[illustration: cover art] joe strong on the trapeze or _the daring feats of a young circus performer_ by vance barnum author of "joe strong, the boy wizard," "joe strong, the boy fish," "joe strong on the high wire," etc. whitman publishing co. racine, wisconsin books for boys by vance barnum the joe strong series joe strong, the boy wizard _or, the mysteries of magic exposed_ joe strong on the trapeze _or, the daring feats of a young circus performer_ joe strong, the boy fish _or, marvelous doings in a big tank_ joe strong on the high wire _or, motor-cycle perils of the air_ joe strong and his wings of steel _or, a young acrobat in the clouds_ joe strong--his box of mystery _or, the ten thousand dollar prize trick_ joe strong, the boy fire eater _or, the most dangerous performance on record_ copyright, george sully & company printed by western printing & lithographing co. racine, wisconsin printed in u. s. a. contents chapter i. the fire trick ii. joe's responsibility iii. another offer iv. a chance encounter v. off to the circus vi. joe makes a hit vii. joe turns a trick viii. helen's letter ix. bill watson's idea x. in the tank xi. helen's discovery xii. just in time xiii. a bad blow xiv. helen's inheritance xv. a warning xvi. the strike xvii. in bedford xviii. helen's money xix. joe is suspicious xx. a fall xxi. joe hears something xxii. bad news xxiii. helen goes xxiv. joe follows xxv. the last performance joe strong on the trapeze chapter i the fire trick "better put on your pigeon-omelet trick now, joe." "all right. that ought to go well. and you are getting ready for----" "the fire trick," interrupted professor alonzo rosello, as he and his young assistant, joe strong, stood bowing and smiling in response to the applause of the crowd that had gathered in the theatre to witness the feats of "black art, magic, illusion, legerdemain, prestidigitation and allied sciences." that was what the program called it, anyhow. "the fire trick!" repeated joe. "do you think it will work all right now?" "i think it will. i've had the apparatus overhauled, and you know we can depend on the electric current here. it isn't likely to fail just at the wrong moment." "no, that's so, still----" again joe had to bow, as did professor rosello, for the applause continued. they were both sharing it, for both had taken part in a novel trick, and it had been successfully performed. joe had taken his place in a chair on the stage, and, after having been covered by a black cloth by the professor, had, when the cloth was removed a moment later, totally disappeared. then he was seen walking down the aisle of the theatre, coming in from the lobby. there was much wonder as to how the trick was it done, especially since the chair had been placed over a sheet of paper on the stage, and, before and after the trick, the professor had exhibited the sheet--the front page of a local paper--apparently unbroken. (this trick is explained in detail in the first volume of this series, entitled, "joe strong, the boy wizard.") "the audience seems to be in good humor to-night," observed the professor to joe, as they bowed again. the two could carry on a low-voiced conversation while "taking" their applause. "yes, i'm glad to see them that way," answered the youth. "it's not much fun playing to a frosty house." "i should say not! well, joe, get ready for your pigeon-omelet trick, and i'll prepare the fire apparatus." the professor, with a final bow, made an exit to one side of the stage, which was fitted up with oriental splendor. as he went off, and as joe strong picked up some apparatus from a table near him, a disturbed look came over the face of the boy wizard. "i don't like that fire trick," he mused. "it's altogether too uncertain. it's spectacular, and all that, and when it works right it makes a big hit, but i don't like it. well, i suppose he'll do it, anyhow--or try to. i'll be on the lookout though. if the current fails, as it did last time----" joe shrugged his shoulders, and went on with his trick. since he had become associated with professor rosello, joe had adopted the philosophic frame of mind that characterizes many public performers, especially those who risk bodily injury in thrilling the public. that is, he was willing to take the chance of accident rather than disappoint an audience. "the show must go on," was the motto, no matter how the performer suffered. the public does not often realize its own cruelty in insisting on being amused or thrilled. "yes, i'll have to keep my eyes open," thought joe. "after all, though, maybe nothing will happen. and yet i have a feeling as if something would. it's foolish, i know,, but----" again joe shrugged his shoulders. there was nothing he could do to avoid it, as far as he could see. joe was beginning to acquire the superstition shared by many theatrical persons. the theatre, filled with persons who had paid good prices to see professor rosello's performance was hushed and still now, as joe, his preparations complete, advanced to the edge of the stage. he was smiling and confident, for he was about to perform a trick he had done many times, and always with success. for the time being he dismissed from his mind the risk professor rosello would run in doing the "fire trick," for which the chief performer was even then preparing. "persons in the audience," began joe, smilingly addressing the house, "often wonder how we actors and professional people eat. it is proverbial, you know, that actors are always hungry. now i am going to show you that it is easier for us to get food than it is for other folk. "for instance: if i were to be shipwrecked on a desert island i could reach out into the seemingly empty air, and pick money off invisible tree branches--like this." joe stretched up his hand, which seemed to contain nothing, and in an instant there appeared between his thumb and finger a bright gold coin. "so much for a start!" he exclaimed with laugh. "we'll drop that on this plate, and get more." there was a ringing sound as the coin dropped on the plate, and joe, reaching up in the air, seemed to gather another gold piece out of space. this, too, fell with a clink on the plate. and then in rapid succession joe pulled in other coins until he had a plateful. probably it has been guessed how that trick was done. joe held one coin in his hand, palmed so that it was not visible. a movement of his well-trained muscles sent it up between his thumb and finger. then he seemed to lay it on a plate. but the plate was a trick one, with a false bottom, concealed under which was a store of coins. a pressure on a hidden spring sent one coin at a time out through a slot, and it seemed as if joe deposited them on the receptacle as he gathered them from the air. "but we must remember," joe went on, as he laid the plate of coins down on a table, "that i am on a desert island. consequently all the money in the world would be of no use. it would not buy a ham sandwich or a fresh egg. why not, then, gather eggs from the air instead of coins? a good idea. one can eat eggs. so i will gather a few." joe stretched his hand up over his head, made a grab at a seemingly floating egg and, capturing it, laid it on the table. in like manner he proceeded until he had three. this trick was worked in the same way as was the coin one, joe holding but one egg, cleverly palmed, in his hand, the others popping up from a secret recess in the table. but the audience was mystified. "now some persons like their eggs raw, while others prefer them cooked," resumed joe. "i, myself, prefer mine in omelet form, so i will cook my eggs. i have here a saucepan that will do excellently for holding my omelet. i will break the eggs into it, add a little water, and stir them up." joe suited the action to the words. he cracked the three eggs, one after another, holding them high in the air to let the audience see the whites and yolks drip into the shining, nickel pan. "but a proper omelet must be cooked," joe said. "where shall we get fire on a desert island, particularly as all our matches were made wet when we swam ashore? ah, i have it! i'll just turn this bunch of flowers into flame." he took up what seemed to be a spray of small roses and laid it under the saucepan. pointing his wand at the flowers joe exclaimed: "fire!" instantly there was a burst of flame, the flowers disappeared, and flickering lights shot up under the saucepan. "now the omelet is cooking," said joe, as he clapped on a cover. "we shall presently dine. you see how easy it is for actors and magicians to eat, even on a desert island. i think my omelet must be cooked now." he took the cover off the saucepan and, on the instant, out flew two white pigeons, which, after circling about the theatre, returned to perch on joe's shoulders. there was loud applause at this trick. the boy wizard bowed and smiled as he acknowledged the tribute to his powers, and then hurried off the stage with the pigeons on his shoulders. he did not stop to explain how he had chosen to make the omelet change into pigeons, the surprise at the unexpected ending of the illusion being enough for the audience. of course, one realizes there must have been some trick about it all, and there was--several in fact. the eggs joe seemed to pick out of the air were real eggs, and he really broke them into the saucepan. but the saucepan was made with two compartments. into one went the eggs, while in another, huddled into a small space where there were air holes through which they might breathe, were two trained pigeons, which joe had taught, not without some difficulty, to fly to his shoulders when released. after he had put the cover on the saucepan joe caused the fire to appear. the flowers were artificial ones, made of paper soaked in an inflammable composition, and then allowed to dry. as joe pointed his wand at them an assistant behind the scenes pressed an electric button, which shot a train of sparks against the prepared paper. it caught fire, the flowers were burned, and ignited the wick of an alcohol lamp that was under the saucepan. then, before the pigeons had time to feel the heat, joe took off the cover, opening the secret chamber and the birds flew out. easy, indeed, when you know how! joe walked off the stage, to give place to professor rosello, who was going next to give his "fire trick." this was an effective illusion, and was worked as follows: professor rosello came out on the stage attired in a flowing silk robe of japanese design. his helpers wheeled out a long narrow box, which was stood upright. the professor, after some "patter," or stage talk, announced that he would take his place in the small box, or cabinet, which would then be lifted free from the stage to show that it was not connected with hidden wires. as soon as the cabinet was set down again, the house would be plunged in darkness, and inside the cabinet would be seen a bony skeleton, outlined in fire, the professor having disappeared. this would last for several seconds, and then the illuminated skeleton would disappear and the magician again be seen in the box. "and in order to show you that i do not actually leave the box while the trick is in progress except in spirit," the professor went on to state, "i will suffer myself to be tied in with ropes, a committee from the audience being invited to make the knots." he took his place in the upright cabinet, and three men volunteered to tie him in with ropes which were fastened at the back of the box, two ends being left free. the cabinet containing the professor was lifted up, and set down on the stage again. then the ropes were tied, joe supervising this. "tie any kind of knot you like, gentlemen," joe urged, "only make them so you can quickly loosen them again, as the professor is very much exhausted after this illusion." this, of course, was merely stage talk for effect. finally the knots were tied, the committee retired, and joe, taking his place near the imprisoned performer, asked: "are you ready?" he looked keenly at the professor as he asked this. "it's all right joe--i guess it's going to work properly," was the low-voiced response. then aloud professor rosello replied: "i am ready!" "light out!" called joe sharply. this was a signal for the stage electrician to plunge the house into darkness. it was done at once. then, to the no small terror of some in the audience, there appeared in the upright cabinet the figure of a grinning skeleton, outlined in flickering flames. it was startling, and there was a moment of silence before thunderous applause broke out at the effectiveness of the trick. the clapping was at its height when joe, who always stood near the cabinet when this trick was being done, heard the agonized voice of the professor calling to him: "joe! joe! something has gone wrong! there must be a short circuit! i'm on fire! joe, i'm being burned! help me!" chapter ii joe's responsibility joe strong was in a quandary. he did not quite know what to do. to give an alarm--to let the audience know something had gone wrong with the trick--that the professor was in danger of being burned to death--to even utter the word "fire!" might cause a terrible panic, even though the heavy asbestos curtain were rung down on the instant. on the contrary, joe could not stand idly by without doing something to save his friend, professor rosello, from the great danger. the applause kept up, none in the audience suspecting anything wrong. "quick, joe!" whispered the performer. "the current is burning me. i can't stand it any longer." "i'll save you!" hoarsely answered the young magician; and then, on the darkened stage, he lifted the cabinet, performer and all to one side. this was not an easy feat to do. the professor was no light weight, and the cabinet itself was heavy. but joe was a powerful youth, and by raising the cabinet on his back, much as a porter carries a heavy trunk, he shifted it to one side. this took it away from the hidden electrical connections sunk in the floor of the stage, and the flickering, playing, shimmering electric lights went out. the stage, the whole house, was in dense darkness. there was a sudden silence which might precede a panic of fear. joe's work was not yet done. what could he do to reassure the audience and, at the same time, to bring the illusion to a satisfactory conclusion? while he is quickly debating this in his mind, i will take just a moment to tell my new readers something of joe strong, and how he came to be following the calling of a stage magician. in the first volume of this series, entitled "joe strong, the boy wizard; or, the secrets of magic exposed," joe was introduced as a youth of about seventeen years, living in the country town of bedford. he was talking one day with some of his chums, and explaining to them how this same professor rosello had done a trick in the local theatre the night before, when suddenly there came a fire-alarm from a fireworks factory near by. some powder exploded and joe managed to save the professor, whose real name was peter crabb, from severe injury, if not from death. in doing this joe spoiled his suit of clothes, and on returning home his foster-father, deacon amos blackford threatened to punish him. joe was an orphan. his mother, mrs. jane strong, had been a famous circus bareback rider, known to the public as madame hortense. joe's father was alexander strong, or, to give him his stage name, professor morretti. he had been a magician, even better than professor rosello. both joe's parents had died when he was a small boy. for a time the boy was cared for by his mother's circus friends, but finally joe was adopted by the blackfords. his life with them was not a happy one, and the climax came when the deacon punished joe for spoiling his suit in rescuing professor rosello. in the night, joe ran away. he decided to appeal to the magician who had gone on to another town to give a show. joe had a half-formed plan in mind. the boy was of great strength, and fearless. when a mere child he had attempted circus feats, and now he was an expert on the trapeze and flying rings, while he had also made a study of "magic," and could perform many tricks. joe was absolutely fearless, and one of his delights was to execute daring acts at great heights in the air. when a boy he climbed up the village church steeple. thus, taking matters into his own hands, joe ran away and joined professor rosello, who hired him as an assistant. joe had a natural aptitude for tricks of magic and was a great help to the professor. he even invented some tricks of his own. so joe and professor rosello toured the country, making a fairly good living. the night joe ran away deacon blackford was robbed in a strange manner, and, for a time, suspicion was thrown on joe, a warrant being issued for his arrest. among the other adventures which joe had was a meeting with the ring-master of sampson brothers' colossal circus. joe had done a favor for benny turton, the "human fish," and benny made it possible for joe to try some tricks on the circus trapezes. as a result jim tracy, the ring-master and one of the owners of the show, made joe an offer to join the circus. joe would have liked this, as he had taken quite a fancy for helen morton--billed as mademoiselle mortonti--a fancy rider on her trick horse, rosebud. but joe thought it best to remain with professor rosello for a time. the circus went on its way, and joe and the professor went on theirs. joe progressed in his chosen work, and he and mr. crabb found themselves becoming well-known performers. on the road joe met several persons who had seen his father's feats of magic, and the youth learned of the great respect in which his parent had been held by the members of the "profession." "and i suppose," professor rosello had said, "if you could meet some circus folks they would remember your mother, even if jim tracy did not know her." so joe had became a traveling magician. and it is in that capacity that the readers of this volume first meet him. but, as joe stood there on the darkened stage, realizing the great danger to which his friend was subjected, and wondering what he could do to relieve him and not have the trick a failure, he, for an instant, wished he had chosen some other calling. it was a great responsibility for a young fellow, for now the fate of the whole remaining performance was in joe's hands. there was much yet to be done, and it was not to be thought that, after being burned, as he said he was, the professor could go on. there was uneasiness now among the stage hands. the electrician from the wings was cautiously whispering to joe to let him know what to do. as yet the audience had not realized anything was wrong. "are you badly hurt?" joe asked the professor in a whisper, standing near the now dark cabinet. "i'm burned on my back, yes. i'm glad you shut off the current when you did, or i'd have been killed." "i didn't shut off the current," joe answered. "i just pulled the connecting legs of the cabinet out of the sockets in the stage floor." "that was just as good. the current's off. but something has to be done." "what went wrong?" asked joe. "one of the wire connections in here. i can feel it now with my fingers. a wire has broken. if i could twist it together----" "i'll do it," volunteered joe. he had to work the dark, as a glimmer of light would show that the cabinet had been moved, and the audience would suspect that something was wrong. but joe knew every inch of the cabinet, for he and the professor had worked this trick out between them. in an instant he had twisted the wire ends together, pushing them to one side so they would not come in contact with the professor's body, for the ends were not now insulated. "it's all right," joe whispered. "can you manage to finish the trick if i put the cabinet back the connections?" "yes, i think so. go ahead." joe called to the leader of the orchestra: "louder!" the musicians had been softly playing some "shivery" music. at once they struck into a blare of sound. this would cover any noise joe might make in putting the cabinet back in place, so that the two metal legs would rest in the electric sockets in the stage, which contained the conductors that supplied the electric current needed. in another moment joe lifted the cabinet, professor rosello and all, back to where it had stood at first. again there was the grinning, glowing skeleton showing. the applause was renewed, and then the glow died out, and as the house lights flashed up there stood the professor in the cabinet, as at first, in his flowing silk robe. close observers might have noticed that he was quite pale, and he had to grit his teeth to keep back a moan of pain from the burns he had received. "now, gentlemen," said joe to the committee, which had stepped down off the stage, "if you will kindly examine the knots, and loosen them, i shall be obliged to you. quickly, if you please, as this act is very trying on the professor." joe wanted to get his friend back of the scenes as soon as he could, to have his burns dressed. "are the knots just as you tied them?" asked joe. the men admitted they were. "proving conclusively," the young wizard went on, "that the professor did not leave the cabinet to produce the effect you have just witnessed." the professor bowed to the applause as he stepped out of the cabinet, which was at once taken away by assistants. then joe walked back of the scenes with his friend, a pantomimist engaging the attention of the audience while the next part of the program was being prepared. but could the show go on with the professor disabled? that was what joe wondered. he felt, more than ever, the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. chapter iii another offer professor rosello sank into a chair when he reached his dressing room. "quick! get a doctor!" called joe to one of the two helpers who traveled with them. "bring him in through the stage door! don't let it be known out in front." one of the stage hands gave the helper the address of the nearest physician, and, fortunately, he was in his office. the doctor came at once and put a soothing ointment on the burns of the professor's back, where the electric sparks had penetrated his clothing. "that's better," remarked the magician with a sigh of relief. "i guess we'll have to ring down the curtain, joe. i can't go on." "i'll finish the show," declared the boy wizard. "can you do it?" "not as well as you, of course. but i think i can keep them interested, so they will feel they have had their money's worth. i'll carry on the show. i can vary my egg and watch tricks a bit, and i'll do that wine and water one, bringing the live guinea pig out of the bottle." "all right, joe, if you think you can. i'm not equal to any more. i think i'd better go to the hotel." "i think so too, professor. now don't worry. i'll carry on the show as best i can." "and i think you can do it well, joe. i'm proud of you. if it hadn't been for you stopping the electric current when you did i would be dead now." "oh, i hardly think it was as bad as that." "yes it was. one of those wires broke. after this i'll examine every connection a minute before i go into the cabinet. you saved my life--this is the second time. once at the fireworks factory, and again to-night. i'll be so deeply in your debt, joe, that i can never pay you." "oh, don't worry about that," laughed the boy wizard, now much relieved in mind. with the professor safe he could go out on the stage with a light heart and an easy mind. he was used to facing the public, but this meant that he would have to do more tricks than usual, and some that were particularly the professor's own, though joe knew how they were worked. when the physician had relieved the sufferer, joe called a carriage and sent the magician to the hotel where they were staying. then the pantomimist having finished, joe prepared to go on with some illusions. and right here, while joe is making his preparations, a description of the "fire trick" can be given. the cabinet was, of course, a trick one. that is, it was provided with hidden electric contrivances so that when the professor stepped into it, by merely pressing a button he could have a shower of sparks shot out all around him. as he was insulated, these sparks could not injure him. on the heavy silk robe he wore there had been painted the grinning skeleton. it was painted with a secret chemical paint, and when subjected to a flow of electricity the bones and skull showed outlined in fire. the professor, keeping well back toward the rear of the cabinet, was invisible. tying the ropes about him was not necessary as he did not leave the cabinet anyhow, but it added to the effectiveness of the illusion. but on this evening, after the electric wire broke causing a short circuit, the tying of the ropes was well-nigh fatal, for the professor could not move in order to escape, and had to stay while the current burned him. luckily, however, joe acted in time. as has been intimated, the two front legs of the cabinet were really the positive and negative termini for the wires that were inside the box. these legs stood in two sockets in the floor of the stage, and to them ran the wires from the theatre's circuit. when the helpers lifted the cabinet up, to show, ostensibly, that it had no connection with the floor, they put the legs down in the hidden sockets. thus the connections were made. as can be seen, joe had but to lift the cabinet away to break the connection. in spite of the accident, the trick had ended satisfactorily, thanks to the quick work of joe strong. his strength, too, played not a little part in this, for ordinarily the cabinet required two men to shift it. but joe had a knack of using his powerful muscles to the best advantage, and it was this, with his most marvelous nerve, that enabled him to do so many sensational things, about which this and future volumes concerning our hero will tell. the professor having been sent to his hotel to rest, and the pantomimist having finished his act, joe went out on the stage to continue the performance. he made no reference to the non-appearance of the chief performer, letting it be taken for granted that professor rosello had finished his part in the entertainment. "i would now like to borrow a gold gentleman's watch," began joe; this misplacement of words never failing to bring out a laugh. he then proceeded to perform the trick of apparently smashing a borrowed watch, firing the fragments from a pistol at a potted plant, and causing the reunited watch to appear among the roots of the pulled-up flower. as this trick has been described in detail in the first volume of this series, exposing just how it is done, the description will not be repeated here. in that book will also be found the details of how joe made an ordinary egg float or sink in a jar of