairs. ‘In this room,’
said he opening a door, ‘you can free your-
self from some of the dust of travel; and
meanwhile I will give orders for the other pre-
parations. But, by the by, have you no
luggage with you ?’
‘ It has all gone round by sea,’ answered
the Colonel ; ‘ all except such small matters as
one may carry about his person ; and except—
this!’ he added, ‘which of course I am never
parted from.’
As he spoke, he pulled from the front of
his military jacket a bag made of soft yellow
leather, curiously embroidered with coloured
braid. It was about half as big again as a
man’s fist, and seemed heavy.
‘ And what—if the question may be per-
mitted—is that ?’ inquired Sir Norman, fixing
his eyes keenly on those of his guest.
‘ Oh, they are my diamonds, which I pro-
mised my cousin to bring her from India.
But, before giving them to her, I- shall take
R 2


244 K ILDH URM ’S OAK.
them to a lapidary in London and have them
carefully set. At present, as you may see,
they are many of them in the rough state,
and worthless for a lady’s ornaments.’
‘They are not in themselves worthless,
however,’ remarked Sir Norman, bending
over the glittering pile of jewels which the
Colonel had carelessly poured out upon the
table. ‘And not all of them are diamonds.’
‘ No, they are of all kinds—rubies, sap-
phires, emeralds, or diamonds—I was not
particular. And they have a value of their
own, as you say: a fellow who understands
about such things once offered me a hundred
thousand guineas for the lot. But, of course,
it was not his money that I wanted: each of
those stones has some adventure associated
with it which no money could buy of me; and,
besides, they are all destined to adorn the
person of my pretty cousin.’
‘A magnificent gift, indeed!’ murmured
Sir Norman.
‘1 hope she will like it,’ replied the Colonel
ingenuously.
‘What woman-what human being, for
that matter—could be indifferent to it!’ sighed
Sir Norman, turning away. ‘Well, I will
leave you for a moment; when you are pre-
pared, come to the room, where you first
found Mrs. Chepstow. \Ve shall await you
with impatience.’


KILDHURM’S OAK. 245
CHAPTER IX.
THE GUEST.
IF Colonel Banyon’s visit was brief, it was
merry: it was filled from end to end with
laughter, talk, and story. The Colonel had,
naturally, a thousand anecdotes to tell, and
a still greater number of questions to answer.
Though a hero, he was neither a reticent nor
a shamefaced one. He enjoyed what he was
heartily. He had lived a successful, daring,
reckless, honourable life, and was accustomed
to look back over the past and forward to the
future with equal satisfaction and cheerfulness.
He gave a very vivid and entertaining picture
of his recent Indian experiences, and when,
at length, he declared that it was time for him
to be off, Mrs. Chepstow could not conceal
her chagrin: her pretty under-lip trembled,
and tears stood in her eyes.
‘ You will be back soon, cousin ?’ she said
piteously.
‘In ten days, if I live so long,’ he de-
clared.
‘ Live ten days! What do you mean ? ’
‘Nothing, upon my soul!’ laughed the
Colonel. ‘ They say, though, that when folks
have been so merry as we have been this
evening, calamity is nigh. An since I have
been the merriest, it would be fair to infer
that it’s to me the calamity is nighest.’


KILDHURM ’S OAK. 247
at nightfall. After seeing you safely past
those treacherous spots, I can leave you with
a better conscience.’
‘I shall be heartily glad of your com_
panionship, I need not say,’ was the Colonel’s
answer. ‘As to cliffs, however, I am not
unaccustomed to them.’
He again took leave of the ladies, and
followed Sir Norman down the stairs, and
across the courtyard to the stables, where
each man led out and saddled his own horse.
The old gardener always made a point of
retiring to his quarters at sunset.
‘ That storm you spoke of still holds off,’
remarked the Colonel.
‘It will overtake us before daylight,’
answered the Baronet.
‘Sir Norman, did you ever see a man
struck by lightning ?’
‘ Never.’
‘1 saw it once at sea. I don’t know why
I happened to think of it at this moment.
There isn’t lightning enough in all England,
at this time of year, to kill me. There I go
again, hinting at my own death! That
sweet cousin of mine seems to have put
foolish notions into my head. However, if
anything is to happen to me, I have taken
care that she shall lose nothing by it. My
will is made, signed, and sealed, and both the
jewels and all other wealth that I have got
go to her.’ ‘
‘ Let us hope that you may find a better
way of endowing her with your worldly


248 K1 LDH URM ’S OAK.
goods than by bequeathing them to her,’ said
Sir Norman, smiling.
‘It lies with her, and I think she likes
me,’ returned the Colonel, twisting his mou-
stachios. ‘But though I’m little enough
afraid of most things, and by no means as
blind as a mole either, I’m blessed if I dare
to ask her whether she’ll marry me, because I
can’t see quite clearly enough into her heart.
However, all in good time! Perhaps the
glitter of the gems may serve to throw some
light upon the question.’
Sir Norman nodded, but he made no
reply.
They were now riding along a narrow
and rocky road, within sight of the sea, and
following the line of the coast southward.
There was as yet no wind, but the waves
were breaking with a hollow, rhythmical
sound along the shore, telling of some tor-
nado a hundred miles away. There was no
moon, and the sky was in great part over-
cast with clouds, so that the darkness was
considerable. The riders could see no more
of each other than their black outlines, as they
rode along side by side. At the distance of
about a mile from Kildhurm Tower, the
coast began to rise; and the road, instead of
skirting the inland base of this eminence,
climbed up with it, and, moreover, approached
so near the verge that, in some places, it
actually infringed upon it. The Colonel’s
military eye did not fail to take note of this
peculiarity.


K ILDH URAI! ’S OAK. 249
‘I have a better opinion of the legs of
the fellows who built this road than of
their brains,’ he observed. ‘ Did they think
it was shorter to climb up a precipice than to
go round it ?’
’ ‘ There were two reasons why the road
was made in this way,’ replied the Baronet.
‘First, there is a deep morass across the
inland route, which is beyond the skill of our
local engineers either to bridge over or to fill
up. Secondly, there existed, at the time the
road was planned, a convent at the highest
point of the cliff; and it was deemed advis-
able, in that religious age, that the way of the
world should run as near as possible to the
convent door. We shall come to the ruins
of the convent very soon: and there, or
thereabouts, I shall take leave of you.’
The horses scrambled up the steep
ascent, Sir Norman leading the way; and it
was not until they had reached the summit
that he spoke again.
‘ Are you a religious man, Colonel Ban-
yon ?’ he abruptly asked.
The Colonel turned a surprised glance at
him. ‘ I believe in my Saviour, and pray to
Him when I get a chance and a prayer comes
into my head,’ he replied.
‘If a man were about to die, I have
thought that no place could be more fitting
than this from which to take a last look at
the world; and from which to offer up a
last prayer to heaven, if he were that way
minded.’


=50 ‘ KILDHURM’S OAK.
‘I will remember your suggestion when
my final hour approaches; and if I’m in this
neighbourhood perhaps I may avail myself of
it. The spot has one recommendation—that
if, after all, Death made his approach too
slowly, you would need to take not more
than a single step to find yourself in his arms.’
‘Yes, it is two hundred feet to the
bottom, and barely three feet to the brink!’
said the Baronet. ‘Death hovers within
arm’s length of us as we ride.’
‘ He has been nearer to 'me than that,
and yet I have snapped my fingers at him,’
returned the Colonel, laughing. ‘Well, I
must be on my way again.’
‘ Let me lead your horse over this dan-
gerous pass,’ said Sir Norman, dismounting
from his own horse and seizing the Colonel’s
bridle. ‘ And then, farewell indeed!’
‘Have a care! What are you about?’
cried Colonel Banyon, after a moment.
‘ Farewell!’ repeated the other; and
with all his strength he forced the Colonel’s
horse backwards to the edge of the cliff.
The rider saw and perhaps comprehended
the danger. He had not time to dismount ;
he drew his pistol, and at the same time
drove his spurs into the horse’s sides. The
horse reared and strove to plunge forward,
but it was too late. His hind hoofs trod
upon the crumbling verge of the precipice.
There was a cry, a flash and a report, and a
scent of burnt powder on the night air, which
Sir Norman breathed alone.


K ILDH URM ’S OAK. 25 1
CHAPTER X.
A BURIED SECRET.
SIR NORMAN stood on the brink of the cliff,
and listened. There was not much to hear
-no more remarkable sound than might be
caused by the fall of a loose boulder, and the
murmur of the surf partly disguised even
that. The tide was rising; in another half
hour it would be dashing against the base
of the precipice.
The Baronet took his mare by the head-
stall, and began to lead her back down the
steep road which he had so lately climbed
in company with Colonel Banyon. His
mood of mind was much more composed and
lucid now than it had been then. While
the deed which he was to commit was as yet
in the future he had been full of agitation and
doubt. Sir Norman had a single plain fact
to deal with, not an indefinite number
of vague and dangerous possibilities. He
saw his proper course in the circumstances as
clearly as if he had planned it all out before-
hand ; and he lost no time in following it.
Having arrived at the lowest dip of the
road, he secured his horse to the branch of a
dead tree, clambered‘down to the shore, and
began to make his way as rapidly as he could
towards that spot where he knew the body
of Colonel Banyon must be lying. With an


KILDHURM’S OAK. 253
in ‘ Hamlet,’ and come out and make his
bow before the audience. But unfortu-
nately there is no curtain in these cases,
and the poor actor, having died with
what realism he can command, is obliged
to remain dead indefinitely.
The surf, now breaking near at hand,
reminded Sir Norman that he also had a
part to enact. Not that he had been alto-
gether idle since leaving Kildhurm Towers;
but he had accomplished only the preliminary
portion of the work which he had resolved
to perform. In looking forward to this
night’s occupations, he might have been led
to suppose that the murder would be more
difficult to an unpractised hand than the
robbery; but experience proved that the
truth,was just the other way. To hurl his
victim over the cliff had been an excitement
-fierce, and, in a certain sense, pleasurable.
But this despoiling the corpse in cold blood
afterwards was neither pleasant nor exciting;
and yet it had to be done, else all the benefit
of the murder would be thrown away. To
kill, moreover, was aristocratic ; Sir Norman’s
ancestors had won renown by doing no more
than he had just done; but to pick a pocketwas
plebeian, and none of his ancestors, so far as
he was aware, had ever been guilty of that.
But again, there was no escape from it—or only
one escape ! Sir Norman might, if he chose,
return to his horse, mount him, ride him up
the cliff, and leap him over the verge to a
resting-place here beside the Colonel. By


254 KILDHURM’S OAK.
this means, and by this only, could he avoid
the logical necessity of pocket-picking, and at
the same time conceal, and perhaps in some
measure expiate, the crime already com-
mitted. Sir Norman thought of all this, and
weighed the question for a moment in his
mind. Should he go on, or should he turn
back ? He decided to go on : and, stooping
over the body of his late guest, he drew the
purse of embroidered leather from its hiding-
place, thrust it into his own pocket, and turned
away. He had got a fortune, according to
the promise of destiny; but if it had been
larger than it was, he already felt that he
had paid a fair equivalent for it. As he
stumbled back along the dark shore, he was
glad of the darkness, and inclined to wish
that daylight might altogether cease from the
earth. It was a wish characteristic of a
fresh-born criminal. By-and-by he would
learn how to make his own face answer all
the purposes of darkness, so far as the con-
cealment of what was within was concerned.
In one way or another, however, darkness
must be his category from this time forth. He
was a creature of the night, and would for
ever remain such.
‘I do not intend to excuse my act,’ said
Sir Norman to himself, when he had once
more attained the road and resumed his
saddle. ‘But if I admit the sin of it, I have
a right also to take account of its uses. I
have deliberately and treacherously murdered
the man who was my guest; I have mur-


256 KILDHURJI’S OAK.
the storm which had been all night brewing
suddenly came into noisy and violent exist-
ence. Buffeted by the wind and pelted by
the rain, the Baronet was distracted from his
casuistical and metaphysical vein, and his
meditations took a more outward and material
turn.
‘ No one can have seen these gems
besides ourselves,’ he thought; ‘but yet
there is danger to be feared from those which
are uncut. Perhaps I may find it safest to
dispose of them abroad. Meanwhile, I can
put them where they will be as secure as
death itself, and might remain so for a
hundred years if necessary. It will' be best,
at all events, to take no further step in the
business until the Colonel’s death has been
discovered, and his property administered.
The gems, no doubt, are mentioned in the
will; inquiry will be made for them; and it
will be known that the Colonel was last seen
alive under our roof. And what after that?
Why, then, I rode forth with him, to set him
on his way: and it was known to me that he
carried the gems upon his person. Yes, and
I had spoken warningly to him of the peril
which menaced a lonely traveller, so richly
laden, in these parts: the women will bear
witness to that. But then it will be asked:
“How far did you ride with him? and
which way Was be heading when you saw
him last?” What shall be my answer?
ShallI say, “I left him at the rise of the
convent cliff, and know no more of him?”