water, at his pleasure. (this is a trick one can easily do at home without apparatus.) joe did that trick now, and also the one of lighting a candle, causing it to go out and relight itself again while he stood at one side of the stage, merely pointing his wand at the flickering flame. (see the first volume.) joe now essayed another trick. he brought out a bottle, apparently empty, and said that it was a magical flask. "from this i am able to pour three kinds of drinks," he stated. "some persons like water, others prefer milk, while nothing but grape juice will satisfy some. now will you kindly state which drink you like?" and he pointed to a man in the front row. "i'll have grape juice," was the answer. "very good," returned joe. "here you are!" he tilted the bottle, and a stream of purple grape juice ran from the flask into a goblet. joe handed it to the man. "it's perfectly good grape juice," joe said, smilingly. "you need not be afraid to sample it." the man did so, after a moment's hesitation. "is it all right?" joe asked. "just tell the audience." "it's good," the man testified. "take it all. i have other drinks in the bottle," joe said. "save me some!" cried a boy up in the gallery, as the man drained the glass of grape juice. "now who'll have milk?" joe asked. "i will," called a boy in the second row. without moving from where he stood joe picked up a glass, and, from the same bottle, poured out a drink of milk which he passed to the boy, who took it wonderingly. "is it the real stuff?" asked joe, smiling at the lad. "that's what it is!" was the quick answer. "drink it then. and now for water. here we are!" and from the same bottle, out of which the audience had seen milk and grape juice come, joe poured sparkling water and passed it to a lady in the audience. "hello! what's this? there appears to be something else in the bottle!" exclaimed joe, apparently surprised, as he held the flask up to his ear. "yes, i'll let you out--right away," he said aloud. "there must be some mistake," he went on, "there is an animal in this bottle. i'll have to break it open to get it out." he went quickly back on the stage with the bottle, took up a hammer, and holding the flask over a table gently cracked the glass. in an instant he held up a little guinea pig. there was a moment's pause, and then the applause broke out at the effectiveness of the trick. how was it done? a trick bottle, you say at once. that is right. the bottle was made with three compartments. one held milk, another grape juice and the third water. joe could pour them out in any order he wished, there being controlling valves in the bottom of the bottle. but how did the guinea pig get inside? it was another bottle. the bottom of this one had been cut off, and, after the guinea pig had been put inside, the bottom was cemented on again. this was done just before the trick was performed. on his way back to the stage, after having given the lady the glass of water, joe substituted the bottle containing the guinea pig for the empty one that had held the three liquids. this was where his quick sleight-of-hand work came in. when he gently broke the bottle it was easy enough to remove the little animal, which had been used in tricks so often that it was used to them. joe brought the show to a satisfactory conclusion, perhaps a little earlier than usual, as he was anxious to get to the hotel and see how the professor was. the audience seemed highly pleased with the illusions the boy wizard gave them, and clapped long and loud as joe made his final bow. he left the theatrical people and his helpers to pack up, ready for the trip to the next town, and hastened to the hotel. there he found professor rosello much better, though still suffering somewhat. "do you think you will be able to go on to-morrow night?" asked joe. "i don't know," was the answer. "i can tell better to-morrow." but when the next day came, after a night journey that was painful for mr. crabb, he found that he could not give his portion of the performance. and as joe alone was not quite qualified to give a whole evening's entertainment it was decided to cancel the engagement. it was not an important one, though several good "dates" awaited them in other towns on the route. "i think i need a rest, joe," the professor said "my nerves are more shattered than i thought by that electrical accident. i need a good rest to straighten them out. i think we'll not give any performances for at least a month--that is i sha'n't." joe looked a little disappointed on hearing this. his living depended on working for the professor. "i say i'll not give any more performances right away, joe," went on the professor, "but there's no reason why you shouldn't. i have been watching you of late, and i think you are very well qualified to go on with the show alone. you could get a helper, of course. but you can do most of my tricks, as well as your own. what do you say? i'll make you a liberal offer as regards money. you can consider the show yours while i'm taking a rest. would you like it?" "i think----" began joe, when there came a knock on the door of their hotel room. "telegram for joe strong!" called the voice of the bellboy. chapter iv a chance encounter professor rosello and joe strong looked at each other. it was not unusual for the magician to receive telegrams in reference to his professional engagements, but joe up to now had never received one of the lightning messages which, to the most of us, are unusual occurrences. "are you sure it's for me?" joe asked the boy, as he opened the door. "it's got your name on it," was the answer. that seemed proof enough for any one. "maybe it's from your folks--the deacon," suggested the professor. "something may have happened." he really hoped there had not, but, in a way, he wanted to prepare joe for a possible shock. "i wonder if it can have anything to do with the deacon's robbery," mused joe as he took the message from the waiting lad. "but, no, it can't be that. denton and harrison are still in jail--or they were at last accounts--and the robbery is cleared up as much as it ever will be. can't be that." and then, unwilling and unable to speculate further, and anxious to know just what was in the message joe tore open the envelope. the message was typewritten, as are most telegrams of late, and the message read: "if you are at liberty, can use you in a single trapeze act. forty a week to start. wire me at slater junction. we show there three days. jim tracy--sampson bros. circus." "what is it?" asked the professor as he noted a strange look on joe's face. in fact, there was a combination of looks. there was surprise, and doubt, and pleased anticipation. "it's an offer," answered joe, slowly. "an offer!" "yes, to join a circus." "a circus!" the professor did not seem capable of talking in very long sentences. "yes, the sampson brothers' show," joe went on. "you know i went to see them that time they played the same town and date we did. i met the 'human fish' and----" "oh, yes, i remember. you did some acts on the trapeze then." "yes, and this jim tracy--he's ring-master and one of the owners--made me a sort of offer then. but i didn't want to leave you. now he renews the offer." the boy wizard handed the message to the professor who read it through carefully. then after a look at joe he said: "well, my boy, that's a good offer, i'd take it. i sha'n't be able to pay you forty a week for some time, though you might make it if you took my show out on the road alone, or with one assistant. then, too, there's always a chance to make more in a circus--that is, if you please your public. i might say thrill them enough, for your trapeze act will have to be mostly thrills, i take it." "yes," assented joe. and, somehow, a feeling of exultation came to him. while doing puzzling tricks before a mystified audience was enticing work, yet joe had a longing for the circus. he was almost as much at home high in the air, with nothing but a slack wire or a swaying rope to support him, as he was on the ground. part of this was due to his early attempts to emulate the feats of circus performers, but the larger part of it was born in him. he inherited much of his daring from his mother, and his quickness of eye and hand from his father. moreover, mingled with the desire to do some thrilling act high up on a trapeze in a circus tent, while the crowd below held its breath, joe felt a desire to meet again pretty helen morton, whose bright smile and laughing eyes he seemed to see in fancy now. "it's a good offer," went on the professor, slowly, "and it seems to come at the right time for both of us, joe. we were talking about your taking out my show. i really don't feel able to keep up with it--at least for a time. are you ready to give me an answer now, joe, or would you like to think it over a bit?" "perhaps i had better think of it a bit," the youth answered. "though i have pretty nearly made up my mind." "don't be in a hurry," urged professor rosello. "there is no great rush, as far as i am concerned. one or two days will make no difference to me. though if you don't take up my offer i shall probably lease the show to some professional. i want to keep my name before the public, for probably i shall wish to go back into the business again. and besides, it is a pity to let such a good outfit as we now have go into storage. but think it over carefully. i suppose, though, that you will have to let the circus people know soon." "they seem to be in a hurry--wanting me to telegraph," responded joe. "i'll give them an answer in a few hours. i think i'll go out and walk around town a bit. i can think better that way." "go ahead, joe, and don't let me influence you. i want to help you, and i'll do all i can for you. you know i owe much to you. just remember that you have the option on my show, such as it is, and if you don't take my offer i won't feel at all offended. do as you think right." "thank you," said joe, feelingly. there was not much of interest to see in the town where they had come, expecting to give a performance, but joe did not really care for sights just then. he had some hard thinking to do and he wanted to do it carefully. hardly conscious of where he was walking, he strolled on, and presently found himself near the outskirts of the town, in a section that was more country than town. a little stream flowed through a green meadow, the banks bordered by trees. "it looks just like bedford," mused joe. "i'm going to take a rest there." he sat down in the shade of a willow tree and in an instant there came back to him the memory of that day, some months ago, when he had come upon his chums sitting under the same sort of tree and discussing one of the professor's tricks which they had witnessed the night before. "then there was the fireworks explosion. i rescued the professor--ran away from home--was chased by the constables--hopped into the freight car--the deacon's house was robbed and set on fire and---- say! what a lot has happened in a short time," mused joe. "and now comes this offer from the circus. i wonder if i'd better take it or keep on with the professor's show. of course it would be easier to do this, as i'm more familiar with it." just then there recurred to joe something he had often heard deacon blackford say. "the easiest way isn't always the best." the deacon was not, by any means, the kindest or wisest of men, and certainly he had been cruel at times to joe. but he was a sturdy character, though often obstinate and mistaken, and he had a fund of homely philosophy. joe, working one day in the deacon's feed and grain store, had proposed doing something in a way that would, he thought, save him work. "that's the easiest way," he had argued. "well, the easiest way isn't always the best," the deacon had retorted. joe remembered that now. it would be easier to keep on with the professor's show, for the work was all planned out for him, and he had but to fulfil certain engagements. then, too, he was getting to be expert in the tricks. "but i want to get on in life," reasoned joe. "forty dollars a week is more than i'm getting now, nor will i stick at that point in the circus. it will be hard work, but i can stand it." he had almost made up his mind. he decided he would go back and acquaint the professor with his decision. as joe was passing a sort of hotel in a poor section of the town he almost ran into, or, rather, was himself almost run into by a man who emerged from the place quickly but unsteadily. joe was about to pass on with a muttered apology, though he did not feel the collision to be his fault, when the man angrily demanded: "what's the matter with you, anyhow? why don't you look where you're going?" "i tried to," said joe, mildly enough. "hope i didn't hurt you." "well, you banged me hard enough!" the man seemed a little more mollified now. joe was at once struck by something familiar in his voice and his looks. he took a second glance and in an instant he recognized the man as one of the circus trapeze performers he had seen the day he went to the big tent, or "main top," of sampson brothers' circus to watch the professionals at their practice. the man was one of the troupe known as the "lascalla brothers," though the relationship was assumed, rather than real. joe gave a start of astonishment as he sensed the recognition. he was also surprised at the great change in the man. when joe had first seen him, a few months before, the performer had been a straight, lithe specimen of manhood, intent, at the moment when joe met him, on seeing that his trapeze ropes were securely fastened. now the man looked and acted like a tramp. he was dirty and ragged, and his face bore evidences of dissipation. he leered at joe, and then something in our hero's face seemed to hold his attention. "what are you looking at me that way for, young fellow?" he demanded. "do you know me?" "no, not exactly," was the answer. "but i've seen you." "well, you're not the only one," was the retort. "a good many thousand people have seen me on the circus trapeze. and i'd be there to-day, doing my act, if it hadn't been for that mean jim tracy. he fired me, jim did--said he was going to get some one for the act who could stay sober. huh? i'm sober enough for anybody, and i took only a little drink because i was sick. even at that i can beat anybody on the high bar. but he sacked me. never mind! i'll get even with him, and if he puts anybody in my place--well, that fellow'd better look out, that's all!" the man seemed turning ugly, and joe was glad the fellow had not connected him with the youth who had paid a brief visit to the trapeze tent that day, months before. "i wonder if it's to take his place that jim tracy wants me?" mused joe, as he turned aside. "i guess jim put up with this fellow as long as he could. poor chap! he was a good acrobat, too--one of the best in the country." joe knew the lascalla brothers by reputation. "if i take his place----" joe was doing some quick thinking. "oh, well, i've got to take chances," he told himself. "after all, we may never meet." joe had fully made up his mind. before going back to the professor he stopped at the telegraph office and sent this message to jim tracy. "will join circus in two days." chapter v off to the circus "well?" questioned professor rosello, as joe came back to the hotel. "is it my show or----" "the circus," answered joe, and he did not smile. he was rather serious about it, for in spite of what his friend had said joe could but feel that the magician might be disappointed over the choice. but professor rosello was a broad-minded man, as well as a fair and generous one. "joe, i'm sure you did just the right thing!" he exclaimed, as he shook hands with the boy wizard, or rather with the former boy wizard, for the lad was about to give up that life. yet joe knew that he would not altogether give it up. he would always retain his knowledge and ability in the art of mystifying. "yes, i thought it all over," said joe, "and i concluded that i could do better on the trapeze than at sleight-of-hand. you see, if i want to be a successful circus performer i have to begin soon. the older i get the less active i'll be, and some tricks take years to polish off so one can do them easily." "i understand," the professor said. "i think you did the right thing for yourself." "of course if i could be any help to you i wouldn't leave you this way," joe went on earnestly. "i wouldn't desert in a time of trouble." "oh, it isn't exactly trouble," replied the magician. "i really need a rest, and you're not taking my offer won't mean any money loss to me, though, personally, i shall feel sorry at losing you. but i want you to do the best possible thing for yourself. don't consider me at all. in fact you don't have to. i am going to take a rest. i need it. i've been in this business nearly thirty years now, and time is beginning to tell. "i think there is more of a future for you in the circus than there would be in magic. not that you have exhausted the possibilities of magic by any means, but changes are taking place in the public. the moving pictures are drawing away from us the audiences we might otherwise attract. then, too, there has been so much written and exposed concerning our tricks, that it is very hard to get up an effective illusion. even the children can now guess how many of the tricks are done. "it may be that i shall give up altogether. at, any rate i will lease my show out for a time. i'm i going to take a rest. and now about your plans. what are you going to do?" "i don't exactly know," was the hesitating answer. "i have telegraphed to mr. tracy that i would join his circus in two days. i think i'll need that much time to get ready." "yes. we can settle up our business arrangements in that time, joe. as i said, i'll be very sorry to lose you, but it is all for the best. we may see each other occasionally. shall you tell the deacon of the change?" "i think not. he and i don't get along very well, and he hasn't much real interest in me, now that he feels i am following in the footsteps of my father. and if he knew that i was taking up the profession my mother felt called to, he would have even less regard for me. i'll not write to him at all." "perhaps that is wise. i wonder, joe, if in traveling about with sampson brothers' show you will meet any one who knew your mother?" "i wish that would happen," joe answered. "i'd like to hear about her. i shall ask for information about her." joe related his encounter with one of the lascalla brothers--which one he did not know. "i wonder if he'll try to make trouble?" he asked. "i hardly think so," answered the professor. "he's probably a bad egg, and talks big. just go on your own way, do the best you can, keep straight and you'll be all right." they talked for some little time further, discussing matters that needed to be settled between them, and making arrangements for joe to leave. now that he had come to a decision he was very glad that he was going with the circus. "i'll be glad to meet benny turton, the 'human fish,' again," said joe to himself. "his act is sure a queer one. i wonder if i could stay under water as long as he does. i'm going to try it some day if i get a chance at his tank. and helen--i'll be glad to see her again, too." joe did not admit, even to himself, just how glad he would be to meet the pretty circus rider again. but he surely anticipated pleasure in renewing the acquaintance. "that is, if she'll notice me," thought joe. "i wonder what the social standing is between trick and fancy riders and the various trapeze performers." the next day was a busy one. joe had to pack his belongings. some he arranged to store with the professor's things. he also helped his friend, the magician, to prepare an advertisement for the theatrical papers, announcing that the rosello show was for lease, along with the advance bookings. joe also went over the apparatus with the professor, making a list of some necessary repairs that would have to be made. "and now, joe," said the professor, when the time for parting came, "i want you to feel free to use any of my tricks, or those you got up yourself, whenever you want to." "use the tricks?" queried joe. "yes. it may be that you'll find a chance to use them in the circus, or to entertain your friends privately. i want you to feel free to do so. there will not be any professional jealousy on my part." joe was glad to hear this. the professor was unlike most professional persons who entertain the public. "well, good-bye," said joe, as the professor went with him to the railroad station, the burns having progressed rapidly in their healing. "you'll always be able to write me in care of the circus." "yes, i can keep track of your show through the theatrical papers, joe. let me hear from you occasionally. write to the new york address where i buy most of my stuff. they'll always have the name of my forwarding post-office on file. and now, my boy, i wish you all success. you have been a great help to me--not to mention such a little thing as saving my life," and he laughed, to make the occasion less serious. "thank you," said joe. "the same to you. and i hope you will soon feel much better." "a rest will do me good," responded the professor. then the train rolled in, and joe got aboard with his valise. he waved farewell to his very good friend and then settled back in his seat for a long ride. joe strong was on his way at last to join the circus. as he sat in his comfortable seat, he could not help contrasting his situation now with what it had been some months before, when he was running away from the home of his foster-father in the night and riding in a freight car to join the professor. then joe had very few dollars, and the future looked anything but pleasant. he had to sleep on the hard boards, with some loose hay as a mattress. now, while he was far from having a fortune, he had nearly two hundred dollars to his credit, and he was going to an assured position that would pay well. it was quite a contrast. "i wonder if i'll make good," thought joe. involuntarily he felt of his muscles. "i'm strong enough," he thought with a little smile--"strong by name and strong by nature," and as he thought this there was no false pride about it. joe knew his capabilities. his nerves and muscles were his principal assets. "i guess i'll have to learn some new stunts," joe thought. "but jim tracy will probably coach me, and tell me what they want. i wonder if i'll have to act with the lascalla bunch? they may not be very friendly toward me for taking the place of one of their number. well, i can't help it. it isn't my doing. i'm hired to do certain work--for trapeze performing is work, though it may look like fun to the public. well, i'm on my way, as the fellow said when the powder mill blew up," and joe smiled whimsically. it was a long and tiresome trip to the town where the circus was performing, and joe did not reach the "lot" until the afternoon performance was over. the sight of the tents, the smell that came from the crushed grass, the sawdust, the jungle odor of wild animals--all this was as perfume to joe strong. he breathed in deep of it and his eyes lighted up as he saw the fluttering flags, and noted the activity of the circus men who were getting ready for the night show--filling the portable gasoline lamps, putting on new mantles which would glow later with white incandescence to show off the spectacle in the "main top." as joe took in all this he said to himself: "i'm to be a part of it! that's the best ever!" it was some little time before he could find jim tracy, but at length he came upon the ring-master, who was trying to do a dozen things at once, and settle half a dozen other matters on which his opinion was wanted. "oh, hello, joe?" jim called to the young performer. "glad you got here. we need you. want to go on to-night?" "just as you say. but i really need a little practice." "all right. then just hang around and pick up information. we don't have to travel to-night, so you'll have it easy to start. i'll show you where you'll dress when you get going. i'll have to give you some one else's suit until we can order one your size, but i guess you won't mind." "no, indeed." joe was looking about with eager eyes, hoping for a glimpse of helen morton. however, he was not gratified just then. "now, joe," went on the ring-master, coming over after having settled a dispute concerning differences of opinions between a woman with trained dogs and a clown who exhibited an "educated" pig, "if you'll come with me, i'll----" "well, what is it now?" asked jim tracy, exasperation in his voice. a dark-complexioned, foreign-looking man had approached him, and had said something in a low voice. "no, i won't take him back, and you needn't ask!" declared jim. "you can tell sim dobley, otherwise known as rafello lascalla, that he's done his last hanging by his heels in my show. i don't want anything more to do with him. i don't care if he is outside. you tell him to stay there. he doesn't come in unless he buys a ticket, and as for taking him back--nothing doing, take it from me!" the foreign-looking man turned aside, muttering, and joe followed the ring-master. chapter vi joe makes a hit "those fellows are always making trouble," murmured the ring-master, as he walked with joe toward a tent where the young performer could leave his valise. "what fellows are they?" the lad asked, but he felt that he knew what the answer was going to be. "the lascalla brothers," replied jim. "there were two brothers in the business, sid and tonzo lascalla. they used to be together and have a wonderful act. but sid died, and tonzo got a fellow-countryman to take his place, using the same name. they were good, too. then about four years ago they added a third man. why they ever took up with sim dobley i can't imagine, but they did. "whatever else i'll say about sim, i'll give him credit for being a wonder on a trapeze--that is when he was sober. when he got intoxicated, or partly so, he'd take risks that would make your hair stand up on end. that's why i had to get rid of him. first i knew, he'd have had an accident and he'd be suing the circus. so i let him go. sim went under the name rafello lascalla, and became one of the brothers. "for a while the three of them worked well together. and it's queer, as i say, how sid and tonzo took to jim. but they did. you'd think he was a regular brother. in fact all three of 'em seemed to be real blood brothers. sid and tonzo are spaniards, but sim is a plain yankee. he used to say he learned to do trapeze tricks in his father's barn." "that's where i practised," said joe. "well, it's as good a place as any, i reckon. anyhow, i had to get rid of sim, and now tonzo comes and asks me to put him back. he says sim is