KILDHUICM'S OAK. 257
Why not rather tell the truth up even to the
last moment? Why not tell the truth and
nothing but the truth, and only not the whole
truth ?_which, indeed, finite man can never
tell. Why not say, “ I rode with him to the
top of the cliff, my hand on his bridle; but
there, in the darkness, his horse took fright,
and reared, and fell backwards : and I, unless
I would have been dragged over also, was
fain to loose my hold of the bridle, and let
them go. Then I went down to the shore
to search, but . . . well, but the tide had risen,
and the storm had come on, and it was
impossible to reach the bodies.” That would
be better than downright vulgar perjury:
more decent, and perhaps more prudent like-
wise. Stay, though! if I take this stand, it
must be taken at once! I must burst into the
room, heated, dishevelled, distraught, and gasp
out my story with horror in my voice! Am I
actor enough for that? I fear not! And who
knows but another sort of horror might find
its way into my tones or eyes, and betray me!
No, I cannot venture it. As yet, I have
looked on no living human face since I saw
his vanish over the cliff, lit up for an instant
by the flash of his pistol. Perhaps—who
knows ?-—I shall blanch and turn pale under
the glance of the first questioning eyes I
meet. I know the man I have been hereto-
fore, but I do not yet know the man I am
now. Perhaps I am a coward, or an idiot, '
or a madman. \Vhat wonder if I were, after
such a night’s work! \Vas ever a night so
5


258 KILDHURM’S OAK.
black, or a storm so boisterous! All the
witches in hell might be abroad, and I
among the rest! Am I a witch, then? Who
knows? The country folks have long be-
lieved no better of me; and perhaps to--
night’s work will bring about an encounter
between his Satanic majesty and me, and a
signing of the Book! Where shall the
meeting be held ? Where but beneath Kild-
hurm’s Oak, where all the mischief was
hatched from the beginning! Forward, mare!
Why do we lag here in the rain, when com-
pany is awaiting us at home ? Forward! ’
Goaded by whip and spur, the mare
put herself to her best speed, and before
many minutes Sir Norman knew, less by
any visible sign than by the direction and in-
clination of the road, that the Tower was
near. He drew rein, and paused for a
moment. Should he take his mare to the
stable now, or--afterwards? He resolved
on the latter course. Keeping as much as
possible on the turf, and feeling rather than
seeing his way, he pressed cautiously forward
until he found himself almost beneath the
branches of the Oak. There he dismounted.
The din of the tempest was bewildering.
The waves came thundering against the
shore with such headlong power that a
tremor of the earth was perceptible every
time they struck. There was a fury of white
foam beneath the rocky, overhanging parapet,
on which the Oak stood, and this whiteness
extended far out, until the blackness of the


KILDHURM’S OAK. :59
night prevailed over it. Occasionally sounds
like moaning and sighing seemed to come
from the mid-tumult of the sea, as if some
huge creature were complaining there: and
the driving spray and the rain assumed
strange drifting forms, like disembodied
spirits hurtling through the air. But terrible
as was the sea, the Oak was more terrible
still. It fought the wild wind with its great
arms like a mad creature. Its cumbrous
foliage flapped and hissed through the wet
gale like the matted locks of a wrestling
giant. Its whole vast frame rocked to and
fro, as if it were about to tear itself up from
its rooted place, and go forth to meet and
struggle with the storm. And from the
grinding together of the mighty boughs were
generated shrieks and human-like outcries
and noises like weeping and like mocking:
laughter, as though a knot of evil spirits
were tearing each other to pieces in the
central darkness of the,tree; or were they
combining to torture and torment some
newly-captured human soul ? Dimly, mean-
while, through the murky obscurity, glowed
three red squares of light from the Tower,
where Lady Kildhurm and her sister waited
for Sir Norman’s return. The Baronet saw
the light, and a vision of the two innocent
and loving women rose before his mind ; and
of the infant boy, lulled asleep in his crib by
the muffled voices of the gale. All that was
as a foreign country to him now; all the
more alien because it had been so intimately
S 2


250 K ILDH URI?! ’6’ OAK.
his own. He turned his back upon it, and
fixed his regard upon the haunted Oak. He
stepped beneath the wide spread of the
labouring branches; then, with a leap from
the ground, he caught the lowest of these
etween his arms, and in another moment
had swung himself up into the heart of the
tree, and out of sight of earth and sky.
‘ He has been gone more than two hours,’
said Lady Kildhurm, breaking silence at last.
' ‘ I do heartily pray nothing has happened
to him—it is dreadful to think how wet he
will get in this rain, poor fellow; and he
must be in Chester to-morrow, he said. I
wish he had spent the night here.’
‘ And so do I ; but it was of my husband
that I spoke.’
‘Oh, Sir Norman knows his way about!
wasn’t he born and bred here ? No fear but -
he will find his way home safe enough.’
‘But he should have been away half an
hour at the most: and now-see! it is close
upon midnight. I fear something has gone
wrong.’
‘It is the rain that keeps him. He has
taken shelter somewhere, and will bide his
time till the worst of it is over. But my
poor cousin—what will become of him!
Heigho! I felt, when I said good-bye to him,
as if ’twas for ever.’
Lady Kildhurm laid vdown the sewing
with which she had been occupying herself,
and clasping her hands on her knee, sat


K ILDH UR!!! ’S OAK. 261
gazing out on the black and rain-smitten
window-pane. Suddenly she said :
‘ This is _his evil day. I had forgotten it.
Oh, my heart!"
‘ His evil day, sister ? What do you
mean ?’
‘Yes ; he showed me it once in his horo-
scope. The evil and the good came side by
side, but the evil was the stronger. He
should not have gone out; to-night of all
nights I should have kept him! Oh, Norman
_my husband, come back to me!’
‘ La, sister, how you talk! you make me
shudder. As for horoscopes, I’m sure no
Christian ought to believe in them.’
‘ I feel as if he were near me!’ exclaimed
Lady Kildhurm, rising from her chair and
moving about the room uneasily. ‘ He is
near me, somewhere, and yet I am not
happy: I cannot breathe freely, and there is
pain in my heart.’
‘ La! sister, indeed you frighten me.
Pray sit down again, and do not stare about
so! do you think to see him through a stone
wall?’
‘ He is near me—and it is not well with
him. He is looking towards me—now—can
you not see his face at the window ? ’
‘ His face at the window! Pray remember,
my dear. that the window is fifty feet from the
ground, and ’
‘ No, there is no face there. It was a
flake of foam, maybe. But I cannot bear to
lose him ; I could not bear it! ’


262 KILDI'I'URJI’S OAK.
‘You are working yourself into such a
state of mind, my dear, that very soon I shall
be more anxious about you than I am about
him. As for not being able to bear things,
you never know what you can bear till you
try. I have borne the loss of my husband,
and a great many worse things. One can .
bear almost anything, I believe. Because, if
the thing to be borne comes, what else can
you do ?’
‘I could not bear it!’ repeated Lady
Kildhurm feverishly. She moved again to
’ the window, and peered out for a few moments
into the darkness.
‘Depend upon it,’ said Mrs. Chepstow,
with a confidence of tone that was not alto-
gether warranted by her interior sentiments,
' depend upon it, my clear, your husband has
stepped into one of the peasants’ huts out of
the rain, and is at this very instant swallowing
a draught of hot ale, with a pipe of tobacco
in his other hand. How he will laugh when
I tell him how you have ’
‘ Hark !’
‘ Merciful heavens! what is it?’
Quick as thought, Lady Kildhurm had
unfastened the catch of the lattice, and the
wind, violently driving it open, burst head-
long into the room, put out the candles, and
went roaring through the house, slamming
doors, flapping curtains, and shaking soot
down the chimneys. None of this disturbance,
however, had been noticed by the two women.
Their ears had been filled and their hearts


K ILDH URI! ’5 0A K. 263
stopped by the sound of three frantic screams,
following rapidly one upon another, and rising
high above the confusion of the tempest.
They were the screams of a man in mortal
agony and horror. Both the women had
known at once whose voice it was, though
they had never heard it pitched in that key
before. But what could have happened to
him? The screams were not repeated. The
women exchanged a ghastly look.
CHAPTER XI.
THE DEVIL’S GRIP.
‘ LET us go together,’ said Mrs. Chepstow at
last, in a shaking voice.
‘ No,’ replied her sister, decisively. ‘ Do
you stay here and guard my son. I must go
to meet them yonder alone.’
‘Them! who are they? Do you think
my cousin is there too ?’ .
‘ Satan and his imps are there. Hush!
you must not question me. If they have
taken him, they must take me also—unless I
can win him back! That is the question, for
I cannot bear to lose him. Either he must
return to me, or I will follow him: I cannot
live apart from him. Hush! Do you stay
by the child ; and on your life, do not come
near the Oak till after sunrise.’
While Lady Kildhurm had been speaking


KILDHURIII’S OAK. 265
After a few moments’ scrutiny, she took the
ivory cross between her hands, and went
forward. The phosphorescent gleams waver-
ing to and fro, illuminated duskily the figure
of a man stretched out near the base of the
trunk. Lady Kildhurm crouched down
beside him and spoke close to his ear :
‘ Norman, thy wife is with thee !’
The man emitted a stertorous breath, but
uttered no word.
‘ Norman, thou art dying. Tell me, how
is it with thy soul? for whither thou goest
thy wife shall follow thee. If it is well with
thee, kiss this cross for a sign. See I hold it
to thy lips.’
But the man’s lips did not move.
‘ Has the Evil One overcome thee, then ?’
said the woman sadly, after a pause. ‘ But
take comfort, my beloved, for I will not desert
thee. We have seen and known many mar-
vellous things, N orman—thou and I together :
and I have never shrunk from going along
with thee, hand in hand, wherever thou
didst lead the way. And now, my love shall
go with thee across the grave ; I will not
seek a happiness where thou art not; and in
proof of it, my husband, if thou biddest me
to fling the cross into the sea, and to tear the
leaves from the Holy Book and cast them on
the air I will do it! Only move thy hand in
answer, and it shall be enough.’
For a long time, as it seemed, the man
lay wholly motionless; his life, which had
hung trembling on the balance, appeared


266 ' KILDHURJI’S OAK.
quite to have slipped away. A great fear
bestirred itself in Lady Kildhurm’s soul: if
her husband died, and made no sign as to
whither he had gone, how should she follow
him ? Under the influence of this dread, she
placed her lips to his ear, and spoke sharply
and urgently :
‘ Norman, my husband,’ she cried; ‘come
back! Tell me what I am to do!’
A tremor passed through the man’s
body. Slowly and stiffly he raised himself
on one arm, and lifting the other hand, he
pointed upwards.
‘ There!’ he muttered, in a sluggish but
articulate tone; ‘there is treasure! seek for
it!’
For a moment after saying these words,
he maintained his position: one hand point;
ing upwards, while his face, on whose features
death was visible, bent heavily towards the
earth. Then, stiffly, he sank back ; his wife
received his head in her lap. He was already
dead : and, indeed, his spirit seemed to have
returned to its human clay, in obedience to
the wife’s summons, only to utter those
ambiguous sentences, and then to finally
depart. But, ambiguous or not, they had
answered their purpose; they had planted
hope, like a seed, in the very midst of the
bereaved woman’s despair. He had spoken
to her of a treasure above—a treasure in
Heaven; and had bade hcr seek it there.
But if he knew of a treasure in Heaven, it
must needs be a treasure which he himself