behaving himself, and will keep straight. he's somewhere on the grounds now, tonzo told me. but i don't want anything to do with him. i'll stand a whole lot from a man, but when i reach the limit i'm through for good. that's what i am with sim dobley, otherwise known as rafello lascalla. you're to take his place, joe." "i am!" there was no mistaking the surprise in the youth's voice. "why, what's the matter? don't you want to?" asked jim, in some astonishment. "yes, of course. i'll do anything in the show along the line of trapeze work you want me to. but--well, maybe i'd better tell you all about it." then joe related his encounter with the discharged circus employee. "hum," mused jim, when joe finished. "so that's how the wind sets, is it? he's hanging around here now trying to find out who is going to take his place." "and when he finds that i have," suggested joe hesitatingly, "he may cause trouble." jim tracy started. "i didn't think of that!" he said slowly. "you say he threatened you?" "well, not exactly me, for he didn't know who i was," replied joe. "but he said he'd make it decidedly hot for you, and for the man who took his place." jim tracy snapped his fingers. "that's how much i care for sim dobley," he said. "i'm not afraid of him. he talks big, but he acts small. i'm not in the least worried, and if you are----" "not for a minute!" exclaimed joe quickly. "i guess i can look after myself!" "good!" exclaimed jim. "that's the way i like to hear you talk. and don't you let sim dobley, or either of the lascalla brothers, bluff you. i'm running this show, not them! if they make any trouble you come to me." "i guess i can fight my own battles," observed joe calmly. "good!" said the ring-master again. "i guess you'll do. this is your dressing room," he went on. "just leave your grip here, and it will be safe. you won't have to do anything to-night but look on. i'll get you a pair of tights by to-morrow and you can go on. practise up in the morning, and work up a new act with sid and tonzo if you like. i'll introduce you to them at supper." "do you think they'll perform with me?" joe wanted to know. "they'll have to!" exclaimed the ring-master with energy. "this is my circus, not theirs. they'll do as i say, and if there is any funny business---- well, there just won't be," he added significantly. "do tonzo and sid want sim to come back and act with them?" asked joe, as he deposited his valise in a corner of a dressing room that was made by canvas curtains partitioning off a part of a large tent. "that's what they say. tonzo told me that sim would behave himself. but i'm through with sim, and he might as well understand that first as last. you're going to take his place. now i'll have to leave you. you'll put up at the hotel with some of the performers. here's your slip that you can show to the clerk. i'll see you in the morning, if not before, and make arrangements for your act. to-night you just look on. now i've got to go." joe looked about the dressing room. it was evidently shared with others, for there were suits of men's tights scattered around, as well as other belongings. joe left his valise and went outside. he wanted to see all he could--to get familiar with the life of a circus. it cannot be said that joe was exactly easy in his mind. he would much rather have joined the circus without having supplanted a performer of so vindictive a character as sim dobley. but, as it had to be, the lad decided to make the best of it. "i'll be on the watch for trouble," he murmured as he went out of the dressing tent. a busy scene was being enacted on the circus lots. in fact, many scenes. it was feeding time for some of the animals and for most of the performers and helpers. the latter would dine in one of the big tents, under which long tables were already set. and from the distance joe could catch an odor of the cooking. "my, but that smells good!" he told himself. he was hungry. the sampson brothers' show was a fair-sized one. it used a number of railroad cars to transport the wagons, cages and performers from place to place. on the road, of course, the performers and helpers slept in the circus sleeping cars. but when the show remained more than one night in a place some of the performers were occasionally allowed to sleep at the local hotels, getting their meals on the circus grounds, for the cooking for and feeding of a big show is down to an exact science. as joe wandered forth he heard a voice calling to him: "well, where in the world did you come from?" "oh, hello!" cried our hero, as, turning, he saw benny turton, the "human fish," walking toward him. "i'm glad to see you again!" went on benny, as he shook hands with joe. "and i'm glad to see you." "what are you doing here?" the "human fish" asked. "oh, i'm part of the show now," replied joe, a bit proudly. "get out! are you, really?" "i sure am!" and joe told the circumstances. "well, i'm glad to hear it," said ben. "real glad!" "how's your act going?" asked joe. the "human fish" paused a moment before answering. "oh, i suppose it goes as well as ever," he said slowly. "only i---- oh, what's the use of telling my troubles?" he asked, with a smile. "i reckon you have some of your own." "not very big ones," confessed joe. "but is anything the matter?" "no, oh, no. never mind me; tell me about yourself." joe told something of his experiences since last seeing ben, and, as he talked, he looked at the youth who performed such thrilling feats under water in the big tank. joe thought benny looked paler and thinner than before. "i guess the water work isn't any too healthy for him," mused joe. "it must be hard to be under that pressure so long. i feel sorry for him." "what are you two talking about--going to get up a new act that will make us all take back seats?" asked a merry voice. joe recognized it at once, and, with a glad smile, he turned to see helen morton coming toward him. "i thought i knew you, even from your back," she told joe, as she shook hands with him. "does rosebud want any sugar?" he asked, smiling. "no, thank you! he's had his share to-day. but it was good of you to remember. i must introduce you to my horse." "i shall be happy to meet him," returned joe, with his best "stage bow." helen laughed merrily, as she walked across the grounds with joe and benny. "it's almost supper time," she said, "and i'm starved. can't we all eat together?" "i don't see why not," ben answered, and they were soon at a table where many other performers sat, all, seemingly, talking at once. joe was very much interested. he was more than interested in two dark-complexioned men who regarded him curiously. one was the person who had spoken to jim tracy. the other joe had not seen before. "they're the lascalla brothers," ben informed him. "that is, there are two of them. the third----" "i'm to be the third," joe broke in. "you are?" asked ben, and he regarded his friend curiously. "well, look out for yourself; that's all i've got to say." "why has he to look out for himself?" inquired helen, who had caught the words. "are you going to eat all there is on the table, ben, so there won't be any for mr. strong? is that why he must look out?" "no, not that," ben answered. "it--it was something else." "oh, secrets!" and helen pretended to be offended. "it wasn't anything," joe assured her. and he tried to forget the warning ben had so kindly given him. joe attended the performance that night as a sort of privileged character. he went behind the scenes, and also sat in the tent. he was most interested in the feats of the two lascalla brothers, and he decided that, with a little practice, he could do most of the feats they presented. that night, at the hotel, joe was introduced to sid and tonzo. they bowed and shook hands, and, as far as joe could see, they did not resent his joining their troupe. they seemed pleasant, and joe felt that perhaps the difficulties had been exaggerated. nothing was said of sim dobley, and though joe had been on the watch for the deposed performer that afternoon and evening, he had not seen him. "you will, perhaps, like to practise with us?" suggested tonzo, after a while. "i think it would be wise," agreed joe. "very well, then. we will meet you at the tent in the morning." bright and early joe was on hand. jim tracy found him a pair of pink tights that would do very well for a time, and ordered him a new, regular suit. at the request of tonzo lascalla, joe went through a number of tricks, improvising them as he progressed. next the two spaniards did their act, and showed joe what he was to do, as well as when to do it, so as to make it all harmonize. then hard practice began, and was kept up until the time for the afternoon show. joe did not feel at all nervous as he prepared for his entrance. his work on the stage with professor rosello stood him in good stead. in another moment he was swinging aloft with his two fellow-performers, in "death-defying dives," and other alliterative acts set down on the show bills. "can you catch me if i jump from the high-swinging trapeze, and vault toward you, somersaulting?" joe asked tonzo, during a pause in their act. "of a certainty, yes, i can catch you. but can you jump it?" "sure!" declared joe. "i've done it before." "it is a big jump, mr. strong," tonzo warned him. "even your predecessor would have hesitated." "i'll take the chance," joe said. "now this is the way i'll do it. i'll get a good momentum, swinging back and forth. you stand upon the high platform, holding your trapeze and waiting. when i give the word and start on my final swing, you jump off, hang by your knees, hands down. i'll leap toward you, turn over three times, and grab your hands. do you get me?" "of a certainty, yes. but it is not an easy trick." "i know it--that's why i'm going to do it. do you get me?" "if he doesn't 'get you,' as you call it, mr. strong," put in sid, "you will have a bad fall. of course there is the life net, but if you do not land right----" "oh, i'll land all right," said joe, though not boastingly. the time for the new trick came. joe climbed up to a little platform near the top of the tent and swung off, swaying to and fro on a long trapeze. on the other side of the tent tonzo took his place on a similar platform, fastened to a pole. he was waiting for joe to give the word. to and fro, in longer and longer arcs, joe swung. he hung by his hands. carefully his eye gauged the distance he must hurl himself across. finally he had momentum enough. "come on!" he cried to tonzo. the latter leaped out on his trapeze, swinging by his knees. right toward joe he swung. "here i come!" joe shouted, amid breathless silence among the spectators below him. they realized that something unusual was going on. "go!" shouted sid, who was waiting down on the ground for the conclusion of the trick. joe let go. he felt himself hurling through the air. quickly he doubled himself in a ball, and turned the somersaults. then he straightened out, dropped a few feet, and his hands squarely met those of tonzo. the latter clasped joe's in a firm grip, and, holding him, swung to and fro on the long trapeze. a roar of applause broke out at joe's daring feat. he had made a hit--a big hit, for the applause kept up after he had dropped to the life net. he stood beside tonzo and sid, all three bowing and smiling. chapter vii joe turns a trick "that's the idea!" exclaimed jim tracy, hurrying over to where the three gymnasts stood. "give 'em some more of that, joe!" "i haven't any more like that--just now," answered the young circus performer, panting slightly, for he was a bit out of breath from his exertion and the anxiety lest his trick should fail. "well, do it again at to-night's performance, then," urged the ring-master, and joe nodded in agreement. "it was a good trick, my boy," said tonzo lascalla, "but don't try it too often." "why not?" joe asked. "because it is risky. i might not catch you some day." "i'd only fall into the life net if you did miss," said joe coolly, though, for a moment, he thought there might be a hidden meaning in what his fellow-performer said. "well, it is not every one who knows how to fall into a life net," put in sid lascalla. "if one lands on his head the neck is likely to be dislocated." "i know how to fall," joe declared, and, though he spoke positively, he was not in the least boastful. "here, i'll show you," he went on. their act was not quite finished, but before going on with the next gymnastic feat joe caught hold of a hoisting rope that ran through a pulley, and, at a nodded signal, one of the ring-men hauled the lad up to the top of the tent to the little platform where joe had stood when taking his place on the high trapeze. joe signaled to the ring-master that he was going to make a jump into the net from that height, and at once the crowd again became aware that something unusual was going on. it was a jump seldom made, at least in the sampson brothers' circus. the platform was fully twenty feet higher than the trapeze from which joe and his fellow-performer had dropped a few minutes before. and, as sid lascalla had said, there was a risk even in jumping into a life net. but joe strong seemed to know what he was about. "say, he's going to do some jump!" exclaimed benny turton, who came into the ring at that moment, dressed in his shimmering, scaly suit, ready to do his "human fish" act. "that's what!" cried jim tracy. "give him the long roll and the boom!" he called to the leader of the musicians. as joe poised for his jump the snare drummer rattled out a "ruffle," and as it started joe leaned forward and leaped. down he went, for a few feet, as straight as an arrow. then he suddenly doubled up into a sort of ball, and began turning over and over. the crowd held its breath. the drum continued to rattle out its thundering accompaniment. how many somersaults joe turned none of the spectators reckoned, but the youthful performer kept count of them, for he wanted to "straighten out," to land on his feet in the net. "he'll never do it!" predicted tonzo lascalla. and it did begin to look as though joe had miscalculated. but no. just before he reached the springy life net he straightened out and came down feet first, bouncing up, and down like a rubber ball. the instant he landed the bass drum gave forth a thundering "boom," and as joe rose, and came down again, the drummer punctuated each descent with a bang, until the crowd that had applauded madly at the jump was laughing at the queer effect of joe's bouncing to the accompaniment of the drum. "he did it!" cried jim tracy. "it was a great jump. we'll feature that now." he looked at sid and tonzo lascalla, as though asking why they had not worked something like this into their acts previously. but the spaniards only shrugged their shoulders and raised their eyebrows. "that was great, joe!" exclaimed benny turton, as joe leaped to the ground over the edge of the life net. "great!" joe smiled happily. "it was wonderful," added helen morton, who was about to put her trick horse, rosebud, through his paces. "it was wonderful--but i don't like to see anybody take such risks." "anybody?" asked joe in a low voice. "well, then--you," she whispered, as she ran off to her ring. "well, i did it, you see," observed joe to his two partners. "i guess i know how to fall into a net." "you sure do!" averred the ring-master. "try that at each performance, joe." "only--be careful," added tonzo lascalla. "we do not want to have to get another partner." the act of joe and the two other "lascalla brothers" came to an end with joe and sid hanging suspended from the legs of tonzo, who supported himself on a swinging trapeze. it made an effective close. joe was through then, and could watch the rest of the show or go to bed, as he pleased. he elected to stay in the "main top" and watch helen in her act. he was also much interested in the "human fish." "pshaw!" joe heard jim tracy murmur, as he, too, looked at benny in the tank. "he isn't staying under as long as he used to, not by half a minute. i wonder what's the matter with him. first we know he'll be cutting the time, and we'll hear a howl from the public. that won't do! i'll have to give him a call-down." joe felt sorry for ben, who did not seem at all well. joe thought he had better not interfere, but he resolved to speak to the water-performer privately, and see if he could not help him. joe repeated his sensational acts at the next day's performances, and that night he and the others in the circus moved on to the next stand. joe wrote a line to professor rosello, telling him of the success. it was a quite novel experience for joe, traveling with a circus. but he was used to sleeping cars by this time, on account of the going from town to town with the magician. however, he had never before had a berth in a train filled with circus performers, and, for a time, he could not sleep because of the strangeness. but he soon grew used to it, and in a few nights he could doze off as soon as he stretched out. joe's new suit of pink tights arrived. it matched those of the lascalla brothers. in fact, joe was now billed as one of that trio, though, of course, he went by his own name in private. he was sufficiently dark as to hair and complexion to pass for a spaniard. to quote his own words, joe was "taking to the circus life as a duck does to water." he seemed to fit right in. he made some new friends, but of all the men or youths in the show he liked best benny turton and the ring-master. joe and the lascalla brothers got along well, but there was not much intimacy between them, though they worked well in the "team." joe was on the lookout for any signs of sim dobley, but that unfortunate man did not appear, as far as our hero could learn. if sid or tonzo made further appeals for his reinstatement they said nothing about it to joe. as the show went on, playing from town to town, joe become more and more used to the life. he liked it very much, and each day he was becoming more proficient on the trapeze. one day, about two weeks after he had joined the circus, joe had an idea for a new feat. it involved his jump from a distance, catching tonzo lascalla by the legs and hanging there. it was harder than making a leap for the other performer's hands, since, if joe missed his clutch, tonzo would have a chance to grab him with his hands. but when joe leaped for his partner's feet a certain margin of safety was lost. it was not that a fall would be dangerous if joe missed, for the life net was below him. but the effect of the trick would be spoiled. they practised the trick in private--joe and tonzo--and for a time it did not seem to work. joe fell short every time of grasping the other's legs. "you will never do it," said sid, and there was a queer look on his face as he glanced at tonzo. the other seemed to wink, just the mere fraction of a wink, and then, like a flash, it came to joe. "he doesn't want me to do it," thought our hero. "tonzo wants me to fail. he doesn't want me to be successful, for he thinks maybe he can get sim back. but i'll fool him! i think he has been drawing up his legs the instant i jumped for them, so i would miss. i'll watch next time." this joe did, and found his surmise right. just before he reached with outstretched hands for tonzo's legs, the man drew them slightly up, and, as a result, joe missed. "here's where i turn a trick on him," mused the young performer, as he failed and landed in the net in his next attempt joe leaped unusually high, and though tonzo drew up his legs he could not pull them beyond joe's reach. "that's the time i did it!" cried joe, as he made the catch and swung to and fro. sid, on the ground below, shrugged his shoulders, and said something to tonzo in spanish. chapter viii helen's letter "now i wonder," mused joe as he leaped out of the net, "what they said to each other. i'm sure it was about me. well, let it go. i did the trick, and i guess he won't pull his legs away again. if he does he'll have to pull 'em so far that it will be noticed all over, and he can't say it was an accident. i'll take care to make a high jump." joe practised the trick again and again, until he felt he was perfect in it. tonzo seemed to have given up the idea of spoiling it, if that had been his intention, and he and joe worked at it until they could do it smoothly. "when are you going to put it on?" jim tracy inquired, when told there was a new feature to the lascalla brothers' act. "oh, in a couple of nights now," joe answered. "you sure are making good, all right," the ring-master informed him. "i didn't make any mistake booking you. i didn't know whom to turn to in a hurry when sim dobley went back on me, and then i happened to think of you. got your route from one of the magazines, and sent you the wire." "i was mighty glad to come," confessed joe. the new act created more applause than ever for the lascalla brothers when it was exhibited, but the louder applause seemed to come to joe, though he did not try to keep his fellow performers from their share. and, as might be expected, there was not a little professional jealousy on the part of some of the other performers. if sid and tonzo were jealous of him they took pains to hide that fact from joe, but some of the others were not so careful. a few of the other gymnasts openly declared that the lascalla brothers were getting altogether too much public attention. "they detract from me," declared madame bullriva, the "strong woman," whose star feat was to get beneath a board platform on which stood twelve men, and raise it from the saw-horses across which it lay. true, she only raised it a few inches, but the act was "billed big." "i don't get half the applause i used to," she complained to jim tracy. "you let those 'spanish onions' have too much time in the ring, and give that joe strong a ruffle of drums and the big boom every time he makes the long jump." "but it's worth it," said the ring-master. "it's a big drawing card." "so's my act, but i don't get a single drum beat. can't i have some music with my act?" "i'll see," promised the ring-master, but he had many other things to think of, and the act of madame bullriva went unheralded, to her great disgust. "talk about footlight favorites," she complained to helen morton, as they dressed together for a performance, "that joe strong is getting all that's coming to him." "oh, i don't think he tries to take away from any of us," helen answered. "no, he doesn't personally. he's a nice boy. but tracy makes too much fuss over him. i like joe, but he and his partners are 'crabbing' my act, all right." "perhaps if you spoke to him----" "what! me? let him know i cared? i guess not! i'll join some other circus first." "you might put another man on the platform, and lift thirteen," the young trick rider suggested. "what! lift thirteen? that would be unlucky, my dear. i did it once when i was on the western circuit in a wild west show, and believe me--never again! i strained a shoulder muscle, and i had to lie up in a hospital five weeks. twelve men are enough to lift at once, take it from me! but joe is a nice boy, i'll say that. don't you like him?" helen's answer was not very clear, but perhaps that was because she was fixing her hair in readiness for the entrance into the ring with her trained horse, rosebud. joe, helen and benny turton seemed to have formed a little group among themselves. they sat together at the circus table, and when they were not "on," they were much in the company of one another. they were about the same age, and they enjoyed each other's society greatly, being congenial companions. joe was "introduced" to rosebud and, being naturally fond of animals, he made friends with the intelligent horse at once, which pleased helen. she and joe were getting very fond of one another, though perhaps neither of them would have admitted that, if openly taxed with it. but, somehow or other, joe seemed naturally to drift over near helen when they were both in the tent, awaiting their turns. and when their acts were over they either took walks together in and about the town where the circus was playing, or they sat in their dressing tent talking. often benny turton would join them, always being made welcome. but benny did not have much time. his shimmering, scaly, green suit was quite elaborately made, and it took him some time to get into it. it took equally as long to get out of it, and after his act he was always more or less exhausted and had to rest. "i don't know what's the matter with me," he said one day to helen and joe, as he joined them after having been in the big glass tank. "but i feel so tired after i come out that i want to go to bed." "maybe you stay under water too long," helen said sympathetically. "i don't stay under as long as i used to," benny remarked. "in fact jim tracy was sort of kicking just now. said i was billed to stay under water four minutes, and i was cutting it to three. i can't help it. something seems to hurt me here," and he put his hands to his ears and to the back of his head. "maybe you ought to see a doctor," suggested joe. "i can't," said benny shortly. "in this circus business if they find out you're sick the management begins to think of booking some one else for your act. no, i've got to keep on with it. but some days i don't feel much like it." joe and helen felt sorry for benny, but there was little they could do to aid him. it was not as if they could take some of the burden of work off his shoulders. his act was peculiar, and he alone could do it. "though i think," said joe to himself one day after watching benny perform, "i think i could stay under water almost as long as he does after i'd practised it a bit. i'm going to try some time. i think deep breathing exercises would help. i'm going to begin on them." joe had to have good "wind" for his own acts, but, as he was naturally ambitious, he started in on systematic breathing exercises. these would do him much general good even if he should never enter the water-tank. occasionally joe would do some simple sleight-of-hand tricks for the amusement of benny and helen. he did not want to lose the art he had acquired. "i may want to quit the circus some day and go back in the illusion business," he said. "quit the circus! why?" helen asked him. "oh, i'm not thinking seriously of it, of course," he said quickly. "but i don't want to get rusty on those tricks." joe heard occasionally from professor rosello, who had leased his show and was taking a much needed rest. he inquired as to joe's progress, and was glad, he said, to hear our hero was doing well. one day, when the circus was playing a large manufacturing city on a two days' date, joe had another glimpse of the man he had supplanted. the young trapeze artist went out of the tent when his share in the afternoon performance was over, and as he paused to look at the crowd in front of the sideshow tent he heard some one addressing him. "so you're the chap that took my place, are you?" a vindictive voice asked. "i've been wanting to see you!" joe turned to, behold sim dobley, who seemed worse off than when the young performer had first met him. "yes, i've been wanting to see you!" and there was a sneer in sim's words. joe decided nothing could be gained by temporizing, or by showing that he was alarmed. "well, now you've seen me, what are you going to do about it?" he coolly asked. "that's all right. you wait and you'll see!" was the threatening response. "nobody can knock me out of an engagement and get away with it. you'll see!" "look here!" exclaimed joe. "i didn't knock you out of your place. no one did except yourself, and you know it. and i'm not going to stand for any talk like that from you, either." "that's right, give it to him!" said another voice, and jim tracy came up. "don't let him bluff you, joe. as for you, dobley, i've told you to keep away from this circus, and i mean it! i heard you'd been following us. rode on one of the canvas wagons last night, didn't you?" "well, what if i did?" "this! if you do it again i'll have you arrested. i'm through with you and i want you to keep away." "i guess this is a free country!" "yes, the _country_ is free, but our _circus_ isn't. you keep out in the country and you'll be all right. keep off our wagons. moreover, if i catch you making any more threats against our performers i'll---- but i guess joe can look after himself all right," finished the ring-master. "just you keep away, that's all, dobley." the man slunk off in the crowd. joe really felt sorry for him, but he could do nothing. dobley had thrown away his chances and they had come to joe, who was entitled to them. later that day joe saw sid and tonzo in close conversation with their former partner, but our hero said nothing to the ring-master about it, though he was a bit uneasy in his own mind. the next afternoon when joe came out of his dressing room after his trapeze act, he met helen morton. the fancy rider held an open letter in her hand, and she seemed disturbed at its contents. "no bad news, i hope," remarked joe. "no, not exactly," helen answered. "on the contrary it may be good news. but i don't exactly understand it. i wish bill watson were here, so i could ask his advice." "who is bill watson?" asked joe. "he's one of our clowns, one of the oldest in the business, i guess. he was taken ill just before you joined the show, but he's coming back next week. i often ask his advice, and i'd like to now--about this letter." "why don't you ask mine?" suggested joe, half jokingly. chapter ix bill watson's idea helen morton gave joe a glance and a smile. then she looked at the open letter in her hand. "that's so," she said brightly. "i never thought of that. i wonder if you could advise me?" "why, i'm one of the best advisers you ever saw," returned joe, laughingly. "i know you're good on the trapeze," helen admitted, "but have you had any business experience?" "well, i was in business for myself after i ran away from home and joined the professor," answered joe. "that is, i had to attend to some of his business. what is it all about?" "that's just what i want to know," answered the young circus rider. "it's a puzzle to me." she again referred to the letter, then with a sort of hopeless gesture held it out to joe. he took it and cried: "why, what's this? it's all torn up," and he exhibited a handful of scraps of paper. "oh--joe!" helen gasped. "how did that happen?" "just a mistake," he replied. with a quick motion of his hand he held out the letter whole and untorn. "oh--oh!" she stammered. then, laughing, added: "is that one of your sleight-of-hand tricks?" "yes," joe nodded. when helen handed him the letter he happened to be holding the scraps of a circular letter he had just received and torn up. it occurred to him, just for a joke, to make helen believe her letter had suddenly gone to pieces. it was one of joe's simplest tricks, and he often did them nowadays in order to keep in practice. "you certainly gave me a start!" helen exclaimed. "i had hardly read the letter myself. it's quite puzzling." "do you want me to read it--and advise you?" asked joe. "if you will--and can--yes." joe hastily glanced over the paper. he saw in a moment that it was from a new york firm of lawyers. the body of the letter read: "we are writing to you to learn if, by any chance, you are the daughter of thomas and ruth morton who some years ago lived in san francisco. in case you are, and if your grandfather on your father's side was a seth morton, we would be glad to have you notify us of these facts, sending copies of any papers you may have to prove your identity. "for some years we have been searching for a helen morton with the above named relatives, but, so far, have not located her. "we discovered a number of helen mortons, but they were not the right ones. recently we saw your name in a theatrical magazine, and take this opportunity to inquire of you, sending this letter in care of the circus with which we understand you are connected. kindly reply as soon as possible. if you are the right person there is a sum of money due you, and we wish, if that is the case, to pay it and close an estate." joe read the letter over twice without speaking. "well," remarked helen, after a pause, "i thought you were going to advise me." "so i am," joe said. "i want to get this through my head first. but let me ask you: is this a joke, or are you the helen morton referred to?" "i don't know whether it's a joke or not, joe. first i thought it was. but my father's name was thomas, and my grandfather was a seth morton, and he lived in san francisco. of course that was when i was a little girl, and i don't remember much about it. we lived in the west before papa and mamma died, and it was there i learned to ride a horse. "when i was left alone except for an elderly aunt, i did not know what to do. my aunt took good care of me, however, but when she died there was no one else, and she left no money. i tried to get work, but the stores and factories wanted experienced girls, and the only thing i had any experience with was a horse. "i got desperate, and decided to see if i couldn't make a living by what little talent i had. so one day, when a circus was showing in our town, i took my horse, rosebud, rode out and did some stunts in the lots. the manager saw me and hired me. oh, how happy i was! "that wasn't with this show. i only joined here about two years ago. of course my friends--what few i had--thought it was dreadful for me to become a circus rider, but i've found that there are just as good men and women in circuses as anywhere else in this world," and her cheeks grew red, probably at the memory of something that had been said against circus folk. "i know," said joe, quietly. "my mother was a circus rider." "so you have told me. but now about this letter, joe. i wish bill watson were here--he might know what to do about it." "well, i can't say that i do, in spite of my boast," joe answered. "it may be a joke, and, again, it may be the real thing. you may be an heiress, miss morton," and joe bowed teasingly. "i thought you were going to call me helen--if i called you joe," she said. "so i am. that was only in fun," for soon after their acquaintance began these two young persons had fallen into the habit of dropping the formal miss and mister. "well, what would you do, joe?" helen asked. "i think i'd answer this letter seriously," replied the young performer. "if it is a joke you can't lose more than a two cent stamp, and, on the other hand, if it's serious they'll want to hear from you. you may be the very person they want. this letter head doesn't look much like a joke." the paper on which the letter was written was of excellent quality, and joe could tell by passing his fingers over the names, addresses and other matter that it was engraved--not printed. "if it's a joke they went to a lot of work to get it up," he continued. "have you any papers, to prove your identity?" "yes, i have some birth and marriage certificates, and an old bible that was grandfather seth's. i wouldn't want to send them off to new york though." "it won't be necessary--at least not at first. i'll help you make copies of them, and if these lawyers want to see the real things let them send a man on. that's my advice." "and very good advice it is too, joe," helen said. "i don't believe bill watson could give any better. he's a real nice elderly man, and he's been almost a father to me. i often go to him when i have my little troubles. i wish he were here now. but you are very good to me, joe. i'm going to take your advice." "i'll help you make the copies," joe offered. "did you ever have any idea that your grandfather left valuable property?" "no, and i don't believe papa or mamma did, either. we were not exactly poor, but we weren't rich. oh, wouldn't it be nice if i were to get some money?" "you wouldn't stay with the circus then, would you?" "oh, i don't know," she answered musingly. "i think i like it here." "i know i do," joe said. "but if you don't want to take my advice you can wait until mr. watson comes back. you say he's expected?" "yes. mr. tracy said he'd join us at blairstown in a few days. but, anyhow, i'm going to do as you said, joe. and if i get a million dollars maybe i'll buy a circus of my own," and she laughed at the whimsical idea. taking some spare time, she and joe made copies of certain certificates helen had in her trunk, and they also copied the record from the old bible. joe got the press agent of the show to typewrite a letter to go with the copies, and they were sent to the new york lawyers. "now we'll wait and see what comes of it," helen said. "but i'm not going to lose any sleep over it. i never inherited a fortune, and i don't expect to." a few days later, when the show reached blairstown, bill watson, a veteran clown, joined the troupe of fun-makers. he was made royally welcome, for his presence had been missed. "bill, i want to introduce to you a new friend of mine," said helen, when she had the opportunity. "he's one of our newest and best performers, aside from you and me," she joked. "what's the name?" asked jovial bill, holding out his hand. "joe strong." "been in the business long?" "not very. i was with professor rosello before i came here." "never heard of him," and bill shook his head. "he was a conjurer," explained joe. "my father was, too. he was professor morretti, and my mother----" "was madame hortense. she was janet willoughby before her marriage," broke in bill watson, speaking calmly. "what!" cried joe. "did you know her--them?" "i knew both of them," said bill. "i didn't connect your name with them at first, strong not being uncommon. but when you mentioned your father, the professor, why, it came to me in a flash. so you're madame hortense's son, eh?" "did you know my mother well?" asked joe. "know her?" cried the veteran clown. "i should say i did! why, she and i were great friends, and so were your father and i, but i did not see so much of him, as he was in a different line. but your mother, joe! ah, the profession lost a fine performer when she died. i never thought i'd meet her son, and in a circus at that. "but i'm glad you're with us, and i want to say that if you have helen, here, on your side, you've got one of the finest little girls in all the world." "i found that out as soon as i joined," said joe. "trust you young chaps for not losing any chances like that," chuckled the clown. "well, i'm glad you two are friends. they tell me you're quite an addition to the lascalla troupe." "i'm glad i've been able to do so well," joe said. "and how have you been, helen?" the old clown wanted to know. "first rate. and, oh, bill. we have _such_ a mystery for you--joe and i!" "a mystery, helen?" "yes; i'm going to be an heiress. wait until i show you the letter," which she did, to the no small astonishment of bill watson. "well, well," he said over and over again, when helen and joe told of the answer they had sent the new york lawyers. "suppose you do get some money, helen?" "it's too good to suppose. i can't imagine any one leaving me money." "i wish i knew a fairy godmother who would leave me some," murmured joe. "but that wouldn't happen in a blue moon." bill watson turned, and looked rather curiously at the young circus performer. "well, now, do you know, joe strong," he said, "i have an idea." "an idea!" cried helen gaily. "how nice, bill. tell us about it!" "now just a moment, young lady. don't get too excited with an old man just off a sick bed. but joe's speaking that way--i call you joe, as i knew your folks so well--joe's speaking that way gave me an idea. i wouldn't be so terribly surprised, my boy, if you did have money left you some day." "how?" asked joe in surprise. "why, your mother, whom, as i said, i knew very well, came of a very rich and aristocratic family in england. she was disowned by them when she married your father--as if public performers weren't as good as aristocrats, any day! but never mind about that. your mother certainly was rich when she was a girl, joe, and it may be she is entitled to money from the english estates now, or, rather, you would be, since she is dead. that's my idea." chapter x in the tank "are you really serious in that?" asked joe of the old clown, after a moment's consideration. "of course i am, joe. why? would it be strange to have some one leave you money?" "it certainly would! but it would be a nice sort of strangeness," replied the young performer. "i never dreamed that such a thing might happen." "oh, i don't say it _will_," bill watson reminded him. "but the fact remains that your mother came from what is sometimes called 'the landed gentry' of england, and the estates there, or property, descend to eldest sons differently than property does in this country. it may be worth looking into, joe." "but i don't know much about my mother," joe said. "i hardly ever meet any one who knew her. my foster-parents would never speak of her--they were ashamed of her calling." "more shame to them!" exclaimed the clown. "there never was a finer woman than your mother, joe strong. and as for riding--well, i wish we had a few of her kind in the show now. i don't mean to say anything against your riding, my dear," he said to helen. "but janet strong did a different sort, for she was a powerful woman, and could handle a horse better than most men." "i guess i must get my liking for horses from her," joe remarked. "very likely," agreed bill watson. "some day i'll have a long talk with you about your mother, joe, and i'll give you all the information i can. there may be some of her old acquaintances you can write to, to find out if she was entitled to any property." "wouldn't it be fine if we both came into fortunes!" gaily cried helen, with sparkling eyes. "wouldn't it be splendid, joe?" "too good to be true, i'm afraid. but you have a better chance than i, helen." "perhaps. would you leave the circus, joe, if you got rich?" "oh, i don't know. i guess i'd stay in it while you did--to sort of look after you," and he smiled quizzically. "trying to get my job, are you?" chuckled bill. "well, we are young only once. but i must say, helen, that this young man gave you as good advice as i could, and i hope it turns out all right." joe liked bill watson--every one did in fact--and the young performer was pleased to learn something of his mother, and glad to learn that he would be told more. the enforced rest bill watson had taken on account of a slight illness, seemed to have done the old clown good, for he worked in some new "business" in his acts when he again donned the odd suit he wore. his presence, too, had a good effect on the other clowns, so that the audiences, especially the younger portion, were kept in roars of merriment at each performance. joe, also, did his share to provide entertainment for the circus throngs. perhaps it would be more correct to say that joe provided the thrills, for some of his feats were thrilling indeed. not that the other members of the lascalla troupe did not share in the honors, for they did. both sid and tonzo were accomplished and veteran performers on the flying rings and trapeze bars, but they had been in the business so long that they had become rather hardened to it, and stuck to old tricks and effects instead of getting up new ones. joe was especially good at this, and while some of his feats were not really new, he gave a different turn to them that seemed to make for novelty. "but i don't like to see you take such risks," helen said to him on more than one occasion. "i'm afraid you'll be hurt." "you have to take risks in this business," joe stated. "i don't think about them when i'm away up at the top of the tent, swinging on the bar. i just think of the trick and wonder if sid or tonzo will catch me or me one of them when the jump is made. besides, the life net is always below us. "yes, but suppose you miss the net or it breaks?" "i don't like supposes of that sort," laughed joe, coolly. truly he had good nerves, under perfect control. he was adding to his muscular strength, too. constant and steady practice was making his arms and legs powerful indeed. for a while joe had been on the watch for some overt act on the part of sid or tonzo that would spoil an act and bring censure down on himself. but following that one attempt neither of the spaniards did anything that joe could find fault with. they were enthusiastic over some of the feats he performed, and worked in harmony with him. if they were jealous over joe's popularity and the applause he often received as his share alone in some trick, they did not show it. "oh, joe!" exclaimed helen one day, when they were in the small tent getting ready for the afternoon performance. "i have a letter from the new york lawyers." "what do they say?" joe asked eagerly. "did they send the money?" "no. but they thanked me for the copies of the proofs i sent, and they said they believed they were on the right track. they will write again soon. so it wasn't a joke, anyhow." "it doesn't look so," the youth agreed. "is everything all right--rosebud safe, and all that?" "yes. he's feeling himself again." the trick horse had been ailing the day before, and helen was a little worried about her pet. joe and helen wandered into the main tent, which was now set up. joe wanted to get in a little practice on the trapeze, while helen went in to watch, as she often did. the men were setting up the big glass tank in which the "human fish" performed, and when joe came down from his trapeze, rather warm and tired, the water looked very inviting. "i've a good notion to go in for a swim," he said to helen. "why don't you?" she dared him. "it would do you good. it's such a hot day. i almost wish i could myself." "i believe i will," joe said. "i've got a bathing suit in my trunk." the big tent was almost deserted at this hour, for the parade was in progress. joe and helen did not take part in this. joe came back attired for a swim, and going up the steps by which benny mounted to the platform on the edge of the tank before he plunged in, joe poised there. "here i go," he called to helen. "got a watch?" "yes, joe." "time me then. i'm going to see how long i can stay under water." in he went head first, making a clean dive, for joe was an adept in the water. he swam about in the limpid depths, helen watching him admiringly through the glass sides of the tank. then joe settled down on the bottom as benny was in the habit of doing. helen nervously watched the seconds tick off on her wrist watch. when two minutes had passed, and joe was still below the water, the girl became nervous. "come on out, joe!" she called. joe could not hear her, of course. he waved his hand to her. he could not stay under much longer, he felt sure, but he did not want to give up. it was not until three seconds of the third minute had passed that he found it impossible to hold his breath longer, and up he shot, filling his lungs with air as he reached the surface. at that moment benny turton came into the tent, and saw some one in his tank. "what happened?" he cried, running forward. "did some one fall in?" "it's all right," helen informed the "human fish." chapter xi helen's discovery joe strong climbed out of the tank. he grinned cheerfully at benny. "it was so hot i took a bath in your tub," he explained. "it sure was fine! hope you don't mind?" "not a bit," returned benny, cheerfully. "come in any time you like. it isn't exactly a summer resort beach, but it's the best we have." "and joe stayed under water over three minutes," helen said. "did i, really?" joe cried. "you certainly did." "i was just giving myself a try-out," joe explained to benny. "that's pretty good," declared the "human fish," as he tested the temperature of the water. "i couldn't do that at first." "oh, you see i've lived near the water all my life," joe explained, "and it comes sort of natural to me. don't be afraid that i'm going after your act though," he added, with a laugh. "i almost wish you would," and benny spoke wearily. "what's the matter?" asked helen, with ready sympathy. "oh, i don't know. i don't feel just right, somehow or other. it's mostly in my head--back here," and benny pointed to the region just behind his ears. "i've got a lot of pain there, and going under water and staying so long seems to make it worse." "why don't you see a doctor?" asked joe. "well, you know what that would mean. i might have to lay off, and i don't want that. i need the money." benny had a widowed mother to support, and it was well known that he sent her most of his wages, keeping only enough to live on. "well, i wish i could help you," said joe, "but i can't do all the stunts you can under water, even if i could hold down both jobs." "the stunts are easy enough, once you learn how to hold and control your breath," benny said. "that's the hardest part of it, and you seem to have gotten that down fine. how was the water, cold?" "no, just about right for me," joe declared. "i don't like it too warm." benny again tested the temperature by putting his hand in the tank. "i think i'll have 'em put a little hot water in just before i do my act," he said. "i have an idea that the cold water gets in my ears and makes the pain in my head." "perhaps it does," joe agreed. preparations for the afternoon performance were now actively under way. the big parade was out, going through the streets of the town, and soon those taking part in the pageant would return to the "lot." then, at two, the main show would start. joe had a new feat for that day's performance. he and the two spaniards had worked it out together. it was quite an elaborate act, and involved some risk, though at practice it had gone well. joe was to take his place on the small, high elevated platform at one side of the tent, and tonzo would occupy a similar place on the other side. joe was to swing off, holding to the flying rings, which, for this trick, had been attached to unusually long ropes. opposite him tonzo was to swing from a regulation trapeze, which also was provided with a long rope. after the two had acquired sufficient momentum, they were to let go at a certain signal and pass each other in the air, joe under tonzo. then joe would catch the trapeze bar, and tonzo the rings, exchanging places. once they had a good grip, sid was to swing from a third trapeze, and, letting go, grasp tonzo's hands, that performer, meanwhile, having slipped his legs through the rings, hanging head downward. when sid had thus caught bold, he was to signal to joe, who was to make a second flying leap, and grasp sid's down-hanging legs. as said before, the feat went well in practice and the ring-master was depending on it for a "thriller." but whether it would go all right before a crowded tent was another matter. joe was a little nervous over it--that is as nervous as he ever allowed himself to get, for he had evolved the feat, and sid and tonzo had not been over-enthusiastic about it. however, it must be attempted in public sooner or later, and this was the day set for it. before the show began joe, sid and tonzo went over every rope, bar and ring. they wanted no falls, even though the life net was below them. "is everything all right?" joe asked his partners. "yes," they told him. the usual announcement was made of the lascalla brothers' act, and on this occasion jim tracy, who was making the presentation, added something about a "death-defying double exchange and triple suspension act never before attempted in any circus ring or arena throughout the world." that was joe's trick. the three performers went through some of their usual exploits, ordinary enough to them, but rather thrilling for all that. then came the preparations for the new feat. joe and tonzo took their places on the small platforms, high up on the tent poles. the eyes of all in their vicinity were watching them eagerly. sid was in his place, ready to swing off when the two had crossed each other in the air and had made the exchange. "are you ready?" called jim tracy in his loud voice. "ready," answered joe's voice, from high up in the tent. "ready," responded tonzo, after a moment's hesitation, during which he pretended to fix one slipper. this was done for dramatic effect, and to heighten the suspense. helen, who had just finished her tricks with rosebud, paused at the edge of a ring to watch the new act. "then go!" shouted the ring-master. joe and tonzo swung off together, and then swayed to and fro like giant pendulums, joe on the rings and tonzo on the trapeze. "ready?" cried joe to his swinging partner. "yes," answered tonzo. "come on!" joe said. it was time to make the exchange. this was one of the critical parts of the trick. joe let go the rings and hurled himself forward his eyes on the swinging trapeze bar, his hands out stretched to grasp it. he passed the form of his partner in mid-air, and the next instant he was swinging from the trapeze. he could not turn to look, but he felt sure, from the burst of applause which came, that tonzo had successfully done his part. again tonzo and joe were swinging in long arcs, so manipulating their bodies as to give added momentum to the long ropes. "ready down there?" asked joe of sid. "ready," he answered. "then go!" sid swung off, as tonzo hung head downward with outstretched hands. sid easily caught them, for this was a trick they often did together. now must come joe's second leap, and it was not so easy as the first, nor did he have as good a chance of catching sid's legs as he would have had at tonzo's hands. however, it was "all in the day's work," and he did not hesitate at taking chances. he