268 K ILDH URAI’S OAK.
perceived that the woman’s eyes were open
and seeing, though there was a wild and
unsettled expression in them. Nor did she
answer when her sister or the old man
addressed her; she only whispered to herself,
and then bent over and whispered again in
the dead man’s ear, and smiled. But when
her little son Philip spoke to her in his child-
ish tones, some vestige of motherly memories
glimmered in her haggard face; and pre-
sently she beckoned him to her.
‘There, my son,’ she said in solemn
tones, pointing upwards with her finger;
‘ there is treasure ! seek for it! ’
‘Where, mamma?’ demanded the little
fellow. ‘In the Oak?’
Lady Kildhurm smiled drearily, and
relapsed into silence.
A stretcher was brought, and the body of
Sir Norman was carried back to the Tower.
The manner of his death was a mystery, and
one which was not for many years fully ex-
plained. His mare, still saddled and bridled,
was found in her stable, whither she had
evidently made her way after the catastrophe
to her rider had happened. But of what
nature had been that catastrophe? It was
found, upon examination, that the Baronet’s
neck had been dislocated, which of course
amply accounted for the fact of his death,
though not for anything beyond that. Some
opined that his horse must have taken fright
during the storm, and rushing beneath the
Oak had either thrown the Baronet there, or


KILD/IURM’S OAK. 269
he had been swept off his saddle by a branch
of the tree. This latter hypothesis seemed
plausible enough, though there were still
those three terrible screams left uninterpreted.
The screams, however, might have been
comfortably ignored, had it not been for a
certain appalling sign of violence which had
been left upon the person of the dead man
himself, and the significance of which, if it
could not be fathomed, it was equally im-
possible to do away with. The right hand,
from the wrist to the finger-ends, was stripped
of the skin, and in parts even of the flesh:
the bone of the thumb was crushed, and the
wrist was wrenched out of joint. These
indications—so far as the awe-stricken senses
of the beholders were able to apprehend
them—seemed to show that the Baronet’s
hand must have been caught in a grasp of
superhuman strength; and that in tearing it
free with the energy of desperation, he had
left part of its substance behind. Whose
hand, then, had gripped his own so hard?
and for what purpose? any answer to such
questions must evidently be purely con-
jectural. It was indeed a grisly problem to
ponder over, and one which nervous people
would rather discuss with cronies in broad
daylight than with their own minds in the
small hours of the night. Especially would
this be the case after certain wiseacres had
intimated their opinion that the marks left
upon Sir Norman’s hand had been made by
no other talons than those of his Satanic


270 K/LDHL’RJI’S OAK.
majesty; who must have been strangely
impressed with the idea that the Baronet was
his property—if firmness of grasp is to be
taken as any criterion of conviction of owner-
ship. On the other hand, it was to be said
in the Baronet’s favour that he had, after all,
succeeded in wrenching himself loose; but
since a rough comparison of times proved
that he must have died a few minutes after
this escape, the doubt suggested itself
whether, in his disembodied state, Satan
might not have proved too strong for him.
Might it not be, in fact, that although the
fleshly hand had been freed, the spiritual one
had remained in the Arch-Enemy’s gripe?
Three screams of horror and agony had been
heard, but not so much as a single shout of tri-
umph and victory. Upon the whole, therefore,
the preponderance of contemporary opinion
went rather against poor Sir Norman, though
it was admitted by everyone that it was never
safe to dogmatise about an occurrence of this
kind. Besides, the man was dead, and dead
people, even when they have lived under
the suspicion of being wizards, had better not
be abused. Sir Norman, accordingly, was
buried with the ceremonies of His Majesty’s
most Christian Church. On opening his will,
in which the few possessions he owned were
bequeathed to his wife in trust for their son,
it was observed that particular mention was
made of a signet ring; but the ring was
nowhere to be found. Mrs. Chepstow, how-
ever, being interrogated, declared that the


KILDHURM’S OAK. 271
Baronet had always been in the habit of
wearing this ring on the fourth finger of his
right hand ; and that she had noticed it there
on the last occasion of her seeing him alive.
This evidence made it clear that whoever
had squeezed the Baronet’s hand so tightly
was, in all likelihood, the present wearer of
the signet ring. For the rest, the evidence
was not of much practical value—unless it
should aid some time in the identification of
the other party to this mysterious and grisly
encounter.
About the time that the mortal remains of
Sir Norman were safely laid in their last rest-
ing-place, the drowned corpse of Colonel Ban-
yon was discovered by a fisherman some dis-
tance down the coast. It was plain from the
condition of the body—many of the bones
on the left side had been broken—that the
Colonel must have fallen from a great height;
and the subsequent discovery of his horse. in
a similar shattered state, helped the coroner
in coming to the conclusion that the deceased
must have ridden overthe cliffs during the
late storm. There was no trace of the leather
bag of jewels which the Colonel was reported
to have had with him; but his garments had
become so much torn and loosened by the
action of the waves and the attacks of fishes.
that this was not surprising. The gems, if
they were anywhere, must be at the bottom
of the bay; such was the coroner’s verdict
upon this point ; and it had so much weight,
with the fishermen’s boys along the coast,


272 KILDHURM'S OAK.
that for many years thereafter, squads of
them might be seen every day at low tide,
groping amidst the sands and seaweeds for
precious stones. But not so much as a single
diamond, emerald, or ruby ever rewarded
these industrious searchers.
CHAPTER XII.
THE SIBYL.
LADY KILDHURM, if she could not pro-
perly be called insane. was none the less in a
very abnormal mental state. The attitude
of her mind, indeed, might be considered
almost the reverse of that usual to mortals:
for to her the material world appeared
visionary and unstable, and the objects of
her inner life were her only realities. Being
thus removed from sympathy with her fellow
creatures, she necessarily occupied a place
apart, where she commanded the respect, and
sometimes the awe, of those who came into
contact with her, but never their comprehen-
sion. Always a striking-looking woman, her
appearance was now invested with a solemn
majesty, to which the shadow of the tragedy
with which she had been connected no doubt
lent impressiveness. By degrees she adopted
certain peculiarities of costume and demeanour
and fell into various eccentricities of speech
and conduct, all of which tended to confirm the


KILDHURM ’5 0A R. 27 3
country folks of the neighbourhood in the
opinion that the lady of Kildhurm was a
species of wise-woman, or sibyl, acquainted
with supernatural lore, and able to give them
a good harvest or a bad rheumatism accord-
ing as her whim might be. Of course when
a delusion of this kind once gets a footing in
the popular mind, nothing can occur, either
good or bad, which will not be cited in support
of it. Fortunately for Lady Kildhurm, it was
generally agreed that her salutary outweighed
her hostile influence. Mothers brought their
sick children to her to touch, as if she had
been a monarch; and fathers sought her
advice on questions of business, and shaped
her vague and wandering utterances into
profoundly pertinent replies. Thus, without
being necessarily aware of it. the poor lady
created around her a voluntary host of feudal
retainers, quite as loyal as those which the
former lords of Kildhurm had lost, and much
more willing and unstinting in the matter
of supplies of provisions, and of tributary
hay and com. 50 it happened that the
domestic economy of Kildhurm Tower had
not, for many years past, been in so prosper-
ous a condition as it was now. The curse
which seemed to have been darkening over
the place for several successive generations,
had now begun to lift and lighten, as if it had
done its worst. Mrs. Chepstow also re-
mained at the Tower, and practically had the
entire charge of the household and of the
education of young Sir Philip, and had more—
T


:74 K ILDH URM ’S OAK.
over contributed to this better state of things
by making over to the heir the whole of the
fortune which Colonel Banyon had be-
queathed to her; reserving to herself, until
the-boy came of age, the right of spending
the income of this estate for the Common
benefit of the family. It will be seen, there-
fore, that, leaving out the fact that the lord
of the Tower had died a violent and myste-
rious’death, and that his wife had lost her
reason in consequence, Kildhurm had not
much more cause to complain of its destiny
than have other ancient and partially decayed
families.
The Oak, meanwhile, had by no means
ceased to connect itself with the family
interests, although it, also, seemed to have
become less menacing since its last terrible
manifestation. Its present relation to the
household was more intimate and friendly
than had ever been the case before; it had,
in fact, become the haunt and almost the
home of Lady Kildhurm herself. It was her
daily and also her nightly habit to climb
into its branches, and there sit for hours,
gazing out on the sea and singing to herself
fragments of songs ; or occasionally carrying
on what had the semblance of being long and
earnest conversations with some interlocutor
who never made himself visible to any other
eyes than those of her ladyship, and who was
probably only subjectively manifest even to
her. Be that as it may, this unseen person-
age’s existence was solidly believed in by


KILDHURJI’S OAK. 275
many intelligent persons, several of whom
went so far as to say that they had heard the
tones of his voice. Others affirmed that he
could be no other than the genie himself
of the Oak, who, having made away with
Lady Kildhurm’s husband on account of some
slight which the latter put upon him, was
now making amends to the wife by taking
her into his confidence, and imparting to her
many invaluable family secrets, as well as
giving her instructions as to the future.
Among other things, he must have explained
to her the true meaning of the prophetic
verses inscribed upon the silver disc, which
was at this period almost entirely embedded
in the substance of the bark: and she must
therefore be aware of the nature of the for-
tune which was in store for the Kildhurm race,
and of the means by which it was to be
acquired. But the more things she was
credited with knowing, the less inclined did
she seem to satisfy the curiosity of the
ignorant ; insomuch that not one well-authen-
ticated word of all the tales that the genie ot
the Oak was said to have poured into her
ear has ever transpired from that day to
this.
I am far from supposing, on the other
hand, that Lady Kildhurm was above sharing
the persuasions- of these unenlightened
people as to the extent of her own enlighten-
ment, or perhaps, as to the channels through
which it was obtained. Persons in her
peculiar condition are not apt to be lacking
T2


276 _ KILDHURIM’S OAK.
in self-appreciation, and easily adopt any
theory concerning themselves which seems
to give them the distinction appertaining to
supernatural pretensions, It is highly pro-
bable that the widow of Sir Norman believed
that she held communion with beings of
another world 'or plane of existence, and that
she was happy in that belief. It is certain
that she regarded herself as in a manner a
sacred personage, and that she attributed the
highest importance to all her: acts and utter-
ances, no matter how meaningless these
might appear to the uninitiated observer.
She commonly spoke of the Oak as ‘My
Friend,’ or ‘ My Counsellor,’ and was careful
to observe certain ceremonies and formalities
before ascending into the seclusion of the
branches : such as kneeling at the foot of the
trunk and touching her forehead to the bark,
and tracing a circle round about the base of
the tree with her ivory cross. A few rude
foot-rests had been made, by means of which
she could ascend to her retreat with ease;
and in the angle of the boughs she had
constructed for herself a sort of seat, which
she called her throne. Here, no doubt, the
pleasantest hours of her weird and lonely exist-
ence were passed. Here she gathered in the
harvest of her wisdom, and from hence she
gave it forth. The sinister Oak, which had
been the hostile tyrant of the Kildhurm race
for more than a hundred and fifty years, was
become this forlorn woman’s most intimate
and inexhaustible companion. On summer


KILDHURM ’S OAK. 277

days the branches which supported her
swayed soothingly, and the broad leaves
whispered in a murmurous undertone; while
glimpses of yellow sunshine strayed here and
there through the interstices of the foliage;
or, perhaps, a shower pattered harmlessly
on the living roof overhead. From below
came up the endless prattle of the musical
ocean, and the sparkle of its breezy blue.
What wonder if, at such moments, she heard
voices that do not speak to mortal ears, or
beheld visions whereof the outward eye can
take no note? But when the great equi-
noctial gales were let loose, and came shriek-
ing down upon the astonished coast, then
did the sibyl and her Oak strike a wilder and
more interior chord of harmony. The Oak
breathed forth its deep organ-tones of power
and defiance, while the sibyl loudly chanted
a thrilling treble, that often rang out above
the other noises of the natural symphony, and
caused passing travellers to start and stare,
and, if the night were already fallen, to
hasten their steps and wish themselves safe
at home. After such a bout, the prophetess
would descend from her perch with a flashing
eye and an exalted mien, as if instinct with
the divine fury of the seers of old; and
occasionally, after an exceptionally boister'
ous gale, she would appear with a cluster of
acorns or a branch of leaves in her bosom or
amongst her hair, and she was more careful
of these adornments and more proud of them
than if they had been gold and precious


27S KILDHUR/H’S OAK.
stones. ‘They are my friend’s gift,’ she
would answer to inquirers; ‘and the token
of his confidence and favour.’
But this fantastic behaviour was, for the
most part, confined to her hours of actual
association with the Oak; at such times as
she was within doors, her bearing was gentle
and undemonstrative, her look passive and
vacant, and she spoke but little, and that
feebly and vaguely. She was less observant
as a rule, of sights than of sounds; she
always seemed to recognise the voice of
Philip, and to be aware of the bond that
united him to her; and she was fond of
walking about with his hand clasped in hers,
or with her arm resting upon his shoulder,
when he had grown bigger. She was never
weary of listening to his childish and boyish
talk, and he, for his part, was never more
pleased with himself and with things in
general than when he was pouring out to her
the riches of his small mind—appealing to
her at the end of every sentence or two for
sympathy or approval, which she never
failed to accord with a smile, or a movement
of the head or hand, or a murmured word.
And sometimes—but this very rarely—she
would in turn talk to him, in a low cadenced
voice, as if chanting blank verse, and with a
delivery free alike from emphasis and from
hesitation. Whether or not any wisdom
were contained in these monologues, Philip
only could tell; and he used to declare
that they were replete with everything that


KILDHURM’S OAK. 279
was most sapient and profound. He never, in
fact, gave in to the belief that his mother was
in any respect deficient in mental effective-
ness; on the contrary he held her to be an
altogether superior being, and argued that
she appeared ‘queer’ to ordinary people only
because the latter were too far below her in
the intellectual scale to be able to appreciate
her illustration. He was proud of her pre-
ference; and she yielded him every indul-
gence he could desire, save one :—she never
permitted him to climb the Oak and share
her mysterious vigils amidst the branches.
‘ No,’ she would answer, smiling, to his en-
treaties, ‘no, dear, no—no. He is our friend,
but it is to me he speaks; you must hear him
only through me. Be content—be content!
by-and-by you shall know all.’
‘ But when will by-and-by come, mother ?’
‘ When the great change comes, and the
seal is broken, and the prophecy is fulfilled,
and the sibyl and her counsellor have van-
ished. There is time; do not seek to hasten
the steps of fate. Love will lead the way,
and pass through the valley of tribulation,
and honour and wealth shall wait for him
beyond. You are but a boy yet! be content!
by-and-by you shall know all.’
‘ But I don’t want you to vanish, mother,
or your counsellor either. Why should you
vanish, and where are you going to vanish
to ?’
‘Those who impart happiness must not
wait to behold its enjoyment. The bearers


280 K ILDH URM ’S OAK.
of evil tidings remain ; but the heralds of joy
pass on.’
What all this meant, Philip might have
found it difficult to explain : but he was
bound to consider it satisfactory. And then
his mother, laying one hand on his shoulder,
and with the other pointing upwards through
the branches of the Oak, would say solemnly,
‘ There—there is treasure! Seek for it !’
CHAPTER XIII.
THE HEYDAY OF YOUTH.
THE conditions of life in this world do not
permit boys to retain their boyhood in-
definitely; and so it was that the boy Philip
grew in time to be a young man, and to
entertain the thoughts and aspirations proper
to that important and interesting stage of
human existence. He came of age, and a
celebration was held in honour of that event;
and after that he considered it to be a part of
his duty to go forth and see the world. The
world, as not infrequently happens in such
cases, took more out of its beholder than its
beholder could get in return from the world;
in other" words, Sir Philip Kildhurm spent
the larger part of the fortune which his aunt
Mrs. Chepstow had made over to him, in
discovering that it is not so easy as it looks
to be wise without experience. This curious


KILDIIURIII'S OAK. 281
bit of news having been duly recorded in his
memory, he presently made his way back to
Kildhurm Tower, which he found very much
in the state in which he had left it; though
it appeared to him rather more stupid and
monotonous than of yore. However, young
men are always fertile of expedients to relieve
monotony; and the medicine which Sir
Philip prescribed to himself in the present
instance was the singularly original one of
falling in love. He fell in love with an
excellent and charming young lady ; and she
fell in love with him, which was prob-
ably more than he deserved: and in due
course they were betrothed, and married.
\Vithin a year from the wedding-day, 'the
new Lady Kildhurm presented her husband
with a daughter; and soon after having
done this, she died; but the little girl lived
and grew strong and vigorous and charm-
mg.
The widower, whose somewhat frivolous
and unsteady disposition had been sobered
and steadied by the shock of his much-
beloved young wife’s death, sought compen-
sation for her loss in his little daughter. N o
father was ever more devoted than he; and
now he fancied he had attained a deeper
understanding of that old saying of his
mother about the treasure above. Old Lady
Kildhurm, it should be mentioned, was still
living at nearly eighty years of age, and was
apparently neither more nor less vigorous
than she had been twenty years before
._ WL\“__ .____._- L _ LM4A_._~_—-_.M-t.rf-.


282 KILDHURM’S OAK.
Only now her hair was completely white, and
hung down in long thick braids, reaching
below her waist. Her face, also, had under-
gone a certain change. The vacant expres-
sion had given place to what might be
described as a childlike look; for it had all
the serenity and frankness of a child, and the
eyes possessed that unconscious quality of
penetration that is born of the child’s unsullied
intuitions. When these untroubled eyes
rested upon the beholder’s, therefore, he
generally looked away, if he was a bad man;
but if he was a good man he looked into
them, and the further be looked, the more he
found himself thinking. not of old age, but of
childhood; and if, moreover, he happened to
be acquainted with little Hilda, the grand-
daughter, he was apt to find himself thinking
particularly of her. Certain it is that the
infant woman and the aged one lost no time
in becoming dearly attached to each other, as
if they had been kindred spirits; and when
Hilda was three years old, her sibylline
grandmother did an unprecedented thing;
for she took the child in her arms, and
mounted with her to her seat in the Oak.
Sir Philip almost feared for his precious little
daughter’s safety, and confidently expected to
hear her break out into a clamour of alarm
and aversion at the gloom and all the strange
surroundings. But as it turned out the
small neophyte underwent her initiation not
only with composure but with gratifica-
tion. When, after an hour’s withdrawal from


KILDHURMS OAK. 233
the world the venerable sibyl restored her
to her father’s arms, Hilda seemed regretful
rather than relieved that the experience was
over. ' -
‘\Vhat did grandmamma show you?’
inquired Sir Philip.
But Hilda, with praiseworthy discretion,
only looked at him and shook her wise little
head, with a roguish smile in her brown
eyes.
‘Oh, so you are going to keep the secret
as well !’ said Sir Philip laughing.
‘It is her secret now,’ said old Lady
Kildhurm, laying her thin dark hand on the
child’s golden hair. ‘The spirit of the Oak
was my friend, but he is her servant. She is
mistress of Kildhurm, and all it contains.
In her shall the race be blessed and their
sorrows be comforted: and woe unto him
who would thwart her purpose or dispute
her will ! ’
All this might be true; but the fact
nevertheless remained that as Hilda grew
up, the worldly fortunes of Kildhurm went
down; until, at about the period of the
young lady’s seventeenth birthday, they
were pretty nearly in as bad a condition as
when, forty years before, Sir Norman had
ridden out to show his friend Colonel Banyon
the way over the Convent Cliff. Evidently,
therefore, if Hilda was going to restore the
fortunes of the race, she could not set about
the business too soon. Hilda herself, how-
ever, did not appear to have any idea how


284 K ILDH URIWS OAK.
the thing was to be done; nor (being a
person of a disposition to derive a great deal
of pleasure from a very economical expendi-
ture) did she seem to 'think a fortune of any
paramount importance. She performed her
household avocations with cheerfulness and
punctuality, and enjoyed her recreation on
the sea shore or the bills as heartily as if she
had been mistress of ten thousand a year.
But at last, luckily for Kildhurm, and for the
reputation, of prophecy, an unexpected
occurrence took place. A strange young
gentleman made his appearance in the neigh-
bourhood.
He was in every respect a highly
interesting object. He was blue-eyed,
handsome in face and figure, courteous and
brave. Though hardly more than twenty-
five years old, he was a captain of Grenadiers,
and had won his rank by gallant services in
the American War. He was rich and well
connected; and it was reported that he had
come into the neighbourhood to buy land, to
build a house, and to settle down in it. His
name was Harold Bramston; and he was a
bachelor.
Improbable as it 'may appear, one of the
last people in the county to hear the news
about Captain Bramston was the very
person who was generally considered to be
the most affected by it: namely, Miss Hilda
Kildhurm. The first she knew about the
matter was, that one afternoon, as she was
sitting beneath the Oak, mending a rent that


KILDIIURIII’S OAK. 285
she had. made in her frock the day before,
she saw a gentleman ride along the road,
and draw rein at the Tower gate; and a
moment afterwards she saw him pulling
vigorously at the bell-handle. This proved
(what Miss Hilda had already suspected)
that the gentleman was a stranger; for any-
body who was not a stranger would have
known that the bell of Kildhurm Tower had
been cracked and done away with any time
these ten years past. Now, it was unques-
tionably the duty of the Kildhurm family to
be hospitable to strangers; and since that
family at present consisted of three members,
one of whom—Sir Philip-_was absent in the
neighbouring market town, and another of
whom—Miss Hilda’s grandmother—was
presumably asleep in the topmost chamber
of the Tower ;—such being the state of
affairs, it inevitably devolved upon the third
and only available member-Miss Hilda
herself—to do the honours of the occasion.
So she arose, and paced demurely across the
grass towards the stranger. As she drew _
near she perceived that he was very good-
looking, in both senses of that phrase, and
this discovery gave her a certain satisfaction.
Moreover, when he turned to look at her
it was evident that he found her appearance
agreeable, which was the more noteworthy
inasmuch as she was by no means dressed to
receive company, and her hair was in
disorder. She thought the stranger must be
a man of great natural kindliness, and. very


286 K ILDH URM ’S OAK.
easy to please. When she was within speak-
ing distance, therefore, she asked him, in a
friendly tone, whether he wanted to see
anyone ?
He eyed her for a moment very intently,
as if she were the first young woman he had
ever beheld ; and he answered in a deep but
very pleasant voice, lifting his hat from his
forehead,
‘ I beg your pardon !’ (which she thought
quite unnecessary). ‘ I am Captain Bramston
—Harold Bramston : you may chance to
have heard mention made of me ?’ He
bowed slightly with an expectant look.
‘ No: I never heard of you before,’ re-
plied Hilda, with a meditative air, as if
she were searching her memory to make
sure.
Captain Bramston coloured a little. ‘ You
are, I venture to suppose, Miss—that is,
Miss ’ ,
‘Yes, I am Miss Kildhurm,’ she replied
gravely. ‘ Hilda Kildhurm,’ she added, after
7 a pause.
The Captain hereupon doffed his hat
again, and continued to hold it in his hand
while he spoke.
‘ I am happy and honoured to meet Miss
Kildhurm,’ he said. ‘Though you have
never heard of me, I heard of you long ago,
and I have often thought of you—pardon the
liberty l—especially of late. I am a sort of
relative of yours, you must know: a distant
one, I fear; but still _’


KILDHURZII’S OAK. :37
‘ A distant one is better than none at all,’
put in Hilda, intending no more than to help
him out with his sentence ; for he seemed to
find a difficulty in finishing his sentences;
and when he broke off in the midst of them
he had a way of resting his eyes on her face,
as if he expected to find the conclusion
there.
‘ Thank you for thinking it worth while to
say that !’ exclaimed the Captain, straighten-
ing himself and lifting his head with a very
bright glance.
‘ Oh, you must not think I meant that——
exactly ! ’ Hilda said in some haste and panic,
and with a flush that may have indicated her
regret at having been born such a fool.
The Captain was certainly very kind.
He took no notice of her embarrassment, but
went on, smoothing the feather in his hat as
he spoke,
‘ I was going to explain, in regard to our
being relations, that I had a grand-uncle,
whose name was Banyon. He was“ an
Indian colonel.’
‘Oh, I know all about him,’ said Hilda,
glad to show that she was not quite such a
fool after all. ‘ He was in love with his cousin,
poor old Mrs. Chepstow, my grand-aunt; and
left her all his precious stones in his will;
only she never got them, because, poor man
. . Here Hilda paused, and threw a
glance at the handsome young officer.
‘ Because he was drowned, wasn’t he?’
said he, smiling however in avery unnephew-