reached the height of his swing and started downward in a long sweep. "here i come!" he called. he let go the trapeze bar, and made a dive for sid's dangling legs. for the fraction of a second joe thought he was going to miss. but he did not. he caught sid by the ankles and the three hung there, swinging in mid-air, tonzo, of course, supporting the dragging weight of the bodies of joe and sid. but tonzo was a giant in his strength. there was a burst of music, a rattle and boom of drums, as the feat came to a successful and startling finish. then, as joe dropped lightly into the life net, turning over in a succession of somersaults, the applause broke out in a roar. sid and tonzo dropped down beside joe, and the three stood with arms over one another's shoulders, bowing and smiling at the furor they had caused. "a dandy stunt!" cried jim tracy, highly pleased, as he went over to another ring to make an announcement. "couldn't be better!" this ended the work of joe and his partners for the afternoon, the new feat being a climax. they ran out of the tent amid continuous applause, and joe saw helen waiting for him. "oh, i'm so glad!" she whispered. "so glad!" it was about a week after this, the show meanwhile having moved on from town to town, that one of the trapeze performers who did a "lone act," that is all by himself, was taken ill. "i'll just shift you to his place, joe," said jim. "you can easily do what he did, and maybe improve on it." "but what about my lascalla act?" "oh, i'm not going to take you out of that. you'll do the most sensational things with them, but they can have some one else for the ordinary stunts. i want you to have some individual work." joe was glad enough for this chance, for it meant more money for him, and also brought him more prominently before the public. but the lascalla brothers were not so well pleased. they did not say anything, but joe was sure they were more jealous of him than before. he was going above them on the circus ladder of success and popularity. but it was none of joe's planning. his success was merited. the mail had been distributed one day, and helen had a letter from the new york lawyers, stating that a member of the firm was coming on to inspect the old bible and the other original proofs of her identity. "i must tell joe," she said, and on inquiry learned that he was in the main tent, practising. as she walked past the dressing room which joe and the lascalla brothers used, she saw a strange sight. sid and tonzo were doing something to a trapeze. they had pushed up the outer silk covering of the rope--covering put on for ornamental purposes--and tonzo was pouring something from a bottle on the hempen strands. "i wonder what he is doing that for," mused helen. "can it be that----" she got no further in her musing, for she heard sid speaking, and she listened to what he said. chapter xii just in time "this ought to do the business," said sid. "yes," agreed tonzo, "and not so quickly that it will be noticed, either. it will work slowly, but surely." "that's what we want," commented the other. "we're in no hurry. any time inside of a week will do. now we'll put this away to ripen." "that's queer," thought helen, and she passed on, for by the movement in the canvas dressing room she thought the men were about to come out, and she did not want them to see her at what they might consider spying on them. "i never heard of ripening a rope before," the girl said. "but it may be they have to for a trapeze. i'll ask joe about it. he might fix some of his ropes that way." helen went on, anxious to find the young performer, and show him her letter from the lawyer. "i'll tell bill watson, too," helen decided. as she expected, both joe and the old clown were much interested in her news. "it does really begin to look as though you would come into some money, doesn't it?" joe said. "i'm beginning to believe it myself," helen answered, "though i don't really count on it as yet." "yes, it's best to go a little slowly," advised bill. "not to count your chickens before they're hatched is a good motto. but this looks like business. i'd like to interview that lawyer when he comes." "i'll turn him over to you," helen said with a laugh. "to you and joe, and you can arrange about getting my money for me. i'll make you two my official advisers." "i accept with pleasure," joe answered, with a bow. "and that reminds me," went on bill. "i'm going to give you the addresses of some people who might know about your mother's folks in england, joe. as i told you, they disowned her when she married your father, though there wasn't a finer man going. but he was an american, and that was one thing they had against him, and another was that he was a public performer. "i think, too, that they rather blamed him for your mother's going into the circus business, joe. your mother was always a good horsewoman, so i have understood. she took part in many a fox hunt in england, and in cross-country runs, always coming out in front. and when your father met her he, as i understand it, suggested that, just for fun, she try circus work. she took it up seriously, and madame hortense became one of the foremost circus riders of her time. but from then on her name was forgotten by her relatives, and her picture was, so to speak, turned to the wall." "i wish i could get one of those pictures," said joe thoughtfully. "i have only a very small one that was in my father's watch. i'd like a large one, for i can't remember, very well, how she looked." "she was a handsome woman," said the clown. "it may be that you can get a picture of her from england--that is, if they saved one. i'll give you the address of some folks you can write to. it might be well to get a firm of lawyers here to take the matter up for you." "i believe it would be best," agreed joe. "why not let my lawyers--notice that, _my_," laughed helen. "why not let my lawyers act for you, joe? that is, after we see what sort they are. they seem honest." "another good idea!" commented the young performer. "i'll do it. you say one of them is coming to see you?" "so he says in this letter." "does he know where to find you?" "yes; i have told him the places where the circus will show for the next two weeks. he can find the place easily enough, and inquire for me. oh, i'm so anxious to know how rich i'm going to be!" "i don't blame you," chuckled bill. "now, joe, if i had a pencil and paper i'd give you those addresses i spoke of." joe supplied what was needed, and obtained the names of some men and women--circus performers who had been associated with his mother. joe wrote to them, asking the names of his mother's relatives in england, and their addresses. helen's attention was so taken up with the affairs of her inheritance that she forgot about the queer actions of sid and tonzo until after the performance that night. then, as she and joe were going to the train to take the sleeping cars for the next stop, helen asked: "joe, did you ever hear of ripening trapeze ropes?" "ripening trapeze ropes?" he repeated. "no. what do you mean?" helen then told what she had seen and heard in the dressing tent. joe shook his head. "it may be some secret process they have of treating ropes to make them tougher, so they'll last longer," joe said. "they may call it ripening, but i never heard of it. i'll ask them." "don't tell them i saw them," helen cautioned him. "of course not," joe answered. "perhaps it may be a professional secret with them, and they won't tell me anyhow. but i'll ask." but when joe, as casually as he could, inquired of sid and tonzo what they knew of ripening trapeze ropes, the two spaniards shook their heads, though, unseen by joe, a quick look passed between them. "i sometimes oil my ropes, to make them pliable," tonzo admitted. "olive oil i use. but it does not make them ripe." "i guess that must have been it," thought joe. "helen was probably mistaken. it might have been a word that sounded like ripening." so he said no more about it then, though when he reported to helen the result of his questioning, she shook her head. "i'm sure i heard aright," she declared. "and they were pouring something from a bottle on the trapeze rope from which they had pushed the silk covering." "it might have been olive oil," joe said. "it might," helen admitted, '"but i don't believe it was. they don't handle any of your ropes, do they?" "i always look after my own. why?" "oh, i just wanted to know," and that was all the answer helen would give. as joe went to his dressing room for that afternoon's performance he passed señor bogardi, the lion tamer. something in the man's manner attracted joe's attention, and he asked him: "aren't you feeling well to-day, señor?" "oh, yes, as well as usual. it is my princess who is not well." "princess, the big lioness?" "yes. i do not know what to make of her actions. she is never rough with me, but a little while ago, when i went in her cage, she growled and struck at me. i had to hit her--which i seldom do--and that did not improve her temper. i do not know what to make of her. i have to put her through her paces in the cage this afternoon, and i do not want any accident to happen. "it is not that i am afraid for myself," went on the tamer, and joe knew he spoke the truth, for he was absolutely fearless. "but if she comes for me and i have to--to do--something, it may start a panic. no, i do not like it," and he shook his head dubiously. "oh, well, maybe it will come out all right," joe assured him. "but you'd better tell jim, and have some extra men around. she can't get out of her cage, can she?" "oh, no, nothing like that. well, we shall see." it was almost time for the performance to begin. the crowd was already streaming into the animal tent and slowly filtering into the "main top," where the performance took place. before that, however, there was a sort of "show" in the animal arena, señor bogardi's appearance in the cage with the lioness being one of the features. joe had gone to his dressing tent and was coming out again, when he heard unusual roars from the animal tent. the lions often let their thunderous voices boom out, sometimes startling the crowd, but, somehow or other, this sounded differently to joe. "i wonder if that's princess cutting up," he reflected. "guess i'll go in and have a look. i hope nothing happens to the señor." though lion tamers, as well as other performers with wild beasts, seem to take matters easily, slipping into the cage with the ferocious creatures as a matter of course, they take their lives in their hands whenever they do it. no one can say when a lion or a tiger may suddenly turn fierce and spring upon its trainer. and there is not much chance of escape. the claws of a lion or a tiger go deep, even in one swift blow of its powerful paws. joe started for the animal tent, and then remembered that he needed in his act that day a certain short trapeze, the ends of the ropes being provided with hooks that caught over the bar of another trapeze. he hurried back to get it, and then, as the unusual roars kept up in the arena, he hastened there. as he had surmised, it was princess who was roaring, her fellow captives joining in. señor bogardi had slipped into the cage, and was waiting until the creature had calmed down a little. cages in which trainers perform with wild beasts are built in two parts. in one end is a sort of double door, forming a compartment into which the trainer can slip for safety. the señor had opened the outer door of the cage and slipped in, it being fastened after him. but he was still separated from princess by another iron-barred door that worked on spring hinges. and princess did not seem to want this door opened. she sprang against it with savage roars and thrust her paws through, trying to reach her trainer. he sought to drive her back into a far corner, so that he would have room to enter. once in, he felt he could subdue her. but princess would not get back sufficiently, though señor bogardi ordered her, and even flicked her through the bars with the heavy whip he carried. "i guess you'd better cut out the act to-day," advised jim tracy, as he saw how matters were going. the women and children were beginning to get nervous, some of them hastening into the other tent. men, too, were looking about as if for a quick means of escape in case anything happened. "no, no. i must make her obey me," insisted the performer. "if i give in to her now i will lose power over her. get back, princess! get back! down!" he ordered. but the lioness only snarled and struck at the bars with her paws. then she threw herself against the spring door, roaring. the cage rocked and shook, and several women screamed. "cut out the act!" ordered the ring-master. "it isn't safe with this crowd." "that's right," chimed in a man. "we know it isn't your fault, professor." "thank you!" señor bogardi bowed. "for the comfort of the audience i will omit my act to-day. but i will subdue princess later." there was a breath of relief from the crowd as the trainer prepared to leave the cage. men who had fastened the door after him raised the iron bar that held it so he could emerge. the lion-tamer slipped from the cage through the outside door, which was about to be shut when princess, with all her force, threw herself against the inner spring door. whether it was insecurely fastened or whether she broke the fastenings, was not disclosed at the moment, but the door gave way and the enraged beast sprang into the smaller compartment and toward the outer door. "quick!" cried the trainer. "up with that bar! fasten the door, or she'll be out among us!" the circus men raised the bar, but the cage was swaying so from the leapings of the lioness that they could not slip the iron in place. it almost dropped from their hands. joe strong saw the danger. he stood near the cage, the crowd having rushed back, men and women yelling with fright. joe saw the outer door swing open. in another instant the lioness would be out. at that moment the men dropped the iron bar. "quick! something to fasten the door--to hold it!" cried the lion-tamer. joe acted in a flash and not an instant too soon. he forced the strong hickory bar of his small trapeze into the places meant to receive the iron bar, and as the lioness, with a roar of rage, flung herself against the door, it did not give way, but held. joe had prevented her escape. chapter xiii a bad blow "quick now! with the iron bar!" cried señor bogardi. "that trapeze stick won't hold long!" but it held long enough. as the lioness, flung back into a corner of her cage by her impact against the steel door, gathered herself for another spring, the men slipped into place the iron bar, joe pulling out his trapeze. "it's all right now--no more danger!" called jim tracy. "take it easy, folks, she can't get out now!" this was true enough. the beast, after a fruitless effort to force a way out of the cage, retreated to a corner and lay down, snarling and growling. "i don't know what's gotten into princess," said the trainer as he looked at her. "she never acted this way before." "it's a good thing she showed her temper before you got in the cage with her, and not afterward," remarked joe, as he was about to pass on to the performance tent. "that's right," agreed señor bogardi. "and you did the right thing in the nick of time, my boy. only for your trapeze bar she'd have been out among the crowd," and he looked at the men, women and children, who were now calming down. the small panic was soon over, and in order to quiet the lioness a big canvas was thrown over her cage, so she would not be annoyed by onlookers. "i guess she needs a rest," her trainer said. "i'll let her alone for a day or so, and she may get over this." joe went on into the tent where he was to do his trapeze acts. it was nearly time for him to appear, and the other two lascalla brothers were waiting for him. they would do an act together, and joe one of his single feats, however, before the three appeared in a triple act. the young performer was straightening out the ropes attached to his trapeze, when he noticed that the bar of the small one, which he had thrust into the door of the lioness' cage, was cracked. "hello!" exclaimed joe. "this won't do. i can't risk doing tricks up at the top of the tent on a cracked bar. it might hold, and again it might not." he tried the cracked bar in his hands. it gave a little, but seemed fairly strong. "i wonder if i could get another," mused joe. "guess i'd better try." he walked over to where the lascalla brothers stood near their apparatus. "what's the matter?" asked sid, seeing joe trailing the broken trapeze after him. "this bar is cracked. it's my short trapeze that i fasten to the big one. i used it just now to hold the door so the lioness wouldn't get out, and the wood is cracked. i was wondering if you had a spare one like this." "we have!" exclaimed tonzo quickly. "get the little short one--the one with the silk coverings on the ropes," he said to sid. "joe can use that." "i'll be back with it in a second," sid stated, as he hurried off to the dressing tent, for it was nearly time for the performance to begin. sid returned presently with another trapeze. at this moment helen came in with her horse, rosebud, for she was about to do her act. "what's the matter, joe?" asked helen, for she knew that at this point in the performance he ought to be on the other side of the tent doing his act. "oh, i cracked a trapeze bar," joe replied, as he stepped up beside the girl and patted rosebud. "sid is going to get me another. here he comes now with it." at the sight of the trapeze the circus man was bringing up, helen was conscious of a strange feeling. she saw the silk-covered ropes, and the recollection of that scene in the tent came vividly to her. "i guess this will do you, joe," remarked sid, holding out the trapeze. "it's the only one we have like yours." "thanks," responded the young performer. "that will do nicely. i've got to hustle now and----" joe turned away, but became aware that helen was leaning down from the saddle and whispering to him. "joe! joe!" she exclaimed, making sure the lascalla brothers could not hear her, for they were on the other side of rosebud. "joe, don't use the trapeze!" "why not?" "because i'm sure that's the one i saw those two men 'ripening,' as they call it. they had pulled back the silk cover, and were pouring something on the rope. look at it before you use it. be careful!" then she flicked rosebud with the whip and rode into the ring to do her act amid a blare of trumpets. joe stood there, holding the trapeze. the two spaniards were starting their act now, and were high up in the air. "whew!" whistled joe. "i wonder what's up. can it be that this rope is doctored? i won't let them see me looking at it." he hurried over to his own particular place in the tent. "lively, joe!" called jim tracy. "you're late as it is!" "i'll be right on the job in a moment," the young performer answered. "i had to get another trapeze--the lioness cracked mine." "oh, all right--but hustle." under pretense of fastening the short trapeze to the larger one joe pushed back the loose silk covering the ropes. to his surprise, on one rope was a dark stain. joe rubbed his fingers over the strands. they were rotten, and crumbled at the touch. joe smelled of the dark stain. "acid!" exclaimed joe. "some one spilled acid on this rope. talk about putting on something to ripen it! this is something to rot it!" he tested the rope in his hands. it did not part, but some of the strands gave, and he did not doubt but that if he trusted his weight to it it would break and give him a fall. "now i wonder if they did that on purpose to queer me," mused joe. "if they did they waited for a most opportune time to give me the doctored trapeze. they couldn't have known i was going to break mine. i wonder if they did it on purpose. "of course i wouldn't have been killed, and probably not even much hurt, if the rope did break," thought joe. "i'd only fall into the life net, but it sure would spoil my act and make me look like an amateur. maybe that's their game! if it was----" joe paused, and looked over in the direction of the two spaniards. they were going through their act, but joe thought he had a glimpse of tonzo looking over toward him. "they want to see what happens to me," thought joe. "well, they won't see anything, for i sha'n't use this trapeze. i'll change my act." "hey, what's the matter over there, joe?" called jim tracy to him. "you ought to be up on the bar." "i know it, mr. tracy. but i've got to make a change at the last minute. i can't use this extra trapeze." "all right; do anything you like, but do it quick!" joe signaled to his helper, who began hoisting him to the top of the tent by means of rope and pulley. once on his own regular trapeze, which he had tested but a short while before, joe went through his act. he had to improvise some acts to take the place of those he did on the short trapeze. but he did these extra exploits so well and so easily that no one in the audience suspected that it was anything but the regular procedure. then joe, amid applause, descended and went over to work with the two spaniards. he carried the doctored trapeze with him. "i didn't use this," he said, looking closely at tonzo. "it seems to have been left out in the rain and one of the ropes has rotted." "rotted?" asked sid, his voice trembling. "something like that, yes," answered joe. "ah, that is too bad!" exclaimed tonzo, and neither by a false note nor by a change in his face did he betray anything. "i am glad you discovered the defect in time." "so am i," said joe significantly. "come on, now. "probably they fixed the rope with acid, and kept it ready against the chance that some day i might use it," reflected joe. "the worst that could happen would be to spoil my tricks--i couldn't get much hurt falling into the net, and they knew that. but it was a mean act, all right, and i sha'n't forget it. i guess they want to discourage me so they can get their former partner back. but i'm going to stick!" "did you find out anything, joe?" asked helen, when she had a chance to speak to him alone. "i sure did, thanks to you, little girl. i might have had a ridiculous fall if i'd used their trapeze. you were right in what you suspected." "oh, joe! i'm so glad i saw it in time to warn you." "so am i, helen. it was a mean piece of business, and cunning. i never suspected them of it." "oh, but you will be careful after this, won't you, joe?" "indeed i will! i want to live long enough to see you get your fortune. by the way, when is that lawyer coming?" "he is to meet me day after to-morrow." "i'll be on hand," joe promised. it rained the next day, and working in a circus during a rain is not exactly fun. still the show goes on, "rain or shine," as it says on the posters, and the performers do not get the worst of it. it is the wagon and canvas men who suffer in a storm. "and this is a bad one," joe remarked, when he went in the tent that afternoon for his act. "it's getting worse. i hope they have the tent up good and strong." "why?" asked helen. "because the wind's increasing. look at that!" he exclaimed as a gust careened the big, heavy canvas shelter. "if some of the tent pegs pull out there'll be trouble." helen looked anxious as she set off to put rosebud through his tricks, and joe was not a little apprehensive as he was hoisted to the top of the tent. he saw the big pole to which his trapeze was fastened, swaying as the wind shook the "main top." chapter xiv helen's inheritance joe strong had scarcely begun his act when he became aware that indeed the storm was no usual blow and bluster, accompanied by rain. he could feel his trapeze swaying as the whole tent shook, and while this would not have deterred him from going on with his performance, he felt that an accident was likely to occur that would start a panic. "it surely does feel as if the old 'main top' was going to fall," thought joe as he swung head downward by his knees, preparatory to doing another act. he could see that many in the audience were getting uneasy, and some were leaving their seats, though the red-capped ushers were going about calling: "sit still! keep your seats! there is no danger. the tent is perfectly safe." jim tracy had ordered this done. as a matter of fact the tent was not perfectly safe, but under the circumstances it was best to tell the people this to quiet them and to avoid having them make a rush to get out, as in that case many would be hurt--especially the women and the children. "it's a good thing it isn't night," reflected joe. "whew! that was a bad one!" he exclaimed as a terrific blast seemed fairly to lift one side of the tent. men started from their seats and women and children screamed. "just keep quiet and it will be all right," urged the ring-master, but the crowd was fast getting beyond control. joe saw jim tracy sending out a gang of men to drive the tent pegs deeper into the ground. the rain softened the soil, and thus made the pegs so loose that they were likely to pull out. at the same time the rain, wetting the ropes, caused them to shrink, and thus exert a stronger pull on the pegs and poles. so the ropes had to be eased off, while the pegs were pounded farther into the ground with big mauls. "lively now, men!" called the ring-master. the big tent swayed, sometimes the top of it being lifted high up by the wind which blew under it. again the sides would bulge in, making gaps by which the rain entered. but the band kept on playing. jim saw to that, for nothing is more conducive to subduing a panic than to let the crowd hear music. the performers, too, kept on with their acts, and some of the audience began to feel reassured. but the wind still kept up, blowing stronger if anything, and joe and others realized that it needed but a little accident to start a rush that might end fatally for some. joe was just about to go into the second series of his gymnastic work when he heard a tent pole beneath him snap with a breaking sound. at first he thought it was the big one to which his apparatus was made fast, but a glance showed him this one was standing safe. it was one of the smaller side poles. that part of the tent sagged down, the wind aiding in the break, and there were cries of fear from scores of women, while men shouted all sorts of directions. but the circus people had gone through dangers like this before, and they knew what to do. under the direction of jim tracy and his helpers, extra poles were quickly put in place to take the weight of the wet canvas off the broken one. this at once raised the tent up from those on whom it had partly fallen. and then something else happened. one of five horses which were being put through a series of tricks by a man trainer, suddenly bolted out of the ring. joe, high up in the tent, saw him running, and noted that the animal was headed for the ring where helen morton was performing with rosebud. "he's going to run into her!" thought joe. "i've got to do something!" he must think and act quickly. while attendant's were running after the bolting horse joe, looking down, saw that the animal would pass close to his life net. in an instant joe had decided what to do. he poised on the small platform, from which he made his swings, and dropped straight into the big net. just as he had calculated, he bounced up again, and as he did so he sprang out to one side. joe's quick eyes and nerves had enabled him to judge the distance correctly. he leaped from the net just as the horse was opposite him, and landed on his back in a riding position. it was the work of but a second to reach forward, grasp the little bridle which the animal wore, and pull him to one side. and it was not a second too soon, either, for the horse was on the edge of the ring in which helen was performing with rosebud. if the maddened animal had gone in, there would have been a collision in which the girl performer would, undoubtedly, have been injured. "good work, joe!" cried the ring-master. "but there's plenty more to be done. i guess we'll have to get all the men performers to help hold down the tent. i'm afraid she's going." "it does look so," joe admitted as he leaped from the horse and gave him in charge of one of the attendants. "what can we do?" "help drive in extra pins and attach more ropes. i'm going to dismiss the audience. we'll stay over here to-morrow, and give an extra performance to make up for it." "i'll get a crowd together and we'll help the canvasmen," offered joe. "and i'll help," said benny turton, who had finished his tank act. "come on!" cried joe, as he led the way. meanwhile jim tracy had requested the audience to file out as quickly and in as orderly a manner as possible. the crowd was not large, as the weather had been threatening in the morning and many had stayed at home. but it was no easy matter to dismiss even a small throng in such a storm. however, it was accomplished, the band meanwhile playing its best, and under hard conditions, as part of the tent over them split and let the rain in on them. but the music served a good turn, and while the people were hurrying out the canvasmen, aided by the performers, joe among them, drove in extra pegs, tightening those that had become loose, put on additional ropes, so that, by hard work, the big tent was prevented from blowing down. once outside, the audience, though most of them were soon drenched, took it good-naturedly. they were given emergency tickets as they passed out, good for another admission. and then the storm, which seemed to have reached its height, settled down into a heavy rain. the wind died out somewhat, and there was no danger from the collapse of the tent. "good work, boys!" said the ring-master, as the performers, all of them wet through, and in their performing suits too, came in. "good work! if it hadn't been for you i don't know what we would have done. i'll not forget it." there had been some trouble in the animal tent during the storm; the beasts, especially the elephants, evincing a desire to break loose. but their trainers quieted them, and soon the circus was almost normal again. of course the afternoon had been lost, but there was hope of a good attendance at night if the storm were not too bad. and by remaining over another afternoon the deficiency could be made up. word was telegraphed ahead to the next town announcing a postponement in the date. the broken pole was replaced with another, and then the performers enjoyed an unexpected vacation. "i want to thank you, joe, for what you did," said helen, coming up to him in the dining tent, where an early supper was served. "i saw what you did--stopping that runaway horse." "oh, it wasn't anything," joe said, modestly enough. "wasn't it?" asked helen, with a smile. "well, i consider myself and rosebud something worth saving." "oh, i didn't mean it that way," joe said quickly. "but the runaway might not have gone near you." "yes, i'm afraid he would. but you saved me." "well, if you feel that way about it," laughed joe, for he did not want helen to take the matter too seriously, "why then we're even. you saved me from a bad fall on the trapeze." the storm subsided somewhat by night, and there was a good attendance. and the receipts the next day were very large in the afternoon, for the story of what the circus men had done was widely spread, and served as a good advertisement. joe was applauded louder than ever when he did his acts. the two wily lascalla brothers never referred to the incident of the rotted trapeze rope, and joe did not know whether to believe them guilty or not. at most, he thought, they only wanted to give him a tumble that might make him look ridiculous, and so discourage him from continuing the work. in that case their deposed partner might get a chance. but joe did not give up, and he kept a sharp lookout. he redoubled his vigilance regarding his ropes, bars and rings, inspecting all of them just before each performance. on arriving at the next town helen received a note in her mail asking her to call at the principal hotel in the place. it was signed by one of the members of the law firm. "you come with me, joe," she begged. "i don't want to go alone." "all right," agreed the young performer. "we'll go and get your inheritance." "if there's any to get," laughed helen. "oh, joe, i'm so nervous!" "nervous!" he answered. "i wish i could be afflicted with nervousness like that--money-nervousness, i'd call it!" they found mr. pike, the lawyer, to be an agreeable gentleman. he had requested helen to bring with her the proofs of her identity, the old bible and other books, which she did. these the lawyer examined carefully, and asked the girl many questions, comparing her answers with some information in his notebook. finally he said: "well, there is no doubt but you are the miss helen morton we have been looking for so long, and i am happy to inform you that you are entitled to an inheritance from your grandfather's estate." "really?" cried helen, eagerly. "really," answered the lawyer, with a smile. "it isn't a very large fortune, but it will yield you a neat little income every year. in fact there is quite an accumulation due you, and i shall be happy to send it on as soon as i get back to new york. i congratulate you!" chapter xv a warning helen could hardly believe the good news. though she had hoped, since hearing from the law firm, that she might be entitled to some money, helen had always been careful not to hope too much. "for i don't want to be badly disappointed," she told joe. "well," he remarked, "i wish my chances were as good as yours." for the answers he received from the letters he wrote concerning his mother's relatives in england were disappointing. as far as these letters went there was no estate in which joe might share, though bill watson insisted that the late mrs. strong came of a wealthy family. "anyhow, you've got yours, helen," said joe. "well, i haven't exactly got it yet," and she looked at mr. pike. "oh, the money is perfectly safe," the lawyer assured helen. "i have part of it on deposit in my bank, and the rest is safe in california." "just how did it happen to come to me?" helen inquired. "well," answered the lawyer slowly, "it's a long and complicated story. your grandfather on your father's side was quite a landholder in san francisco. some of his property was not worth a great deal, and other plots were very valuable. in time he sold off most of it, but one large tract was considered so worthless that he could not find a buyer for it. when he died he still owned it, and it descended to your father. "he thought so little of it that he never tried to put it on the market. but during the last few years the city has grown out in the direction of this land, and recently the property was sold. "an effort was made to find the owner, your father, but as he was dead, and no one knew what had become of his heirs, the land was sold, and the money deposited with the state, to be turned over to the right owner when found. we have a branch office in san francisco, and we were engaged to try to find any morton heirs. finally we found you, and now i am glad to say that my work in this connection is so happily ended. "as i told you, i have some cash ready for you. the rest of your inheritance is in the form of bonds and mortgages, which will bring you in an income of approximately sixty dollars a month." "that's fifteen a week!" exclaimed helen, who was used to calculating that way, as are most circus and theatrical persons. "of course you could sell these bonds and mortgages, and get the cash for them," said the lawyer, "but i would not advise you to. you will have about three thousand dollars in cash, as it is, and this ought to be enough for your immediate needs, especially as i understand you have a good position." "yes, i am earning a good salary," helen admitted, "but i have not been able to save much. i am very glad of my little fortune." "and i am glad for you, my dear young lady. now, as i said, as soon as i get back to new york i will send one of my clerks on to you with the cash. i may be old fashioned, but i don't like to trust too much to the mails. besides, i want to get your signature to certain documents, and you will have to make certain affidavits to my clerk. so i will send him on. let me have a note of where you will be during the next week." helen gave the dates when the circus would play certain towns, and mr. pike left. "well, it's true, little girl, isn't it?" cried joe as they walked back to the circus together. "yes, and i'm very glad. i've always wanted money, but i never thought i'd have it--at least as much as i'm going to get. i wish you would inherit a fortune, joe." "oh, don't worry about me. i don't expect it, and what one never has had can't be missed very much. maybe i'll get mine--some day." "i hope so, joe. and now i want you to promise me something."' "what?" "that if ever you need money you'll come to me." joe hesitated a moment before answering. then he said: "all right, helen, i will." to joe the novelty of life in a circus was beginning to wear off. to be sure there was something new and different coming up each day, but he had now gotten his act down to a system, and to him and the other performers one day was much like another, except for the weather, perhaps. they did their acts before crowds every day--different crowds, to be sure; but, after all, men, women and children are much alike the world over. they want to be amused and thrilled, and the circus crowds in one place are no different from those in another. the sampson brothers' show was not one of the largest, though it was considered first class. occasionally it played one of the large cities, but, in the main, it made a circuit of places of smaller population. joe kept on with his trapeze work, now and then adding new feats, either by himself or with the lascalla brothers. on their part they seemed glad to adopt joe's suggestions. occasionally they made some themselves, but they were more in the way of spectacular effects--such as waving flags while suspended in the air, or fluttering gaily colored ribbons or strands of artificial flowers. but joe liked to work out new and difficult feats of strength, skill and daring, and he was generally successful. he had not relaxed his policy of vigilance, and he never went up on a bar or on the rings without first testing his apparatus. for he never forgot the strangely rotted rope. that it had been eaten by some acid, he was sure. he did not again get sight of that particular small trapeze, nor did he ask sid or tonzo what had become of it. he did not want to know. "it's best to let sleeping dogs lie," reasoned joe. "but i'll be on the lookout." matters had been going along well, and joe had been given an increase of salary. "well, if i can't get a fortune from some of my mother's rich and aristocratic ancestors," joe thought with a smile, "i can make it myself by my trapeze work. and, after all, i guess, that's the best way to get rich. though i'm not sure i'll ever get rich in the circus business." but the calm of joe's life--that is if, one can call it calm to act in a circus--was rudely shaken one day when in his mail he found a badly scrawled note. there was no signature to it, but joe easily guessed from whom it came. the note read: "you want to look out for yourself. you may think you're smart, but i know some smarter than you. this is a big world, but accidents may happen. you want to be careful." "some of sim dobley's work," mused joe, as he tore up the note and cast it aside. "he's trying to get my nerve. well, i won't let that worry me. he won't dare do anything. queer, though, that he should be following the circus still. he sure does want his place back. i'm sorry for him, but i can't help it." joe did not regard the warning seriously, and he said nothing about it to helen or any one else. "it would only worry helen," he reflected. the show was over for the night. even while the performers in the big tent had been going through with their acts, men had taken away the animal cages and loaded them on the flat railroad cars. then the animal tent was taken down and packed into wagons with the poles and pegs. as each performer finished, he or she went to the dressing tent and packed his trunk for transportation. from the dressing tent the actors went to the sleeping car, and straight to bed. joe's acts went very well that night. he was applauded again and again and he was quite pleased as he ran out of the tent to make ready for the night journey. he saw benny turton changing into his ordinary clothes from his wet fish-suit, which had to be packed in a rubber bag for transportation after the night performance, there being no time to dry it. "well, how goes it, ben?" asked joe. "oh, not very well," was the spiritless answer. "i've got lots of pain." "too bad," said joe in a comforting tone. "maybe a good night's sleep will fix you up." "i hope so," said the "human fish." the circus train was rumbling along the rails. it was the middle of the night, and they were almost due at the town where next they would show. joe, as well as the others in his sleeping car, was suddenly awakened by a crash. the train swayed from side to side and rolled along unevenly with many a lurch and bump. "we're off the track!" cried joe, as he rolled from his berth. and the memory of the scrawled warning came vividly to him. chapter xvi the strike the circus train bumped along for a few hundred feet, the engine meanwhile madly whistling, the wheels rattling over the wooden sleepers, and inside the various cars, where the performers had been suddenly awakened from their sleep, pandemonium reigned. "what's the matter?" called benny turton from his berth near joe's. "off the track--that's all," was the answer, given in a reassuring voice. for joe had, somehow or other, grasped the fact there was no great danger unless they ran into something, and this, as yet, had not happened. the train was off the track (or at least some of the coaches were) but it was quickly slowing down, and joe, by a quick glance at his watch, made a mental calculation of their whereabouts. for several miles in the vicinity where the accident had occurred was a long, and comparatively straight stretch of track, with no bridges and no gullies on either side. a train running off the track, even if going at fairly fast speed, would hardly topple over. before starting out that night joe had inquired of one of the men about the journey, and, learning that they were approaching his former home, the town of bedford, he had looked up the route and the time of arrival at their next stopping place. he had a quick mind, and he remembered about where they should be at the time the accident occurred. in that way he was able to determine that, unless they struck something, they were in comparatively little danger. "off the track--that's all!" repeated benny turton as he looked down from his berth at joe. "isn't that enough? wow! what's going on now?" the train had stopped with a jolt. the air brakes, which the engineer had flung on at the first intimation of danger, had taken hold of the wheels with a sudden grip. "this is the last stop," said joe, and he smiled up at benny. he could do so now, for he felt that their coach, at least, was safe. but he was anxious as to what had happened to the others. helen, with many of the other women performers, was in the coach ahead. benny crawled down from his berth, and stood looking at joe. "it doesn't seem to worry you much," he remarked. "not as long as there's nothing worse than this," joe answered. "you're not hurt, are you?" "only my feelings." "well, you'll get over that. let's see what's up." by this time the aisle of the car was filled with excited men performers. they all wanted to know what had happened, their location and various other bits of information. "the train jumped the track," said joe, who appeared the coolest of the lot. "we don't seem to have hit anything, though at first i thought we had. we're right side up, if not exactly with care." "where are we?" demanded tonzo lascalla. "we ought to be near far hills, according to the time table," joe answered. "if i could get a look out i could tell." he went to the end of the car and peered out. it was a bright moonlight night, and joe was able to recognize the locality. as a boy he had tramped all around the country within twenty-five miles of bedford, in the vicinity of which they now were, and he had no difficulty in placing himself. he found that he had guessed correctly. by this time there was an excited crowd of trainmen and circus employees outside the coaches which had left the rails. joe and some of the others slipped on their clothes and went out to see what had happened. joe's first glance was toward the coach in which he knew helen rode. he was relieved to see that though it had also left the rails it was standing upright. in fact, none of the cars had tilted more than was to be expected from the accident. "well, this is a nice pickle!" exclaimed jim tracy, bustling up. "this means no parade, and maybe no afternoon show. how long will it take you to get us back on the rails?" he asked one of the brakemen. "hard to say," was the answer. "we'll have to send for the wrecking crew. lucky it's no worse than a delay." "yes, i suppose so," agreed the ring-master. it was only one train of the several that made up the circus which had left the rails. the animal cars were on ahead, safe, and the sections following the derailed coaches had, by a fortunate chance, not left the rails. "what caused us to jump?" asked benny. "there was a fish plate jammed in a switch," answered one of the brakemen. "we found it beside the track where we knocked it out, and that saved the other trains from doing as we did." "a fish plate in the switch?" repeated joe. "did it get there by accident?" "ask me something easier," quoted the brakeman. "it might have, and again it might not. i understand you discharged a lot of men at your last stop, and it may be some of them tried to get even with you." it was true that a number of canvasmen had been allowed to go because they were found useless, but none of the circus men believed that these individuals would do so desperate a deed as to try to wreck the train. joe thought of the threatening letter he had received--sim dobley was the writer, he was sure--but even sim would hardly try anything like this. he might feel vindictive against joe, and try to do him some harm or bring about joe's discharge. but to wreck a train---- "i don't believe he'd do that," reasoned joe. "i won't mention the letter--it would hardly be fair. i don't want to get him into trouble, and i have no evidence against him." so joe kept quiet. the circus trains ahead of the derailed one could keep on to their destination. after some delay those in the rear were switched to another track, and so passed around the stalled cars. then the wrecking crew arrived, and just as the first gray streaks of dawn showed the last of the cars was put back on the track. "well, we're off again," remarked joe, as, with benny and some of their friends, they got back in their berths. "not much more chance for sleep, though," the "human fish" remarked, dolefully enough. "oh, i think i can manage to get some," said, joe, as he covered up, for the morning was a bit chilly. "i hope my glass tank didn't get cracked in the mix-up," remarked benny. "it wouldn't take much to make that leak, and i've had troubles enough of late without that." "oh, i guess it's perfectly safe," remarked joe, sleepily. the excitement caused by the derailing was soon forgotten. circus men are used to strenuous happenings. they live in the midst of excitement, and a little, more or less, does not bother them. most of them slept even through the work of getting the train back on the rails. of course the circus was late in getting in--that is the derailed train with its quota of performers was. early in the morning, when they should have been on the siding near the grounds, the train was still puffing onward. joe arose, got a cup of coffee in the buffet car, and went on ahead to inquire about helen and some of his friends in the other coach. "oh, i didn't mind it much," helen said, when joe asked her about it. "i felt a few bumps, and i thought we had just struck a poor spot in the roadbed." "she hasn't any more nerves than you have, joe strong," declared mrs. talfo, "the fat lady." "did you mind it much?" joe asked. "did i? say, young man, it's a good thing i had a lower berth. i rolled out, and if i had fallen on anybody--well, there might have been a worse wreck! fortunately no one was under me when i tumbled," and mrs. talfo chuckled. "and you weren't hurt?" asked joe. the fat lady laughed. her sides shook "like a bowlful of jelly," as the nursery rhyme used to state. "it takes more than a fall to hurt me," said mrs. talfo. "i'm too well padded. but we're going to get in very late," she went on with a look at her watch. "the performers should be at breakfast at this time, to be ready for the street parade." "we may have to omit the parade," said joe. "i wouldn't care," declared the fat lady with a sigh. "it does jolt me something terrible to ride over cobble streets, and they never will let me stay out." "you're quite an attraction," said joe, with a smile. "oh, yes, it's all right to talk about it," sighed mrs. talfo, "but i guess there aren't many of you who would want to tip the scales at five hundred and eighty pounds--advertised weight, of course," she added, with a smile. "it's no joke--especially in hot weather." the performers made merry over the accident now, and speculated as to what might happen to the show. their train carried a goodly number of the "artists," as they were called on the bills, and without them a successful and complete show could not be given. "we may even have to omit the afternoon session," joe stated. "who said so?" helen demanded. "mr. tracy." "well, it's better to lose that than to have the whole show wrecked," said the snake charmer. "i remember being in a circus wreck once, and i never want to see another." "did any of the animals get loose?" asked joe. "i should say they did! we lost a lion and a tiger, and for weeks afterward we had to keep men out hunting for the creatures, which the excited farmers said were taking calves and lambs. no indeed! i don't want any more circus wrecks. this one was near enough." this brought up a fund of recollected circus stories, and from then on, until the train stopped on the siding near the grounds, the performers took turns in telling what they had known of wrecks and other accidents to the shows with which they had been connected. joe listened eagerly. it was all new to him. "i only hope my glass tank isn't cracked," said benny again. he seemed quite worried about this. "well, if it's broken they'll have to get you another," joe told him. the tank was carried in one of the cars of the derailed train. "they might, and they might not," said benny. "my act hasn't been going any too well of late, and maybe they'd be glad of a chance to drop it from the list. i only hope they don't, though, for i need the money." benny spoke wistfully. he seemed greatly changed from the boy joe had known at first. benny had grown thinner, and he often put his hand to his head, as though suffering constant pain. joe and helen felt sorry for him. still there was little they could do, except to cheer him up. benny had to do his own act--which was a unique one that he had evolved after years of practice. it was not alone the staying under water that made it popular, it was the tricks that the lad did. "well, we're here at last," said joe, as he and his friends alighted from their sleeping car. "better late than never, i suppose." men were busy on the circus grounds, putting up tents, arranging the horses and other animals, putting the wagons in their proper places and doing the hundred and one things that need to be done. "i wonder what's going on over there," said helen, as she pointed to a group of men about the place where the canvas for the main tent had been spread out in readiness for erection. "it looks like trouble." "it does," agreed joe, as he saw jim tracy excitedly talking to the canvasmen. "i'm going to see what it is." he approached the ring-master, who was also one of the owners of the show. "anything wrong?" joe asked. "wrong? i should say so! as if i didn't already have troubles enough here, the tent-men go on a strike for more money. i never saw such luck!" chapter xvii in bedford joe strong looked from the group of sullen, lowering canvasmen to jim tracy. on the ring-master's face were signs of anxiety. "is it really a strike?" joe asked. "that's what they call it," replied the circus owner. "i didn't know they belonged to a union, and i don't believe they do. they just want to make trouble, and they take advantage of me at a time when i'm tied up because we're late with the show." "what is it they want?" asked helen. "more money," jim tracy replied. "i wouldn't mind giving it to them if i could afford it, or if they weren't getting the same wages that are paid other canvasmen in other circuses. but they are. as a matter of fact, they get more, and they have better grub. i can't understand such tactics!" "it looks as if some of them were coming over to speak to you," remarked joe, as he observed one of the strikers detach himself from the group, and approach the ring-master. "let him come," snapped jim. "he'll get no satisfaction from me." the man seemed a bit