K [LU/1 URJI ’S (“A K. 289
‘May I see it?’ resumed Captain Bram--
ston.
‘You cannot see the mystery!’ Hilda
answered with some awe in her voice. ‘I
have not seen that myself; I only know a
little about it. My grandmamma is the only
one who has seen ! ’
‘I was speaking of the Oak. As to the
mystery, I shan’t ask about seeing that as
long as I may see you.’
"I don’t see how you can say that,’ re-
plied Hilda, ‘ since you have known me only
so short a time.’
‘But I have been waiting to know you a
long time,’ the Captain was bold enough to
say: ‘ever since I was a man. And the
longer one waits to know a woman, the
faster he gets to know her when he begins.’
‘ But I have not been waiting any time at
all to know you, and yet—’ began Hilda.
But there she broke off, and said, ‘ You will
think I have no manners, Captain Bramston.
I have forgotten to ask you on what errand
you are come here. And will you not step
into the house and have some refreshment?
I expect my father back in an hour or so.’
‘ Miss Kildhurm, have I offended you ?’
said the Captain very humbly.
‘ No, indeed, anything but that l’
‘ Else you would not speak so for-
mally.’
‘I must not speak as I might speak, if my
father were here,’ answered the young lady
with a blush. ‘I am the representative of
U


KILDIIURIIPS 0/] K. 29!
. 5‘ w — --w— --- -- ' “wr— .r—r ~ u¢-'-¢>_:.;..:.-,.4.s. wzwwnaa _V;-'
lovely, and yet so unconscious. He gazed,
and wondered, and blessed his stars for
having brought him round the world, and
reserved this fairest of all sights for him at
the end of his pilgrimages and dangers. Yes,
it was a blessed fortune that had put it into
his mind to come and settle down here, in
this remote and beautiful region, here to make
his home and to spend his days. And it was
a beneficent Providence, surely, that had kept
his heart free and unstained through those
perilous years of early youth, when hearts are ’
so apt to go astray. What happiness to think
that he might say to this charming maiden,
‘ You are the first woman I have loved ; and
I am not wholly unfit to take your hand in
mine, and to look in your dear eyes ! ’ For
it was nothing less than this that the Captain
already imagined himself as saying to Miss
Kildhurm.
But having got thus far in his thoughts he
began to entertain gloomy and portentous
fears. What if Miss Kildhurm should not
respond to this sudden and unlooked-for
passion of his? What should she know of
love ? And why should she love him ? This
last was a question which Harold Bramston
might not have thought it necessary to ask
himself in respect of every woman that he had
met: but, as regarded Hilda Kildhurm, he
found himself destitute of any vanity what-
ever, and inclined to look upon himself as the
most insignificant of men. The most insignifi-
cant of men? Was there then some other
U 2


292 KI L] )H URI] ’5' OAK.
man who was more significant—or who pos-
sessed more significance in Hilda’s eyes ?
This idea was torture to Captain Bramston,
and he tried to put it away, and to fight
against it; but the more he tried the more
numerous and plausible were the reasons
which suggested themselves to him for sup-
posing it to be true. There must be young
, men enough in the country-side to love and
woo fifty Hildas; and such, a Hilda as this
might raise up lovers to herself in the midst
of a desert. And if she were loved, why
might she not love in return ? Oh! misery,
why might she not be engaged to somebody
at this very moment? Was it consistent
with human nature to suppose that she could
have lived for a little less than twenty years
in the world without having been obliged to
engage herself to somebody ? Captain Bram-
ston groaned inwardly, and cursed his luck for
not having made him to be born and raised
under the shadow of Kildhurm’s Oak.
And what were Hilda’s thoughts all this
time? She said to herself that there was a
sensation in her heart which she had never
known till now: a lightness, a fulness, and
yet a fear: it affected her voice, so that she
found it difficult to speak evenly or to breathe
as regularly as usual, or to keep under control
the blood that sought her cheeks. Moreover.
a smile was ever attempting to manifest itself
on her lips, without her being able to account
to herself satisfactorily for its being there.
She told herself that this was very silly; but


KILDHURAI’S OA K. 293
its being silly did not prevent it from being
rather pleasant. Another singularity in her
sensations was, that she felt a great tenderness
and affection for the world at large. Every-
thing seemed kind to her, and considerate of
her happiness. There was a bird up some—
where in the branches of the Oak that sang
just the kind of song that she would have
liked to sing, if she had known how. Surely
the sunshine need not have fallen with such
mellow radiance of warm colour on the grass
and on the grey Tower, if it had not wished to
do her an especial favour : surely the sea need
not have murmured with such languorous
- sweetness beneath the cliff, if it had not
wished to echo the inarticulate harmony that
whispered in her own soul. And, by the way
(not that this had anything to do with it),
what adelightful voice Captain Bramston had,
and what a noble countenance, and what a
gentle and withal spirited expression, and
what a picturesque way of leaning against the
trunk of the Oak, and of occasionally moving
his hand when he spoke, and of throwing back
his head when he laughed. What a strange
freak of destiny to bring this young hero all
round the world to sit here at her feet at last,
and makea summer afternoon so memorable !
It was a remarkably brief afternoon, however,
and once gone it would never return. It
would never return. There was a sweet pain
in that reflection—the sweeter the more pain-
ful. Yes, Captain Bramston would ride away
by-and-by, and he would never come back.


29.; KILDHURIII’S OAK.
\Vhy should he come back? There could
never be such another afternoon : there could
never be such another Captain Bramston:
there could never be such another longing,
and tenderness, and fear as abode now in
Hilda’s heart. Such things, such times, came
once and came no more. As Hilda said this
to herself, she felt quite melancholy in the
midst of her happiness ; and soft tears stood
in her eyes as she looked seaward.
It must not be supposed that these two
young people allowed anything of what was
passing in their minds to appear in their con—
versation: by no means! They talked of
anything rather than that. The Captain
gave an interesting account of his adventures
abroad, and described the American Indians,
and General Lafayette, and General Washing-
ton, and General Arnold, and unfortunate
Major Andre, who was so cruelly hanged.
Captain Bramston was of opinion that Arnold
was much more deserving of hanging than
Andre. To all this Hilda listened and replied
and questioned; and then, being questioned
in turn, she attempted to give some account
of her own life at Kildhurm ; whom she saw,
what she did, what she wanted to do: but it all
struck her as being profoundly uninteresting
and empty, and she was sure that Captain
Bramston must share her opinion, though he
very politely made believe that he liked to
hear her. So the hours passed away and the
sun reached the hills, and Hilda expected
every moment to hear Captain Bramston say


296 KILDHURIWS OAK
and his eyes were ardent. ‘ Miss Kildhurm,
I—may I tell you something?’
She made an effort to draw her hand
away. ‘I think I would rather you didn’t-
at least with that voice, and ’
‘Don’t turn away from me!’ exclaimed
this impetuous warrior; and he kissed her
hand passionately. ‘ I cannot help it! Hilda,
I ,
An imperative voice here interrupted the
young people, and brought Captain Bramston
to his feet. ‘ Stop, sir !’ it said. ‘ Whoever
you are, this conduct is inadmissible. Stand
back, sir!’
It was Sir Philip; and old Lady Kild-
hurm was with him. Sir Philip was looking
as stern-and, indeed, fierce—as it was in his
nature to do. Hilda, rising also, said ap-
pealingly,
‘ Don’t, father! It wasn’t his fault ! ’
‘ Not his fault—!’ Sir Philip, in a mix-
ture of amazement and indignation, glared
first at his daughter, then at the handsome
stranger, who, however, met his look frankly
and resolutely. For a few moments the
baronet’s face worked strangely: then, much
to the surprise and more to the relief of the
guilty persons, he burst into a shout of
larghter.


KILDHURM’S OAK. 297
CHAPTER XIV
THE WEDDING-GIFT.
IT was not so difficult, after this, to make
the necessary explanations and apologies.
Sir Philip had heard about Captain Bram-
ston before, though Hilda had not; and, in
the bottom of his heart, he did not object
to regard him in the light of a possible son-
in-law. But it would not do to confess this
just at present. Captain Bramston had
stood to his guns, and, on the spot where
he stood, had declared his love for Hilda
Kildhurm, and demanded Sir Philip’s con-
sent to their betrothal.
‘ I can give you nothing of the kind, sir,’
replied the Baronet, endeavouring to look
immitigable. ‘Your request is as premature
as—as it is contrary to sound principle.
Anyone would suppose, Captain Bramston,
that you expected the world to come to an
end by to-morrow morning, by the haste you
are in to have your affairs settled! ’
‘In this case, Sir Philip,’ replied the
Captain, with equal respect and firmness,
‘ sound principle is of no use. The falling in
love is an accomplished fact. The next
thing to settle is the date of the wedding.’
‘ Upon my word, Captain Bramston,’ the
Baronet exclaimed, ‘if you are as pushing in
war as you seem to be in other matters, you


298 KILDHURJI’S OAK.
should have been ageneral long ago. But
we will, if you please, dismiss this subject
for the present. I am in no hurry to lose
my daughter in the first place, and more-
over, in an affair of this nature, I could
not think of deciding anything without con-
sulting Lady Kildhurm, my mother.’
Lady Kildhurm and Hilda had with-
drawn during this colloquy between the
gentlemen, and Hilda had gone into the
house. But as the- Baronet and Captain
Bramston, still conversing earnestly, slowly
made their way across the lawn, they were
suddenly aware that Lady Kildhurm was
again near them. They halted, and were
silent. - ,
She was, at this time, almost at the
extreme limit of old age; yet her eyes were
clear and her bearing dignified; and so far
from her mental infirmity having become ex-
aggerated, it had grown year by year less
obtrusive, though she was at least as far as
ever from being on normal terms with the
material world. She lived in a world of her
own ; but she accommodated the latter to the
former more easily than before. So serene
and unexaggerated were her tones and
gestures, that a stranger would hardly have
suspected that she was virtually unconscious
of what most people call the realities of
life.
When the venerable sibyl was within
a yard or so of Harold Bramston, she
paused, with her face and the palms of her


300 KI L DH URIII ’S OAK.
nearly a hundred and fifty thousand pounds ;
and that he was prepared to settle any part
of this sum, or the whole of it, according
as Sir Philip pleased, on his wife, on the
day of their marriage. He only wished that
he could do something more.
‘I must say, Bramston,’ exclaimed Sir
Philip, laughing, ‘ that you are more danger-
ously in love than any man I ever saw or
heard of. You must go off somewhere for a
month and see if you can’t get rid of a little
of it. I shall positively refuse to sign settle-
ments with a man in so pitiable a condition
as you are now. Recollect, my good fellow,
that Hilda goes to you literally penniless;
and that I never should feel comfortable if I
had not left open to you every avenue of
escape in my power. Besides, don’t you see
that you will be paying one another a finer
mutual compliment by waiting a while and
seeking distractions, than by coming to-
gether at once, and so losing all opportunity
of making sacrifices? Well, whether you
see it or not, those are my orders, and you
will have to put up with them.’
‘You will of course allow us to corre-
spond ?’ demanded the Captain, when he saw
that he was beaten on the main point.
‘ I should greatly prefer not.’
‘Then I will write to her, Sir Philip, in
spite of you !’ cried out the other, firing up.
‘Oh, very well: in'that case I agree,’
rejoined Sir Philip with a twinkle in his eyes.
‘You may write to her five times in the


KILD/IURJI’S OAK. 30!
course of the month—choosing your own
times, whether all in one day, or once in
every six. But are you sure a month will be
long enough to get your affairs in order?’
‘ Oh, Sir Philip ! And they are in order.
They have been in charge of a friend of mine
for three years past. I shall have a look
through his accounts, so as to see exactly
Where I stand—that will take me about three
hours I should say—and then I shall have
nothing else to do until the month is up.
Six times a week am I to write, did you say ?
Why not make it six times a day ?’
‘ Ha, ha, ha! But as regards this friendly
man of business of yours. You are quite
certain he is trustworthy? That’s a lot of
property to leave out of your hands for three
years, especially if you only require three
hours in which to look through the accounts!’
‘I trust him, dear Sir Philip, as I trust
myself. If you only knew him ’
‘Quite right! if I only knew him of
course I should not have made the inquiry.
As it is_having known what it was to lose
money in my youth—I did make it! And
now, Captain Bramston, as I can’t ask you to
spend the night here, I must bid you good-
bye. I shall be glad to see you back, safe
and sound, when your month is up; and I
won’t pretend to say that I don’t believe
you’ll come, and that Hilda won’t exPect you.
As for the money-matters, of course it’s a
capital thing to have a rich son-in-law ; but I
must confess that I should have liked you a