embarrassed as he approached, chewing a straw nervously. he ignored several of the circus performers, joe and helen among them, who were grouped about jim tracy, and, addressing the owner, asked: "well, have you made up your mind? is it to be more money for us or no show for you?" "it's going to be 'no' to your unreasonable demand, and i want to tell you, here and now, that the show's going on. you can go back to your cowardly crowd, that tries to hit a man when he's down, and tell 'em jim tracy said that!" cried the ring-master with vigor. "you'll get no more money from me. i'm paying you wages enough as it is!" "all right, no money--no show!" said the fellow, impudently. "we gave you half an hour to make up your mind, and if that's your answer you can take the consequences." he started to walk away, and tracy called after him: "if you try to interfere or make trouble, and if you try to stop the show, i'll have you all arrested if i have to send for special detectives." "oh, we won't make any trouble except what you make for yourself," declared the striker. "we just won't do anything--that'll be the trouble. there's your 'main top,' and there she'll stay. we won't pull a rope or drive a peg!" he pointed to the pile of canvas with its mass of ropes, poles and pegs that lay on the ground ready for erection. it should have been up by this time, and the parade ought to have been under way. but with the railroad accident, the delay and the strike, the big tent in which joe, helen and the others were to perform was not yet raised. "the cowards!" exclaimed jim in a low voice; looking at joe. "i wonder if i'd better give in to 'em?" "can you get others to take their places?" the young trapeze acrobat wanted to know. "not here. i could if i were nearer new york. but as it is----" he threw up his hands with a gesture of despair. "i guess i'll have to give in," he said. "i can't afford not to give a show. here, you----" he called to the departing striker. "wait a minute!" joe quickly exclaimed to the ring-master. "i think we can find a way out of this." "how?" "have you any men who know something about putting up the tent?" "i know all there is to be known about it myself. but it takes more than one man to raise the 'main top.' there are a lot of the animal men and wagon drivers who used to be canvas hands. they haven't struck. but there aren't enough of them. it's no use." "yes, it is!" cried joe. "we men performers will turn canvasmen for the time being. give us some hands who know how to lay out the canvas, how to lace up the different sections, which ropes to pull on; men to show us how to drive stakes and to haul up the poles--do that and we'll have the tent up in time for the show!" "can you do it?" cried the ring-master, in an eager tone. "sure we can!" exclaimed joe. "there are enough of us, and we're willing to turn in. you get the men who know how, and we'll be their assistants." "it might work," said tracy, reflectively. "i'm much obliged to you, joe. it's worth trying. but do you think the performers will do it?" "i'll talk to 'em," said the trapeze artist. "they'll be glad to raise the tent, rather than see a performance given up. go get your men and i'll talk to the others." "all right--i will." "did you call me?" asked the striker who had been appointed to wait on the ring-master and learn his decision. "i did _not_!" cried jim tracy. "i'm through with you. we don't need your services." "ha!" laughed the man. "let's see you get up the 'main top' without us." "stick around long enough and you'll see it," said joe strong. joe found a group of the men performers gathered in the dressing tent, discussing the situation. and while the ring-master hastened to gather up such forces as he could muster, joe made his little talk. "you're just the very one we want," he said to tom jefferson, "the strong man." "you ought to be able to put up the tent alone. come on now, gentlemen, we must all work together," and rapidly he explained the situation to some who did not understand it. "will you help raise the tent?" joe asked. "we will!" cried the performers in a chorus. soon there was a busy scene in the circus "lots." not that there is not always a busy time when the show is being made ready, but this was somewhat different. led by joe, the performers placed themselves under the direction of some veteran canvasmen who had been working in other departments of the circus. jim tracy, who had in his day been a helper, took the part of the striking foreman of the canvas-workers, and the "main top" soon began to look as it always did. the big center poles were put in place and guyed up. the sections of canvas were laced together in the regular manner, so that they could be taken apart quickly simply by pulling on a rope. knots tied in erecting a circus tent must be made so they are easily loosed, even in wet weather. for a while the striking canvasmen stood and laughed at the efforts of those who were taking their places. but they soon ceased to jeer. for the tent was slowly but correctly going up. "we'll give the show after all!" cried joe, as he labored at lifting heavy sections of canvas, pulling on ropes or driving stakes. "i believe we will," agreed the ring-master. "i don't know how to thank you, joe." "oh, pshaw! i didn't do anything! i'm only helping the same as the rest." "yes, but it was your idea, and you persuaded the men to pitch in." and, in a sense, this was true. for joe was a general favorite with the circus performers, though he had been with them only a comparatively short time. but he had his mother's reputation back of him, as well as his father's, and bill watson had spoken many a good word for the young fellow. circus folk are always loyal to their own kind, and there were many, as joe learned later, who knew his mother by reputation, and some personally. so they were all glad to help when joe put the case to them vividly, as he did. joe's popularity stood him in good stead, even though there were some who were jealous of the reputation he was making. but jealousies were cast aside on this occasion. even the lascalla brothers did their share, working side by side with joe at putting up the tent, as they worked with him on the trapeze. the strong man was a great help, doing twice the work that the others did. the performers wore their ordinary clothes, laying aside coats and vests as they labored. and the men who knew how circus tents must go up, saw to it that the amateurs did their work well, so there would be no danger of collapse. while the big tent was being put up the other preparations for the show were proceeded with. mr. boyd and mr. sampson, who were part owners with jim tracy, arranged for a small parade, since it had been advertised. on the back of one of the elephants rode the fat lady, with a banner which explained that because of a strike of the canvasmen the usual street exhibition could not be given. the assurance was made, though, that the show itself would be the same as advertised. "that will prevent the public from being too sympathetic with the strikers," said jim tracy. "the public, as a rule, doesn't care much for a strike that interferes with its pleasure." at last the big tent was up, and all was in readiness for the afternoon performance, though it would be a little late. "it won't be much fun taking down the tent after the show to-night," said joe. "perhaps you won't have to," stated the ring-master. "i may be able to hire men to take the strikers' places before then." "but if you can't, we'll help out," declared the young trapeze performer, though he knew it would be anything but pleasant for himself and the others, after high-tension work before a big audience, to handle heavy canvas and ropes in the dark. the public seemed to take good-naturedly to the circus, not being over-critical of the lack of the usual big street parade. and men, women and children came in throngs to the afternoon performance. the circus people fairly outdid themselves to give a good show, and joe worked up a little novelty in one of his "lone" acts. he gave an exhibition of rope-climbing, jim tracy introducing the act with a few remarks about the value of every one's knowing how to ascend or descend a rope when, thereby, one's life might some time be saved. "professor strong will now entertain you," announced the ring-master, "and tell you something about rope-work." joe had hardly bargained for this, but his work as a magician, when he often had the stage to himself and had to address a crowded theatre, stood him in good stead. he was very self-confident, and he illustrated the way a beginner should learn to climb a rope. "don't try to go up hand over hand at first," joe said. "and don't climb away up to the top unless you're sure you know how to come down. you may get so exhausted that you'll slip, and burn your hands severely, for the friction of rapidly sliding down a rope will cause bad burns." joe showed how to begin by holding the rope between the soles of the feet, letting them take the weight instead of the hands and arms. he went up and down this way, and then went up by lifting himself by his hands alone, coming down the same way--which is much harder than it looks. joe also illustrated the "stirrup hold," which may be used in ascending or descending a rope, to get a rest. the rope is held between the thighs, the hands grasping it lightly, and while a turn of the rope passes under the sole of the left foot and over the toes of the same, the right foot is placed on top, pressing down the rope which passes over the left foot. in this way the rope is held from slipping, and the entire weight of the body can rest on the side of the left leg, which is in a sort of rope loop. thus the arms are relieved. joe showed other holds, and also how to sit on a rope that dangled from the top of the tent. half way up he held the rope between his thighs, and made a loop, which he threw over his left shoulder. then, by pressing his chin down on the rope, it was held between chin and shoulder so that it could not slip. grasping the rope with both hands above his head, joe was thus suspended in a sitting position, almost as easily as in a chair. the crowd applauded this. then joe went on with his regular trapeze work--doing some back flyaway jumps that thrilled the audience. this trick is done by grasping the trapeze bar firmly at arm's length, swinging backward and downward until the required momentum is reached. when joe was ready he suddenly let go and turned a backward somersault to the life net. the trick looked simple, but joe had practised it many times before getting it perfectly. and he often had bad falls. one tendency he found was to turn over too far before letting go the bar. this was likely to cause his feet to strike the swinging bar, resulting in an ugly tumble. the evening performance was even better attended than that of the afternoon. jim tracy succeeded in hiring a few men to assist with the tents, but he had not enough, and it began to look as though the performers would have to do double work again. but there occurred one of those incidents with which circus life is replete. the place they were showing in was a large factory town, and at night crowds of men and boys--not the gentlest in the community--attended. at something or other, a crowd of roughs felt themselves aggrieved, and under the guidance of a "gang-leader" began to make trouble. they threatened to cut the tent ropes in retaliation. "that won't do," decided jim tracy. "i've got to tackle that gang, and i don't like to, for it means a fight. still i can't have the tent collapse." he hurriedly gathered a crowd of his own men, armed them with stakes, and charged the gang of roughs that was creating a small riot, to the terror of women and children. the rowdies finding themselves getting the worst of it, called for help from among the factory workers, who liked nothing better than to "beat-up" a circus crowd. jim tracy and his men were being severely handled when a new force took a hand in the mêlée. "come on, boys. we can't stand for this!" shouted jake bantry, the leader of the striking canvasmen. "they sha'n't bust up the show, even if the boss won't give us more money." the canvasmen were used to trouble of this kind. seizing tent pegs, and with cries of "hey rube!"--the time-honored signal for a battle of this kind--the striking canvasmen rushed into the fracas. in a short time the roughs had been dispersed, and there was no more danger of the tents being cut and made to collapse. "i'm much obliged to you boys," said jim tracy to the strikers, when the affray was over. "you helped us out finely." "it was fun for us," answered jake bantry. "and say, mr. tracy, we've been talking it over among ourselves, and seeing as how you've always treated us white, we've decided, if you'll take us back, that we'll come--and at the same wages." "of course i'll take you back!" exclaimed the owner heartily. "and glad to have you." "good! come on, boys! strike's broken!" cried bantry. so joe and his fellow-artists did not have to turn to tent work that night. in looking over the advance booking list one day, joe saw bedford marked down. "hello!" he cried. "i wonder if that's my town." it was, as he learned by consulting the press agent. "are you glad?" asked helen. "well, rather, i guess!" joe said. and one morning joe awakened in his berth, and looked out to see the familiar scenes of the town where he had lived so long. "bedford!" exclaimed joe. "well, i'm coming back in a very different way from the one i left it," and he chuckled as he thought of the "side-door pullman," and the pursuing constables. chapter xviii helen's money after breakfast joe, who did not take part in the parade, set out to see the sights of his "home town," or, rather, he hoped to meet some of his former friends, for there were not many sights to see. "the place hasn't changed much," joe reflected as he passed along the familiar streets. "it seems only like yesterday that i went away. well, timothy donnelly has painted his house at last, i see, and they have a new front on the drug store. otherwise things are about the same. i wonder if i'd better go to call on the deacon. i guess i will--i don't have any hard feelings toward him. yes, i'll go to see him and----" joe's thoughts were interrupted by a voice that exclaimed: "say! look! there goes joe strong who used to live here!" the young circus performer turned and saw willie norman, a small boy who lived on the street where joe formerly dwelt. "hello, willie," called joe in greeting. "hello," was the answer. "say, is it true you're with the circus? harry martin said you were." "that's right--i am," joe admitted. he had kept up a fitful correspondence with harry and some of the other chums, and in one of his letters joe had spoken of his change of work. "in a circus!" exclaimed willie admiringly. "do they let you feed the elephant?" he asked with awe. "no, i haven't gotten quite that far," laughed joe. "i'm only a trapeze performer." "say, i'd like to see you act," willie went on, "but i ain't got a quarter." "here's a free ticket," joe said, giving his little admirer one. in anticipation of meeting some of his friends in bedford that day, joe had gotten a number of free admission tickets from the press agent, who was always well supplied with them. willie's eyes glistened as he took the slip of pasteboard. "geewillikens!" he exclaimed. "say, you're all right, joe! i'm going to the circus! i wish i could run away and join one." "don't you dare try it!" joe warned him. "you're too small." he went on, meeting many former acquaintances, who turned to stare at the boy whose story had created such a stir in the town. joe was looked upon by some as a hero, and by others as a "lost sheep." it is needless to say that deacon blackford was one who held the latter opinion. joe called on his former foster-father, but did not find him at the house. mrs. blackford was in, however, and was greatly surprised to see joe. she welcomed and kissed him, and there were traces of tears in her eyes. "oh, joe!" she exclaimed. "i am so sorry you left us, but perhaps it was all for the best, for you must live your own life, i suppose. i never really believed you took the money," she added, referring to an incident which was related in the book previous to this. "i'm glad to hear that," joe said. "i want to thank you for all your care of me. i didn't like to run away, but it seemed the only thing to do. and, as you say, i think it has turned out for the best. the circus life appeals to me, and i'm getting on in the business." mrs. blackford was really glad to see joe. she had a real liking for him, in spite of the fact that she had a poor opinion of circus folk and magicians, and she did not believe all the deacon believed of joe. she could not forget the days when, while he was a little lad, she had often sung him to sleep. but these days were over now. joe found the deacon at the feed store. the lad's former foster-father was not very cordial in his greeting, and, in fact, seemed rather embarrassed than otherwise. perhaps he regretted his accusation against our hero. "would you like to see the circus?" joe inquired, as he was leaving the office. "i have some free tickets and----" "what! me go to a circus?" cried the deacon, with upraised hands. "never! never! circuses and theatres are the invention of the evil one. i am surprised at your asking me!" joe did it for a joke, more than for anything else, as he knew the deacon would not take a ticket. bidding him good-bye, joe went out to find his former chums. they, as may well be supposed, were very glad to see him. and that they envied joe's position goes without saying. "well, well! you certainly put one over on us!" exclaimed charlie ford admiringly. "how did you do it, joe?" "oh, it just happened, i guess. more luck than anything else." "when you got professor rosello out of the fire you did a good thing," commented tom simpson. "yes, i guess i did--in more ways than one," admitted joe. "and are you really doing trapeze acts?" inquired henry blake. "come and watch me," was joe's invitation. "here is a reserved seat ticket for each of you." "whew!" whistled harry martin. "talk about the return of the prodigal! you'll make the folks here open their eyes, joe. it isn't everybody who runs away from home who comes back as you do." joe told his chums some of his experiences, and they went with him out to the circus grounds, where he took them about, as only a privileged character can, showing them how the show was "put together." "it sure is _great_!" exclaimed charlie, ruffling up his red hair. joe fairly outdid himself in the performances that day. he went through his best feats, alone and with the lascalla brothers, with a snap and a swing that made the veteran performers look well to their own laurels. joe did some wonderful leaping and turning of somersaults in the air, one difficult backward triple turn evoking a thundering round of applause. and none applauded any more fervently than little willie norman. "i know him!" the little lad confided to a group about him. "that's joe strong. he gave me a ticket to the show for nothing, mind you! i know him all right!" "oh, you do not!" chaffed another boy. "i do so, and i'm going to speak to him after the show!" this willie proudly did, thereby refuting the skepticism of his neighbor. for the word soon passed among the town-folk that joe strong, who used to live with deacon blackford, was with the circus, and after the show he held an informal little reception in the dressing tent which a number of men and boys, and not a few women, attended. all were curious to see behind the scenes, and joe showed them some interesting sights. he invited his four chums to have supper with him, and the delight of harry, charlie, henry and tom may be imagined as they sat in the tent with the other circus folk, listening to the strange jargon of talk, and seeing just how the performers behaved in private. altogether joe's appearance in bedford made quite a sensation, and he was glad of the chance it afforded him to see his former friends and acquaintances, and also to let them see for themselves that circus people and actors are not all as black as they are painted. joe was glad he could do this for the sake of his father and mother, as he realized that the wrong views held by deacon and mrs. blackford were shared by many. joe bade good-bye to his chums and traveled on with the show, leaving, probably, many rather envious hearts behind. for there is a glamour about a circus and the theatre that blinds the youthful to the hard knocks and trouble that invariably accompany those who perform in public. even with joe's superb health there were times when he would have been glad of a day's rest. but he had it only on sundays, and whether he felt like it or not he had to perform twice a day. of course usually he liked it, for he was enthusiastic about his work. but all is not joy and happiness in a circus. as a matter of fact joe worked harder than most boys, and though it seemed all pleasure, there was much of it that was real labor. new tricks are not learned in an hour, and many a long day joe and his partners spent in perfecting what afterward looked to be a simple turn. but, all in all, joe liked it immensely and he would not have changed for the world--at least just then. the circus reached the town of portland, where they expected to do a good business as it was a large manufacturing place. here helen found awaiting her a letter from the law firm. "oh, joe!" the girl exclaimed. "i'm going to get my money here--at least that part of my fortune which isn't tied up in bonds and mortgages. we must celebrate! i think i'll give a little dinner at the hotel for you, bill watson and some of my friends." "all right, helen. count me in." the letter stated that a representative of the firm would call upon helen that day in portland, and turn over to her the cash due from her grandfather's estate. that afternoon helen sent word to joe that she wanted to see him, and in her dressing room he found a young man, toward whom joe at once felt an instinctive dislike. the man had shifty eyes, and joe always distrusted men who could not look him straight in the face. "this is mr. sanford, from the law firm, joe," said helen. "he has brought me my money." "is he your lawyer?" asked mr. sanford, looking toward joe. "no, just a friend," helen answered. "is he going to look after your money for you?" "i think miss morton is capable of looking after it herself," joe put in, a bit sharply. "oh, of course. i didn't mean anything. now if you'll give me your attention, miss morton, i'll go over the details with you." "you needn't wait, joe, unless you want to," helen said. "i'd like to have you arrange about the little supper at the hotel, if you will, though." "sure i will!" joe exclaimed. the circus was to remain over night, and this would give helen a chance for her feast, which she thought had better take place at the portland hotel, as it would be more private than the circus tent. joe went off to arrange for it, leaving helen with the lawyer's clerk. chapter xix joe is suspicious joe's day was already a full one, though he did not tell helen so. he gladly undertook to arrange the little supper for her at the hotel, and it was only a coincidence that it happened on the night of a day when he had decided to work in a new trick on his trapeze, when he performed alone. it was not exactly a new trick, in the sense that it had never been done before. in fact there is very little new in trapeze work nowadays, but joe had decided to give a little different turn to an old act. it required some preparation, and he needed to do this during the day. he was going to "put on" the trick at night, and not at the matinee. but for the time being he gave up his hours to arranging for helen the supper which would take place after the night performance. joe saw the hotel proprietor and arranged for a private room with a supper to be served for twenty-five. helen had many more friends than that among the circus folk, but she had to limit her hospitality, though she would have liked to have them all at her little celebration. she chose, however, after joe and bill watson and benny turton, the women performers who were more intimately associated with her in her acts, and some of the men whose acquaintance she had made since joining the sampson show. joe hurried to the hotel, did what was necessary there, and then went back to the tent. he intended, when the afternoon show was over, to do some practice on his new act. as he passed into the big tent, which was now deserted, he met jim tracy, who, of course, was invited to helen's supper. "what's all this i hear about our little lady?" asked the ring-master. "well, i guess it's all true," joe answered. "she has come into a little money." "glad to hear it! i'll be with you to-night. oh, by the way, joe, i had a letter from the railroad people about our wreck, or, rather, derailment." "did you? what did they say?" "they couldn't find any evidence that the fish plate was put in the switch purposely. it might have dropped there. of course some tramp might have put it there to get revenge for being put off a train, but it would be hard to prove. and as for getting evidence against sim dobley--why, it's out of the question. but you want to keep on looking out for yourself." "i will," joe promised. after thinking the matter over joe had decided it would be best to speak to the ring-master about the threatening letter, which had been received so close to the time when the derailment occurred. jim tracy had at once agreed with joe that the discharged acrobat might possibly have been mad and rash enough to try to wreck the train, and the railroad detectives had been communicated with. but nothing had come of the investigation, and the accident had been set down as one of the many unexplained happenings that occur on railroads. a search had been made for dobley, but he seemed to have disappeared for the time being, and joe was glad of it. "ready for the new stunt?" asked tracy, as he passed on. "yes; i'll pull it off to-night if nothing happens," joe said. he was glad there were few people in the big tent when he entered it after the afternoon performance, to put in some hard practice. joe's own trapeze was in place, but he lowered it to the ground, and went carefully over every inch of the ropes, canvas straps, snaps, and the various fastenings to make sure nothing was wrong. he found everything all right. it was not exactly that he was suspicious of the lascalla brothers, but he was taking no chances. joe's act worked well in practice. when he had performed his trick for the last time he saw benny turton, the "human fish," coming into the tent to