302 K [L DH URJI ’S OAK.
good deal better if honours had been a little
more equally divided ! ’
On these terms the two gentlemen parted;
little anticipating what was to happen.
Hilda received her first letter on the day
following her lover’s departure, he having
written it on his way to London, and de-
spatched it back to her by special messenger.
She did not expect a letter on the next day,
nor on the next, and not much on the day
after that; and this was well, for on no one
of these days did a letter come. A week
passed, and no letter. Ten days, and no
letter. Two weeks, and still no letter. It
was now apparent, even to Sir Philip, who
had affected to make great fun of her at first,
that something must have happened. The
address which Captain Bramston had given
had been at his business manager’s; Sir
Philip privately sent a messenger thither, to
make inquiries; but at the end of the third
week the messenger returned, and brought
with him the astounding news that there
were no news to bring ! Nothing was known
at the address given either of the manager or
of Captain Bramston. Was the man dead,
or an impostor, or had he simply changed his
mind? It was at all events plain that he
would never again show his face at Kildhurm
Tower.
It Was necessary, therefore, to have a
very painful interview with Hilda. Poor Sir
Philip recoiled at the prospect; but it was
not to be avoided; and at last he sent for


304 [(1 LDH UR)! ’S 0.4 K.

involuntary smile. ‘Do you think Harold
would not keep his promise ? ’ -
The last day of the month came, and
Hilda appeared with her best frock on, and
with fresh flowers in her hair. ' He will be
here at dinner,’ she said ; and she made her
arrangements accordingly, setting a chair for
him, and decorating that and his plate with
leaves and blossoms. Sir Philip looked on
with a heavy heart; but he held his peace.
The faith of his child appalled him, but he
dared not share it, and the moment was not
yet come to repudiate it. His agitation was
so great that he strove in vain to conceal it :
but Hilda, though her colour was high and
her eyes bright, was as calm and confident as
if her lover had arrived the day before.
Dinner time drew near; and, shortly before
the hour struck, Harold appeared at the door
as if by magic.
Sir Philip started up from his chair with
a great hoarse shout, and remained stationary.
Hilda came up to her lover, threw her arms
about his neck, and kissed him heartily ! As
for Harold, he looked haggard and grim, and
he made scarce a show of returning Hilda’s
caress.
‘Come, now, sit down,’ she said, in the
most natural and sensible way in the world,'
‘ and tell us why you have not written, and
what all this trouble has been about I ’
‘ It is better that I should tell you at
once,’ said Harold, in a husky voice. ‘All
the money that I had is gone. I am almost


306 K ILDH URM ’S OAK.
well with you, and with me. To-morrow,
early in the morning, search the Oak.’
On that night all in the household were
visited by strange dreams; and through the
dreams they heard a sound of a voice
chanting a weird song, and rising higher and
clearer; until at last there came a deep
booming sound like thunder: and after that
the chant was heard no more.
In the morning, early, Harold and Hilda
went out, and walked arm-in-arm to the cliff
where the Oak had stood. But 10! the
Oak was gone. The overhanging pro-
montory on which it grew had parted from
the main land during the night, wrenching
the mighty tree with it. But the ocean had
received the tree in its arms, and had
carried it away, never ,again to be seen by
mortal eyes. For the waves had been the
friends of the mysterious Oak from the
beginning; and they had drawn a veil of
solemn mystery over its end.
But where was the ancient sibyl? She
too had vanished, singing her wild chant;
perhaps to find in another world the treasure
whereof she had prophesied so long on this
earth. At all events, no one ever saw her
living or dead, after that night; and it came
to be believed that she had been borne on
her last journey amidst the branches of the
tree which she had made her home.
But on the brink of the freshly-made
chasm still stood a tall and rugged fragment
of the Oak, which had remained in its place


310 THE NEW ENDVJIION.
My doctor, having felt my pulse, fur-
nished me with the somewhat gratuitous
information that what I needed was rest—
rest absolute and persistent, bodily and
mental: to dream beneath green trees; to
linger by still waters; to forget that such
things as books and knowledge existed; to
think of nothing, and converse with nobody
more stimulating than birds, beasts, country
yokels, and speckled trout. Anything in the
shape of newspapers, railways, days of the
week or month, or, in fact, of time and civili-
sation in general, were to be entirely ignored.
I was to establish a sort of rural eternity
for myself, and to forget that such a
thing as a nineteenth century had ever been
born.
I was wholly persuaded of the soundness
of this advice; the trouble was, I had not
‘go’ enough left in me to follow it. I wanted
somebody to give me a shove in the required
direction. Unfortunately, I was almost alone
in the world, and could think of no quarter
whence the external impetus might be ex-
pected. I had made few intimate friends in
the university, and none of a temperament at
once idle and energetic enough to provide
the sort of companionship I needed. I was
an only child, and my widowed mother
had died about a year previous, leaving me
an empty house somewhere in the suburbs of
London, a comfortable competence, and no
relations that I could remember ever to have
seen. I was as solitary in the midst of the


THE NEW END YMION. 311
populous earth as if I had changed places
with the man in the moon.
I was doing my situation less than justice,
however. Just as I had begun to subside
into I know not what sluggish depths of
despondency, I received a letter which put a
new face upon matters, and lent a fillip to my
jaded mood such as awakened me to some-
thing like liveliness. The letter was from an
uncle of mine, whose very existence had been
almost mythical to me, for he was a recluse
and an eccentric, who never went anywhere,
and lived in an out-of-the-way place, where
nobody ever went. As his communication
was brief and to the point, I will give
it here at full length :
‘DEAR NEPHEW,—If your studies have
left you brains enough to apprehend the
vanity of double firsts and their consequences,
come to me and let me look at you. If I
like your looks you may stay here a month
or two. You will see the country, Diana,
and the stars; you will hear the winds, the
birds, and the brook; and of the world you
have hitherto lived in you will see and hear
nothing. I shall expect you the day after to-
morrow.—-Your uncle,
‘PHILIP NORMAN.’
I allowed myself no doubts as to this
invitation, but wrote an acceptance by return
of post. The rest of the day was spent in
packing my trunk and making arrangements


THE NEW ENDJ’JIION. 313
with man. As I grew up, however, the
course of my education drew me away from
the region of these fancies; not without a
vague sentiment of disappointment, I learned
to open the gates of practical knowledge
with the key of inductive reasoning; and the
mystic enchantment of those heavenly sun’s
and planets was half destroyed by the rude
facts of spectrum analysis, and the ingenious
calculations of distances, orbits, and dimen—
sions. Astronomy, with its certainties and
its syllogisms, repelled me: it revealed too
much, and yet nothing to my purpose. I
hated the impertinence of him who would
tell me the density of Jupiter, the composi-
tion of Sirius, and the names of the mountains
in the moon. To my sense, such petty
knowledge was worse than no knowledge at
all, and I was shocked by the self-complacent
irreverence of its professors. Better, thought
I, than these were the astrologers of yore,
with their statistical ignorance, their spiritual
insight, and their humble faith. They, at
least, appreciated the awful solemnity that
should attend the thought of other worlds,
material, perhaps, as our own, yet for ever
separated from us by achasm as profound and
as mysterious as death. Away with the modern
man of science, ready primed with his dapper
theories, who cares not to meditate upon the
divine reason which placed that eternal gulf
between the moon and us. but fancies he has
disposed of the whole matter by informing us
just how many miles and furlongs it measures


THE NEW ENDYIIIION. 315
II.
THE railway station at which I alighted was,
the porter told me, about seven miles distant
from Mr. Norman’s place. This information
rather staggered me, as there were no cabs
in that part of the world, and walking, for
one in my state of health, was quite out of
the question. Just then, however, a country
waggon drove up to the station door, with a
stout, serviceable bay mare between the shafts.
The elderly farmer who handled the reins
threw them on the mare’s back, and, clamber~
ing to the ground, faced about and abruptly
asked me whether I were William Maybold.
‘ Yes,’ I said, amused at his rustic blunt-
ness; ‘were you sent here by Mr. Philip
Norman ? ’ '
‘I’m to drive you to his house,’ replied
the man, gruffly. ‘Get up, sir. Got any
luggage ? ’
‘ Only that trunk; can you lift it ?’
I needed scarcely have asked the question.
My farmer, though not of any great height,
was as broad and muscular as an old Roman
gladiator, and he swung the trunk into the
back of the waggon as easily as if it had been
a lady’s handbox. He was in every respect
a fine type of the men of that region. His
_face was dark, and ruggedly moulded, and
the deep lines which traversed it gave it an
expression of sternness, which the gruffness


r316 TIIE NEW ENDYIIIIOIV.
of his tones in speaking seemed to confirm.
His grizzled black hair was cropped short
round the lower part of his head ; the crown
_as I noticed when he took off his hat to
wipe his forehead—was bald; and he wore
a great shaggy beard like a prophet. But
the remarkable features of his face were his
eyes, which were large and dark, and had
the steady, distant look in them that is often
observable in the eyes of seafaring men.
They seemed to have beheld sights beyond
ordinary human ken.
‘I suppose you know Mr. Norman?’ I
said to my companion as we drove away.
‘ Yes ; I have charge of his garden.’
‘He sees very little of the world, I
believe ?’
‘ There are more worlds than one, young
man.’
As I did not know exactly what to make
of this reply, I was silent, and gave my atten-
tion to the country through which we were
passing. It was fertile, and rich in verdure,
but the houses were very scarce. The road
we were travelling wound considerably, but
constantly ascended, and bade fair to land
us at last on the summit of a commanding
eminence. The prospect constantly widened
around us as we proceeded, and its beauty,
as it reposed in the mellow splendour of the
afternoon sunshine, so wrought upon me that
at length I let slip some exclamation of _
delight.
‘ Can a Cockney care for this ?’ demanded


THE NEW ENDI’ZIIIOIV. 317
the farmer, fixing his eyes upon me for a
moment.
‘ I’m not infatuated with London,’ I
answered, laughing. ‘I’ve travelled farther
away from it than this, before now.’
‘ Ay, London’s not the world, young man,
and the world is not the universe,’ rejoined
my companion, whom I now began to recog-
nise as a ‘character.’ After a pause, he
added, ‘ Have you seen the Alps ?’
‘ More than once.’
‘ What did they make you feel ? .
‘I think their loneliness and silence im-
pressed me most. I felt that they were very
mighty, and I very little.’
For what reason I could not imagine, this
answer appeared to please the dark-browed
farmer. He nodded his head once or twice,
and murmured in a deep, inward voice ‘ Ay
—right-right! But there are mountains
wilder, and mightier, and lonelier than they.’
‘You are a traveller yourself, then?’ I
exclaimed, surveying him with a new interest.
‘ You have been a sailor, perhaps ?’
‘ I have sailed a wide ocean and a deep
one; and I have seen distant lands; yet I
have never set foot off the shore of England,’
was the reply.
Again I was silenced. There was some-
thing decidedly mysterious in the tone of this
man’s conversation. What did he mean by
his talk of other worlds, and of visiting
foreign countries without leaving his own?
I should have set him down as perhaps a little


nm NEW EA'UJ'MION. 319
moment, ‘ \Vell, my boy, you have found me
out,’ he said, patting me kindly on the
shoulder. ‘I wished to meet you as a man
before I greeted you as a nephew. You
seem to be an honest fellow, though you have
but a flimsy body to carry your honesty about
with. I am glad to see you here.’
There was so much quiet heartiness in
this welcome, that I felt at home with my
relative. at once. He now talked with me
more freely, asking many particulars about
my mother and myself, and indulging in no
more of those enigmatical utterances which
had made him seem so questionable at first.
In this manner we slowly wound our way to
the top of the long acclivity, and after driving
a level mile or so, I saw the summit of alofty
stone tower peering above the trees.
‘ That is my travelling-carriage,’ said
Uncle Philip, pointing to the tower with his
whip. ‘The house stands beside it; we
shall see it when we have turned that
corner.’
‘ His travelling-carriage !’ thought I. But
reflecting that all these enigmas could not fail
to explain themselves under the influence of
my month’s sojourn, I held my peace for the
present ; and in another minute we had come '
in full view of the dwelling. It adjoined the
tower, and, like it, was built of grey stone.
It was an old farmhouse, of no great size,
with a red-tiled roof and gabled ends: a
clustered brick chimney divided the ridge-
pole, and two dormer-windows pushed them-


3:: THE NEW END I’M/ON.
. ‘In London ? Oh no ; why shouldI ? I
was born here, and this is my home.’
True enough, London with its smoke and
turmoil was no place for this young sibyl.
Her beautiful feet were made to tread
nothing lower than mountain-tops. I asked
her whether many people visited them here.
‘ Last year we saw a great many—twelve,
I believe,’ she answered quite simply, as if
the population of the earth were but a small
multiple of that number. ‘ But they were all
scientific persons, who came to find out about
our discoveries. You are not scientific ?’
‘ No, indeed ! I am nothing—only a
young man.’
‘ You are the first young man I have seen.’
‘ I wish I were a better specimen!’ I said
rather ruefully. ‘ They are not all like me, I
assure you ! ’
She turned upon me the full gaze of her
changing eyes, and I felt that she was looking
very far into me. After a pause she said
thoughtfully, ‘ It is strange ! You look a
little—yes, a great deal—like . . . Are you
like your mother ?’
‘ I believe more like my father.’
She shook her head, still thoughtfully.
Then, rousing herself, she said with a smile,
‘ You look pale and tired; but that we shall
cure you of.’
‘Why I begin to feel cured already, what
with this pure air and—and all! But tell me,
Cousin Diana, what are these discoveries you
speak of ? ’


THE NEW END mnozv. 323
'At this question her face became quite
grave again, and she answered with a some-
what altered manner, and a lower intonation, as
though touching upon a subject invested with
a kind of sacredness :
‘We do not speak of it to strangers—
that is, we never speak of it. But you are
not a stranger: and father said I might trust
you: and—I think I may! Well, you shall
know in good time.’
At this juncture my uncle came in.
‘Now, nephew, your room is ready for
you. You and Diana have had time enough
to become good cousins, I hope ? Very well,
come up and get ready for dinner. This
way!’
He conducted me along a passage to a
narrow door, on opening which a winding
staircase was discovered. Ascending this—a
somewhat weary journey for me—my uncle
paused on the third landing and ushered me
into a nearly circular room, fitted and fur-
nished with dark carved wood. Two or three
dusky oil-portraits hung on the walls--which
last, judging from the deep embrasures of the
windows, must have been of extraordinary
thickness; and the massive groined ceiling
seemed designed to support a vast super-
incumbent weight.
‘ This is the lower chamber,’ observed my
uncle. ‘As long as you stay with us it will
be yours.’
‘ I’m not turning you out of your travelling-
carriage, Uncle Philip?’
Y2


'324 THE NEW ENDYJIION.
‘That’s overhead,’ he answered, with a
smile. ‘After dinner, if the evening turns
out clear, you may go up there, and try a
little excursion.’
A light began to dawn upon my slow
Wits.
‘ It is an observatory!’ I exclaimed. ‘You
are an astronomer ? ’
‘ Yes and no. I have been an astronomer,
but only as a necessary condition to being
something higher than that. But I gave it
up, for the most part, years ago: I found
myself growing old—my mind losing its
delicacy of perception. Diana is the master
now: and she—if she chooses—may indoc-
trinate you in the mysteries.’ And nodding
kindly to me, he shut the door and was gone. '
He had not left me without food for re-
flection. I now understood—or at all events
I had the key to—all that had puzzled me
from the time Ireceived his note of invitation
down to the present hour. ‘ Diana and the
stars’ were to be my entertainment here:
well—nothing, certainly, could so well have
suited my own inclinations. The lore of the
- heavens, followed in such companionship,
would be heavenly lore indeed I My aversion
from astronomy now appeared to me un-
reasonable; or, rather, my uncle’s words had
enabled me to assign to astronomy its true
place—that of an instrument to the study of
‘something higher.’ And Diana was the
master—of this loftier science, that is. It
was not likely, indeed, that my beautiful


THE NEW EA'DYJIIOIV. 327
that separated me from those far-off worlds.
And now, happening to glance eastwards, I
saw, pallid amidst the darkening blue, the
great white moon stealing upwards like a
ghost, solitary, silent, and inscrutable!
IV.
A HAND laid upon my shoulder caused me
to start nervously. I turned, and met the
grave dark eyes of my uncle Philip.
‘What are you dreaming about, young
fellow?’ said he. ‘ How pale and nervous
you are! We shall have to put you on a
strict regimen. I see: early hours and plenty
of milk to drink. Come, let’s see what sort
of an appetite you can show !’
‘Would not you feel rather at a loss,
Uncle Philip, if the moon were to drop out
of the sky some day ?’
‘ I see your mind is running on the obser-
vatory,’ he returned, with his short deep laugh.
‘ Ask Diana! She knows more about the
moon than I do—or than anyone else does,
for that matter.’
The conversation at dinner was not, how-
ever, much more transcendental than is custo-
mary on such occasions in England. Diana
said but little;_and her father and I kept our
feet pretty constantly on tem'afirma ; soaring
but rarely beyond the attraction of gravity.
The two things which chiefly affected me


THE NE W END VIIIIOM 229
that liquor. Among its other merits, there-
fore, it acts as a test of character.’
‘ How did you come by it ?’
"Tis of a very ancient vintage,’ he
replied, ‘and I believe every bottle of it now
extant is in my cellar. It was grown in a
famous comet year, and under favourable
aspects of the heavenly bodies. I can re-
member when I used to find it an agreeable
tipple, previous to taking an observation. It
has—for those who can drink it_the rare
quality of brightening the faculties without
afterwards reacting upon them. A child
could use it without injury.’
I looked at Diana, curious as to whether
she had been brought up on this marvellous
elixir; but, as if she had divined what was
in my mind, and preferred to remain unques-
tioned, she arose at this point and went out,
leaving her father and me to our decanters.
‘ You are fortunate in having made such
good friends with your cousin,’ he remarked.
‘You are about the first man, except my-
self, to whom I have ever heard her volunteer
an observation. Yea and nay is the sum of
her speech to most of the inhabitants of this
planet.’
‘ She is certainly not talkative,’ said I, dis-
guising the pleasure I felt at discovering that
I had found favour in her sight. ‘You see
very little company, I believe ? ’
‘Well, Idon’t seek men much, and they
find little encouragement in seeking me,’
returned my uncle, taking a draught of


330 THE NEW END YMION.
burgundy, and fixing his dark eyes upon me.
‘We do not sympathise with their aims,
nor they with ours. And yet, nephew, I
sometimes wish that Diana could see the
world. She has strange fancies: perhaps I
have no right to call them mere fancies,
either!’
He stopped abruptly: I was silent: pre-
sently he resumed again.
‘ I have tried to follow her in those strange
flights of hers; if I were her own age,
perhaps I might follow her after a fashion;
but women are mysterious to men, especially
young women like Diana—innocent as a
flower, and fathomless as the ether. She is
alone, quite alone, as far as human companion-
ship goes. Ay, it might be well for her to
see the world, were that possible, without the
world’s seeing her! I tell you, I sometimes
fear the effect of this solitary life upon her
——upon a girl with such a mind and heart.
Heaven knows—I dare not ask—what un-
earthly friends she may hold communion
with, up yonder in her tower ! ’ '
‘I can imagine no communion so fitting
for her as that of the stars,’ said I.
‘She was born to those studies, and has
grown up in them: and she has divined
secrets which no other human being has
attempted. When she was born, I was full
of the faith and eagerness of _youth; and
Diana, even as a child, showed traces of the
influences that were uppermost with me.
He who would fathom the stars, nephew,


332 THE NEW ENDYMION.
logarithms. No: in those worlds yonder,’
said my uncle, rising and sauntering towards
the open window, ‘live human races in every
conceivable degree of development. Ay,
think of that!’
‘ And is there most wickedness or good-
ness there ?’ ’
‘They shine fair enough, don’t they?’
answered my uncle, after a short silence;
‘ but all their light cannot elucidate that ques-
tion. You must ask your own heart; the
elements of the solution are there.’
VI
IT was a warm clear night, and we sat out on
the balcony for an hour, smoking my uncle’s
excellent cigars, and sipping coffee; but our
conversation died away as the shadows
deepened, and for a long time no word
passed between us. At length a lamp was
lighted in the room—a moonlike globe
of creamy glass, which contended in its
homely way with the calm lustre of the great
satellite that now stood high above us in the
dark immutable ether. A figure was moving
slowly to and fro within, which I knew, with-
out directly looking at it, was Diana’s. By-
and—by she came to the window, and stood
there between the lamplight and the moon-
light, looking up.


T HE .YEI/V ENDYAIION. 333
‘Which does she belong to?’ I mur-
mured to my uncle.
He understood me, and answered with a
smile, ‘ The man in the moon has had it all
his own way thus far; but now I shall take
it kindly if you set up a wholesome rivalry
with him !—-Come in, nephew: I feel the
dew—Diana, will you give us some music?’
She took a violin from a small table in
the corner, and, sitting down where the
moonlight fell into the room, she fixed her
eyes dreamily upon the cold planet, and
began to play. The violin, when skilfully
touched, has always affected me more than
any other instrument, and I had never been
in so susceptible a mood as I was to-night.
But ah ! what music was that—so strange, so
sweet, so wild! Wild it was as the far-off
howling of wolves, when the moon shines
upon snow—covered prairies; but organised,
proportioned, and enriched by the subtle
intelligence of a human musician’s brain. It
stirred my blood with eerie thrills ; the home-
like room in which I sate grew indistinct and
vanished. I was alone with Diana and the
music-and where were we ? Not on earth,
surely—not in any region where men and
women ever lived and breathed. My eyes
followed hers towards the moon; the white
rays touched my heart and spirit, and mys-
tically waived me thither. Slowly the bur-
nished disc waxed larger and brighter: the
fairy melody of the violin sounded keener
and intenser in my ears : in the rarefied atmo-


TIIE NEW ENDI’MION. 335
‘ I am not so good-for-nothing as I seem
—indeed I’m not!’
‘ Father, do you think it would be safe ?’
said she, turning towards my dark-browed
uncle, who was standing aside, with his arms
folded, thoughtfully gazing at the lamp.
‘ Eh ?—safe ?-why not ?’ returned he,
rousing himself from his reverie. ‘A peep
through a telescope ought not to upset a
young fellow who has seen Europe, and got
a double first! Besides, my dear, you
mustn’t expect that he will see as much as
you can !—well, at all events, you can let him
see the observatory and the arrangements,
and then, if it seem advisable to put off the
rest till another evening, why, so be it ! ’
Diana stood silent a few moments, with
her head lifted, in an attitude common with
her, looking out into the night. Then she
moved towards her father with a slow,
sauntering, royal step—no other woman ever
trod as she did-and, placing her hand within
his arm, drew him to the window. They
had some conversation together in an under-
tone; I did not willingly listen to it, and
I cannot even be sure that what I heard
was not—in part at least—the creation of
my own fancy. But my invalid condition
had made my hearing, as well as my other
senses, preternaturally acute, and the con-
versation seemed to me to run somewhat
thus :
‘ Did you see his face, as he lay there ?’
Diana had asked.


336 THE NEW ENDYIIIION.
‘Yes, my clear; a good-looking set of
features enough : what then ? ’
‘ Don’t jest about it, father.’
‘ Well, well, my dear, I see what you are
driving at. Yes, there is a resemblance,
certainly; I noticed it from the first; but it
might ocCur in a dozen or twenty instances
beside this one. There are more handsome
fellows in the world than you think for 1'
,Diana smiled. ‘And the day—is that
an accident, too, father? And—’ here she
pointed upwards, apparently at a certain
constellation near Orion-J is that conjunc-
tion one that might occur again ? ’
‘ Now, Diana! no fatalism! Be yourself,
my little girl !’
‘ But . . . it frightens me, father!’ she
murmured, with a sudden tremulousness,
clinging closer to his arm, and leaning her
cheek on his broad shoulder. But at this
juncture, being determined to hear no more,
I got up from the sofa, and, walking to the
other end of the room, began to turn over
a portfolio of drawings that was resting on
an easel there. I had just come upon one
representing a young man in a reclining
posture, the right knee drawn up, the left arm
hanging relaxed, and the head bowed forward
in a shadow that obscured the face, rendering
its contour indistinguishable :-—I was just ex—
amining this sketch when my uncle and
cousin, still arm-in-arm, approached.
‘Your lunar passport is made out,’ said
the former ; ‘ and here is the courier to guide


THE NEW ENDYMION. 339
a pause. ‘ Some time, perhaps, you will see
it. But now, if you are ready, we will go up
to the observatory.’
‘ Meanwhile I shall have another cigar on
the balcony,’ said my uncle. ‘ If you should
wish to join me any time during the next hour
or two, nephew, you will find me there.’
He grasped my hand for a moment, and
then I followed Diana out of the room.
VI.
WE were at the top of the tower staircase.
Diana pressed against a panel at the side of
the door, and it swung inwards on its hinges,
easily and yet ponderously. We entered,
and I found myself in a tiny ante-cham-
ber, with a heavy curtain of embroidered
leather in front of me. This Diana pushed
aside sufficiently for me to pass on to, the
room beyond, while she closed the door
behind.
It was a circular room, like my own'
chamber below, but much loftier, and without
any sign of .windows. A mild half-light
descended from a ring of shaded lamps
affixed round the walls at a height of nine
feet from the floor, leaving the vaulted ceiling
in shadow. The walls below the lamps were
draped with a kind of tapestry of rich dark
hues; and at one side stood a tall carved
cabinet of black wood, furnished with a pair
2 2


34: THE NEW EJVDYAIIOAV.
before pointed out to me; tl: en laid her
finger on her lip and drew me buck a step.
All the wheels were in motion; and
grandly, slowly, almost imperceptibly, as the
sweep of that far-distant planet which it was
following in its course through space, the
marvellous engine moved along its orbit.
At the same moment a strain of subdued
melody, resembling somewhat the music of
onlian harps heard far off, floated out and
palpitated upon the still air of the vaulted
room. The strain grew louder and clearer,
then sank again to whisperings almost
inaudible: and then once again increased in
power and volume, seeming now like a
chorus of angelic voices chanting a hymn of
praise. I held my breath to listen, and, for
a time, forgot surprise in the pure pleasure of
the ear. -
‘ What is it ?’ I whispered at length.
‘ I call it the song of the moon,’ answered
Diana. ‘ You will hear it whenever the
moon’s rays fall upon the glass. I love it
the best of all.’
‘ There are others, then ?’
‘ Each planet has its song, different from
all the others : and the stars also : but those
we cannot hear.’
This was said so quietly, and with an air
so grave, that I knew not whether my cousin
expected me to take it seriously. ‘ Are you
really an enchantress,’ I asked, ‘that you can
bring down to earth the music of the spheres,
as well as make their mysteries visible ? ’


THE NEW END YMION. 34;
‘Why not? is one more wonderful than
the other?’ she returned, with a faint smile.
‘ But you must not expect me to tell you all
my secrets at once, Cousin Will. Think of
me as an enchantress for to-night. I am not
the first who has practised magic in this tower.
It was built they say, in the time of King
Arthur, by the magician Merlin; and Friar
Bacon once lived here, and worked upon the
problem of the Speaking Head. But none
of them could do what I can do, or ever
saw what I have seen a thousand times !’
If it had been Diana’s intention—as it
certainly was not—deliberately to inspire me
with a sentiment of superstitious awe and
expectation, by working upon an imagination
always apt enough for the marvellous and
recondite, she could not have chosen a more
fitting time and means. The strange aspect
of the lofty room, dimly illuminated below
and shadowy overhead ; the fantastic legends
associated with it; the weird music that still
trembled through it; and above all the
spectacle of that potent instrument even now
moving in harmony with the march of the
universe ;—these things alone might have
stimulated the emotions of one of firmer
nerves and sturdier health than mine. But,
such as I then was, their influence upon me
was profound and overmastering. The facts
of my past life in the world, the little learn-
ing I had acquired—the material certainties,
in short, whereby men are accustomed to
steady themselves when assailed by aught


346 THE NEW END YMION.
succeeded in deciphering it; and then the
elixir was made.’ _
‘ But what was it originally intended for
—by the alchemists ? ’
‘ My father thinks it may have been their
famous drink of Immortality,’ replied Diana,
taking the silver vase from its niche as she
spoke. ‘But he did not taste it, for he
neither wished to live for ever nor to die by
poison—and this may as well be an aqua
trflzna as an elixir vile! But, while
brewing it, he had noticed the strange effect
of moonlight upon it; and as he was there
searching for some means of strengthening
the telescope, it occurred to him to try an
experiment. And this was the result !’
In saying these words, she slipped a
funnel into the neck of the phial or lens, and,
while I steadied the latter upon my knees,
she poured into it about a pint of liquid
from the vase. Then, taking it heedfully
from my hands, she replaced it in its proper
position in the neck of the telescope, se—
cured it there by screwing on the ring, and
finally, by turning a button attached 'to
the pipe that supplied the lights, they were
at once extinguished, and we were left in
darkness.
Yet no—not entirely so! For, when my
eyes had had time to recover from the first
impression of blackness, I began to perceive
that there was still light in the room, though
proceeding from a different quarter. It
seemed to have a deep crimson hue; and in


348 THE NEW END YAIIOIV.
thoughtful contemplation. But the fermenta-
tion was not yet complete. Again the
slender serpents twined and wreathed them-
selves, dispelling more and more the remain-
ing rays of crimson, and creating a uniform
and ever-intensifying light of azure. It was
an azure as pure as that of an Egyptian sky,
but possessing a wealth and sparkle of colour
such as no atmosphere can rival-the sparkle
of the ideal sapphire'which no lapidary has
yet discovered.
‘What causes this?’ I whispered at
length; ‘and how is it to end ?’
‘ It is the moon purging the elixir of its
last earthly impurities, and making it fit to
hold its image,’ replied Diana, gravely.
‘ These changes that you see following each
other so rapidly would ordinarily last for
days; it is the power given to the rays by
the other lenses that hastens the work. See !
the blue is already becoming green: now
the green brightens into yellow : and
now . . .’
As she spoke, the fermentation gradually
ceased; the liquid, having passed through all
the preparatory stages, now gleamed white
and pure as a diamond. The illumination
which it gave forth was so intense, and yet
so soft, that it permeated the whole chamber
with an unearthly radiance—with the cold,
colourless radiance of another world. It was
as if the spirit of the moon, obeying the man-
date of some irresistible spell, were present
with us in that ancient tower.


THE NEW END YMION. 349
‘ It is finished!’ said Diana, with a vibra-
tion of solemnity in her tones. ‘The moon
is as near us now as the valley over which
you saw her rise this evening. Are you ready?’
Why did I hesitate? The moment for
which 1 had so ardently wished was come.
I needed but to turn my face to behold a
spectacle which no human beings save Diana
and her father had yet looked upon, and
which, perhaps, none other than ourselves
might ever see. Was it fear that withheld
me? Fear of what? Of the revelation on
the brink of which I stood ? or of myself ?
"Are you ready ?’ Diana repeated.
‘ N o !’
She gazed at me with eyes in which I
dreaded to detect indignation or contempt.
But no !—their glance was of grave and
searching inquiry, nothing more. I forced
myself to attempt an explanation of what I
myself did not understand.
‘I cannot trust myself, Diana. \Vhat
right have I to know things which God has
kept secret from other men ? might it not be
a kind of profanation ? I am not like you—-
I have not lived so spotless and serene a life.
You are worthy of this revelation: no one
besides you is worthy of it. Even your
father dares not share it with you any longer
--in spite of his strength, he distrusts his
strength for that. What would you think of
me, if I were to look, and yet not see what
you see, or feel what you feel P The risk is
too great.’


THE NEW END YMION. 353
broke in foam around me, and the foam
changed to white serpents, coiling in hissing
knots. Then I knew that it was no longer a
sea in which I struggled, but the infinite void
of space. I moved with the constellations,
in an appointed orbit, and in that orbit I
must move for ever. The boat had spread a
pale luminous sail that gleamed against the
darkness: it swept on a course concentric
with my own, but a myriad leagues away.
Never should that fatal gulf be crossed, or
its breadth diminished. Rounder grew the
sail,’ it shone like burnished metal; against
the disc I saw the shadowy form of the
robber, and Diana in his arms. Through all
eternity must I behold her thus, without the
power to help or comfort her. Suddenly I
passed into a great shadow, like the shadow
of utter blindness. I heard a soothing
melody, as of fairy choristers. A soft hand
clasped mine. My dream was over. I was
awake!
Awake—yes, that was certain ; but where
was I ? No longer in my own room; I was
standing in a silvery gloom, my temples still
throbbing with the agony of my dream. Not
yet fully master of my faculties, the idea
possessed me that, in my course through
space, I had fallen upon a grey cloud, which
was bearing me gently onwards towards a
great brightness, some glimpse of which Isaw
above the cloud’s edge. Guided by the same
soft hand, I reached the edge and sat down
upon it. The brightness broke upon my eyes
A a


THE NEW ENDYIIIION. 357
itself to meet my human challenge? It
stirred: its stiffened limbs moved with slow
majesty; the vast trunk swayed and turned.
But 10! the whole mountain side moved
with it: the frozrm crust, contracting with
force irresistible, was crushed against itself,
and broken; vast masses, bursting from the
rocky bed, piled themselves in jagged pyra-
mids. The lips of the great chasm trembled,
and approached each other: but ere they
met, I saw the form of the Titan sweep
downwards to the brink, shattered and riven,
but the Titan still. He paused for an
instant over the abyss, then plunged head-
long in, and the irrevocable lips ground
together above him. Even as he plunged
his face met mine, and in its stony lineaments
I recognised the prototype of my own!
It was not until two or three months
afterwards, as I lay recovering from the brain
fever brought on by this night’s adventure,
that I learned how it came about. I had
risen from my chair in my sleep, climbed the
tower stairs, and re-entered the observatory,
where Diana still remained. The touch of_
her hand and the sound of the music (which
was produced by connecting a sort of organ
with the machinery of the telescope) had
partially awakened me, though not sufficiently
to show me where I was. In this condition
I had looked through the lens, and the vast
spectacle of ‘the moon, brought within the
apparent distance of a mile or two by the


358 THE iVEW ENDYJIIOZV.
magnifying power of the elixir, had burst un-
expectedly upon me. ’
That magic lens, by the way, did not
long survive the catastrophe which I wit-
nessed by its aid. I believe Diana destroyed
it that same night; I know, at all events,
that she never used it again herself. She
gave up the moon, much to her father’s
satisfaction, and, I need not say, to my own
unspeakable happiness. It has been the care
of my life to make her feel that better
possibilities of enjoyment exist in the world
than in the world’s satellite. It was only a
few years ago, however, that I trusted my-
self to tell her the story of the Titan’s annihi-
lation. We had been looking over an old
portfolio of her drawings together, and a
Diana of four years of age, with brown hair
and hazel eyes, was assisting us in the work.
‘ Oh! here’s papa,’ she suddenly ex-
claimed.
Diana’s mother took the drawing and
examined it.
‘I did this before I ever saw papa,’ she
said.
‘ Then how did you make it so like him ?’
demanded the small lady.
‘I had a presentiment of him, my dear.’
‘What’s a present ?’
‘ My presentiment, in this case, was the
man in the moon!’ said Mrs. Maybold,
laughing. ‘Do you remember, love,’ she
added, handing the drawing to her husband,
‘ my telling you, on a certain evening, that I


THE IVEIV ENDYZIIIOIV. 359
had made a study of a certain face, and that
I would show it you some time ? Well, the
time has come !’
‘I never was so good-looking as that,
said Mrs. Maybold’s husband, with a sigh.
‘However, no one will ever be able to
compare your presentiment with the reality,
for the former disappeared at the moment of
my introduction to him.’ And hereupon I
told my tale. ‘ Do you regret him ?’ I asked,
when it was finished.
‘ If you had told me this five years ago, I
might have felt relieved by it,’ said Mrs.
Maybold, after a moment’s reflection. ‘As
it is, the news does not affect me one way or
the other.’
’
I shall not easily forgive my friend Mr.
Edward Kemeys, the animal-sculptor, for
depriving me of the right of claiming un-
divided credit for this story. He suggested
the main idea, and some of the best details.
As told by him, they seemed to me both
poetic and powerful. If my version im-
presses the reader otherwise, it is my fault.
I should regret that Mr. Kemeys had not
treated the subject himself, were I not
familiar with his genius as embodied in clay
and bronze. lfI could be the author of his
‘Deer and Panther ’ or ‘ Bison and Wolves,’
which had the place of honour at the Paris
Salon this year, I would willingly forego the
renown of a better story than I ever expect
to write.
Sfiattiswaode {as C 0., Printers, Nzw-strrzt Square, Landon.





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