look after his tank, about which the young performer was very particular. "how do you like that, ben?" asked joe, as he finished the new trick. "first rate. that's a thriller all right, joe! that'll make 'em sit up and take notice. i'll have to work in something new myself if you keep on piling up the stuff." "oh, i guess you could do that, ben." the "human fish" shook his head. "no," he said slowly, "i don't know what's the matter with me lately, joe, but i don't seem to have ambition for anything. i go through my regular stunts, but that's all i want to do. i don't even stay under water as long as i used to, and jim tracy was kicking again to-day. he said i'd have to do better, but i don't see how i can. of course he was nice about it, as he always is, but i know he's disappointed in me." "oh, i guess not, ben. maybe you'll do better to-night." "i hope so. anyhow you'll have a thriller for them." "you're coming to helen's party, aren't you?" "oh, sure, joe. i wouldn't miss that. i'm glad she's got some money," and ben spoke rather despondently. joe made arrangements with his helper to look after the special appliances needed for the new trick, and went to supper. he did not see helen, and guessed that she was still busy with the law clerk. "i hope she doesn't trust too much to that chap," mused joe. "i don't just like his looks." the big tent was crowded when joe began his performance that night. he received his usual applause, and then gave the signal that he was about to put on his new act. he was hoisted up to the top trapeze, which was a short one, and to this joe had fastened a longer one. he sat upon the bar of this, swinging to and fro, working himself into position until he was resting on the "hocks," as performers call that portion of the leg just above the knee. suddenly joe seemed to fall over backward, and there was a cry of alarm from the crowd. but he remained in position, swinging by his insteps. in the trapeze world this is known as "drop back to instep hang." joe had done it most effectively, but that was not all of the trick. quickly he grasped the ropes of the lower trapeze. he twined his legs about these, and then, with a thrilling yell, he let himself slide, head down along the ropes, holding only by his intertwined legs and insteps, which he had padded with asbestos to take up the heat of friction. down the long ropes he slid until he came to a sudden stop as his outstretched hands grasped the lower bar. there he hung suspended a moment, while the audience sat thrilled, thinking it had been an accidental fall and a most miraculous escape. but joe had planned it all out in advance, and knew it was safe, especially as the life net was under him. he suspended himself on the bar a moment, and then made a back somersault, and amid the booming of the drum he dropped into the net and made his bows in response to the applause. the new feat was appreciated at once, but it was some time before the crowd realized that the fall backward was not accidental. joe was congratulated by his fellow performers, though, as might be expected, there was some little jealousy. but joe was used to that by this time. it was a merry little party that gathered later in the hotel room for helen's supper. she sat at the head of the table, with joe on one side and bill watson, the veteran clown, on the other. "well, did you make out all right with your lawyer friend?" joe asked. "oh, yes, joe, i never had so much money at one time in my life before." "what did you do with it?" "i kept out enough to pay for this supper, and the rest i put in the circus ticket wagon safe." "what, all your cash?" "oh, i didn't take it all, joe." "you didn't take it all?" "no. mr. sanford--he's the law clerk, you know--said i ought not to have so much money with me, so he offered to take care for me all i didn't want to use right away." "he's going to take care of it for you?" joe repeated. "yes. he says he can invest it for me. but eat your supper, joe." somehow or other joe strong did not feel much like eating. he had a sudden and undefinable suspicion of that law clerk. chapter xx a fall there were merry hearts at the little celebration given by helen morton--"mademoiselle mortonti"--in recognition of coming into her inheritance. that is, the hearts were all merry save that of joe strong. for a few seconds after helen had made the statement about having left her money with the law clerk for investment, joe could only stare at her. on her part the young circus rider seemed to think there was nothing unusual in what she had done. "congratulations, miss morton!" called bill watson, as he waved his napkin in the air. "congratulations!" "why don't you call me helen as you used to?" asked the girl. "oh, you're quite a rich young lady now, and i didn't think you would want me to be so familiar," he replied with a laugh. "goodness! i hope every one isn't going to get so formal all at once," she remarked, with a look at joe. "i won't--not unless you want me to," he answered. "but why don't you eat?" she asked him. "you sit there as if you had no appetite. i'm as hungry as a bear--one of our own circus bears, too. come, why don't you eat and be happy?" "i--i'm thinking," joe remarked. "this isn't the time to think!" she exclaimed. "oh, i'm so glad i have a little money. i won't have to worry now if i shouldn't be able to go on with my circus act. i could take a vacation if i wanted to, couldn't i?" "are you going to?" asked joe. somehow he felt a sudden sinking sensation in the region of his heart. at least he judged it was his heart that was affected. "no, not right away," helen answered. "i'm going to stay with the show until it goes into winter quarters, anyhow." "and after that?" "oh, i don't know." the little celebration went merrily on. helen's health was proposed many times, being pledged in lemonade, grape juice and ginger ale. she blushed with pleasure as she sat between joe and the veteran clown, for many nice things were said about her, as one after another of her guests congratulated her on her good fortune. "speech! speech!" some one called out. "what do they mean?" asked helen of bill watson. "they want you to say something," the clown said. "oh, i never could--never in the world!" and helen blushed more vividly than before. "try it," urged joe. "just thank them. you can do that." much confused, helen arose at her place. "i'd rather ride in a circus ring ten times over than make a speech," she confessed in an aside to joe. "go on," he urged. "my dear friends," she began tremblingly, "i want to thank you for all the nice things you have said about me, and i want to say that i'm glad--glad----" she paused and blushed again. "glad to be here," prompted joe. "yes, that's it--glad to be here, and i--er--i---- oh, you finish for me, joe!" she begged, as she sat down amid laughter. then the supper went on, more merrily than before. but it had to come to an end at last, for the show people needed their rest if they were to perform well the next day. and most of them, especially those like joe and the acrobats, who depended on their nerve as well as their strength, needed unbroken slumber. as joe walked back to the railroad, where their sleeping cars were standing on a siding, the young trapeze performer asked helen about her business transaction with the law clerk. he had not had a chance to do this at the supper. "well," began the girl, "as you know, he brought me the cash, joe. oh, how nice those new bills did look. he had it all in new bills for me. mr. pike told him to do that, he said, as they didn't know whether i could use a check, traveling about as i am. anyhow he had the bills for me--about three thousand dollars it was. the rest of my little fortune, you know, is in stocks and bonds. i only get the interest, but this cash was from the sale of some of grandfather's property." "then you didn't keep the cash yourself?" joe asked. "no. mr. sanford said it wouldn't be safe for me to carry so much money around with me. do you think it would?" "of course not," joe agreed. "but you could have let our treasurer keep it for you. he could have banked it." "yes; mr. sanford thought of that, he said. but he also said if my money was in the bank i wouldn't get more than three per cent. on it. i don't know exactly what he means--i never was any good at fractions, and i know nothing about business. but, anyhow, mr. sanford kindly explained that i would get more interest on my money if it was invested than if it was in a bank. and he offered to invest for me all i didn't need at once. wasn't he kind?" "perhaps," admitted joe, rather dubiously. "how is he going to invest it?" "oh, he knows lots of ways, he said, being in the law office. but he said he thought it would be best to buy oil stock with it. oil stock was sure to go up in price, he said; and i would make money on that as well as interest, or dividends--or something like that. wasn't he good?" "to himself maybe, yes," answered joe. "what do you mean?" inquired helen. "oh, well, maybe it's all right," joe said. he did not want to alarm the girl unnecessarily, but he had a deeper suspicion than before of sanford. "i think it's just fine," helen went on. "i have quite some cash with me--i'm going to let our treasurer keep that, and give me some when i need it. then, from time to time, i'll get dividends on my oil stock." "maybe," said joe, in a low voice. "what?" asked helen, quickly. "what do you mean?" "never mind," proceeded joe. "anyhow we had a good time to-night." "did you enjoy it?" "i certainly did, helen." they parted near the train, joe to go to his car and helen to hers. "oh, by the way," joe called after her. "did mr. sanford say what oil company it was he was going to invest your money in?" "yes, he told me. it's the circle city oil syndicate. he has some stock in it, he told me, and it's a fine concern. oh, joe, i'm so glad i have inherited a little fortune." "so am i," joe returned, wondering at the same time if he would ever hear anything encouraging of his mother's relatives in england. "the circle city oil syndicate," joe murmured as he entered his car. "i must look them up. this fellow, sanford, may be all right, but he struck me as being a pretty slick individual, who would look out for himself first, and the firm's clients afterward. he'll bear investigating." however, nothing could be done that night. the clerk had gone back with the larger part of helen's money, and joe did not want to cause her worry by speaking of his suspicions. the circus did a good business the next day, drawing even larger throngs than to the previous performances. the story of helen's good fortune was printed in the local paper, with an account of the celebration supper she gave, and when she rode into the ring on rosebud the applause that greeted her was very pronounced. joe repeated his "drop back to instep hang" that afternoon. it was rather a perilous feat and he was not so sure of it as he was of his other exercises. but it was a "thriller" and that was what the public seemed to want--something that made them gasp, sit up, and hold their breath while they waited to see if "anything would happen" to the reckless performer. joe climbed up to his small trapeze, swung on it and then fell backward for his first instep hang. he accomplished this successfully, and then came the thrilling slide down the longer ropes. down joe shot, depending on stopping himself with his outstretched and down-hanging hands when he reached the second bar. but the inevitable "something" happened. joe's hands slipped from the bar, his head struck it a glancing blow, and the next instant he felt himself falling head first down toward the life net. chapter xxi joe hears something women and children screamed, and there were hoarse shouts from the men who witnessed joe's fall. at first some thought it was only part of the acrobatic trick, but a single glance at the desperate struggles of the young trapeze performer dispelled this idea. for joe was struggling desperately in the air to prevent himself from falling head first into the life net. it might be thought that one could fall into a loose, sagging net in any position and not be hurt. but this is not so. a fall into a net from a great height is often as dangerous as landing on the ground. circus folk must know how to fall properly. if the person falling lands on his head he is likely to dislocate, if not to break, his neck, and falling on one's face may sometimes be dangerous. the best way, of course, is to land on one's feet, and this was what joe was trying to bring about. when he realized that he had missed grasping the bar of the second trapeze (though he could not understand his failure) he knew he must turn over, and that quickly, or he would strike on his head in the net. he tried to turn a somersault, but he was at a disadvantage, not having prepared for that in advance. "i've got to turn! i've got to turn!" he thought desperately, as he fell through space. he did manage to get partly over and when he landed in the net he took the force of the blow partly on his head and partly on his shoulder. everything seemed to get black around him, and there was a roaring in his ears. then joe strong knew nothing. he had been knocked unconscious by the fall. the circus audience--or that part of it immediately near joe's trapezes--was at once aware that something unusual had occurred. some women arose, as though to rush out. others screamed and one or two children began to cry. a slight panic was imminent, and jim tracy realized this. from where she was putting her horse, rosebud, through his paces helen saw what happened to joe. in an instant she jumped from the saddle, and ran across the ring toward the net in which he lay, an inert form. other circus performers and attendants rushed to aid joe, and this added to the confusion and excitement. many in the audience were standing up, trying to see what had happened, and those behind, whose view was obstructed, cried: "sit down! down in front!" "give us some music!" ordered jim tracy of the band, which had stopped playing when joe performed his trick in order that it might be more impressive. a lively tune was started, and though it may seem heartless, in view of the fact that a performer possibly was killed, it was the best thing to do under the circumstances, for it calmed the audience. tender hands lifted joe out of the net, and carried him toward the dressing room. "go on with the show!" the ring-master ordered the performers who had left their stations. "go on with the show. we'll look after him. there are plenty of us to do it." and the show went on. it had to. "is he--is he badly hurt?" faltered helen, as she walked beside the four men who were carrying joe on a stretcher which had been brought from the first aid tent. the circus was always ready to look after those hurt in accidents. "i don't think so--he took the fall pretty well--only partly on his head," said bill watson, who had stopped his laughable antics to rush over to joe. "he may be only stunned." "i hope so," breathed helen. "you'd better get back to your ring," suggested bill. "finish your act." "it was almost over," helen objected. "i can't go back--now. not until i see how he is." "all right--come along then," said the old clown, sympathetically. he guessed how matters were between helen and joe. "i don't believe the boss will mind much. there's enough of the show left for 'em to look at." he glanced down at joe, who lay unconscious on the stretcher. they were now in the canvas screened passage between the dressing tent and the larger one, where the performance had been resumed. helen put out her hand and touched joe's forehead. he seemed to stir slightly. "have they sent for a doctor?" she asked. "they'll get one from the crowd," replied bill. "there's always one or more in a circus audience." and he was right. as they placed joe on a cot that had been quickly made ready for him, a physician, summoned from the audience by the ring-master, came to see what he could do. silently helen, bill and the others stood about while the medical man made his examination. "will he die?" helen asked in a whisper. "not at once--in fact not for some years to come, i think," replied the physician with a smile. "he has had a bad fall, and he will be laid up for a time. but it is not serious." helen's face showed the relief she felt. "he'll have to go to a hospital, though," continued the medical man. "his neck is badly strained, and so are the muscles of his shoulder. he won't be able to swing on a trapeze for a week or so." bill watson whistled a low note. he knew what it meant for a circus performer to be laid up. "please take him to a hospital," cried helen impulsively, "and see that he has a good physician and a nurse--i mean, you look after him yourself," she added quickly, as she saw the doctor smiling at her. "and have a trained nurse for him. i'll pay the bill," she went on. "i'm so glad that money came to me. i'll use some of it for joe." "she just inherited a little fortune," explained bill in a whispered aside to the medical man. "they're quite fond of each other--those two." "so it seems. well, he'll need a nurse and medical treatment for a while to come. i'll go and arrange to have him taken to the hospital. has he any friends that ought to be notified--not that he is going to die, but they might like to know." "i guess he hasn't any friends but us here in the circus. his father and mother are dead, and he ran away from his foster-father--a good thing, too, i guess. well, the show will have to go on and leave him here, i suppose." "oh, yes, certainly. he can't travel with you." the ambulance came and took joe away. jim tracy communicated with the hospital authorities, ordering them to give the young trapeze performer the best possible care in a private room, adding that the management would pay the bill. "that has already been taken care of," the superintendent of the hospital informed the ring-master. "a miss morton has left funds for mr. strong's case." "well, i'll be jiggered!" exclaimed jim tracy. then he smiled. the circus neared its close. the animal tent came down, the lions, tigers, horses and elephants were taken to their cars. the performers donned their street clothes and went to their sleeping cars. helen, benny turton and bill watson paid a visit to the hospital just before it was time for the circus train to leave. joe had not recovered consciousness, but he was resting easily, the nurse said. "tell him to join the show whenever he is able," was the message jim tracy had left for joe, "and not to worry. everything will be all right." "good-bye," whispered helen close to joe's ear, but he did not hear her. and the circus moved on, leaving stricken joe behind. it was nearly morning when he came out of his unconsciousness with a start that shook the bed. "quiet now," said the soothing voice of the nurse. joe looked at her, wonder showing in his eyes. then his gaze roved around the hospital room. he looked down at the white coverings on his enameled bed and then, realizing where he was, he asked: "what happened?" "you had a fall from your trapeze, they tell me," the nurse said. "oh, yes, i remember now. am i badly hurt?" "the doctor does not think so. but you must be quiet now. you are to take this." she held a glass of medicine to his lips. "but i must know about it," joe insisted. "i've got to go on with the show. has the circus left?" "hours ago, yes. it's all right. you are to stay here with us until you are better. a mr. tracy told me to tell you." "oh, yes, jim--the ring-master. well i--i guess i'll have to stay whether i want to or not." joe had tried to raise his head from the pillow, but a severe pain, shooting through his neck and shoulders, warned him that he had better lie quietly. he also became aware that his head was bandaged. "i must be in pretty bad shape," he said. "no, not so very," replied the trained nurse cheerfully. "but you must keep quiet if you are to get well quickly. the doctor will be in to see you soon." joe sunk into a sort of doze, and when he awakened again the doctor was in his room. "well, how about me?" asked the young performer. "you might be a whole lot worse," replied the medical man with a smile. "it's just a bad wrench and sprain. you'll be lame and sore for maybe two weeks, but eventually you'll be able to go back, risking your neck again." "oh, there's not such an awful lot of risks," joe said. "this was just an accident--my first of any account. i can't understand how my hands slipped off the bar. guess i didn't put enough resin on them. how long will i be here?" "oh, perhaps a week--maybe less." "did they bring my pocketbook--i mean my money?" "you don't have to worry about that," said the doctor. "it has all been attended to. a miss morton made all the arrangements." "oh," was all joe said, but he did a lot of thinking. joe's injury was more painful than serious. his sore muscles had to be treated with liniment and electricity, and often massaged. this took time, but in less than a week he was able to be out of bed and could sit in an easy chair, out on one of the verandas. of course joe wrote to helen as soon as he could, thanking her and his other friends for what they had done for him. in return he received a letter from helen, telling him how she--and all of the circus folk--missed him. there was also a card from benny turton, and a note from jim tracy, telling joe that his place was ready for him whenever he could come back. but he was not to hurry himself. they had put no one in his place on the bill, simply cutting his act out. the lascalla brothers worked with another trapeze performer, who gave up his own act temporarily to take joe's position. "well, i guess everything will be all right," reflected our hero. "but i'll join the show again as soon as i can." joe was sitting on the sunny veranda one afternoon in a sort of doze. other convalescent patients were near him, and he had been listening, rather idly, to their talk. he was startled to hear one man say: "well, i'd have been all right, and i could have my own automobile now, if i hadn't been foolish enough to speculate in oil stocks." "what kind did you buy?" another patient asked. "oh, one of those advertised so much--they made all sorts of claims for it, and i was simple enough to believe them. i put every cent i had saved up in the circle city oil syndicate, and now i can whistle for my cash--just when i need it too, with hospital and doctor bills to pay." "can't you get any of it back?" "i don't think so. in fact i'd sell my stock now for a dollar a share and be glad to get it. i paid twenty-five. well, it can't be helped." joe looked up and looked over at the speaker. he was a middle-aged man, and he recognized him as a patient who had come in for treatment for rheumatism. joe wondered whether he had heard aright. "the circle city oil syndicate," mused joe. "that's the one helen has her money in--or, rather, the one that san ford put her money in for her. i wonder if it can be the same company. i must find out, and if it is----" joe did not know just what he would do. what he had overheard caused him to be vaguely uneasy. his old suspicions came back to him. chapter xxii bad news joe strong waited until he had a chance to speak privately to the man who had admitted losing money in oil stocks. this hospital patient was a mr. anton buchard, and his room was not far from joe's. "excuse me," began the young trapeze performer in opening the talk. "but a short time ago i happened to overhear what you were telling your friend about some oil stocks--the circle city syndicate. i didn't mean to listen, but i couldn't help hearing what you were saying." "oh, don't let that part worry you," said mr. buchard. "it's no secret that i lost my money in that wild-cat speculation. but are you interested in it?" "to a certain extent i am," joe answered. "i hope you didn't buy any of the worthless stock." "no, but a friend of mine was induced to. that is--er--she--she has some stock of the circle city oil syndicate. it may not be the same as that you were speaking of." "no, that is true. there are many oil concerns in the market, and lots of them are legitimate, and are making money. but there are plenty of others which are frauds. and the one i invested in is that kind. "of course, as you say, it may not be the same as that in which your friend holds stock, even if it has the same name. would you know any of the officers or directors of the concern in which your friend holds stock?" "i'm afraid not," joe replied. "i did not see her stock certificates. she bought them through a law clerk named sanford." mr. buchard shook his head. "i don't recognize that name," he said. "but of course anybody could sell the stock. how did your friend ever come to be interested in this concern?" thereupon joe told of helen's inheritance, mentioning the fact that he and she both were in the circus. "the circus, eh!" exclaimed the man. "well, now that's interesting! i remember, when i was a boy, it was my great ambition to run away and join a circus. but i dare say it isn't such a life of roses as i imagined." "there's plenty of hard work," joe told him, "and then something like this is likely to happen to you at any time--especially if you are on the trapeze," and he motioned to the bandages still around his neck and shoulders. "i'll tell you what i'll do," said mr. buchard, when joe had finished telling of helen's fortune. "i'm going out of here in a couple of days. i'm getting much better--that is until the next attack. i'll get out my worthless certificates of stock in the circle city oil syndicate, and bring you one. you can then see the names of the officers and directors, and can compare them with the names on miss morton's stock. if they are the same it's pretty sure to be the same company." "and if it is," asked joe, "would you advise her to sell out?" "sell out! my dear boy, i only hope she will be able to. i wish i had known in time--i'd have sold out quickly enough. i never should have bought the stuff. but it's too late to worry about that now. the money is lost. "yes, that's what i'll do. i'll bring you a stock certificate and you can compare it with miss morton's when you see her. are you going out soon?" "in a few days, i hope. i want to get back to the circus." "i don't blame you. it isn't very cheerful here, though they do the best they can for you." mr. buchard was as good as his word. the day after he left the hospital he came back to call on joe. "here's a certificate," he said, handing over an elaborately engraved yellow-backed sheet of paper. "take it with you, and show it to miss morton." "thank you," the young trapeze performer responded. "i'll mail yours back to you as soon as i've compared the names." "oh, you don't need to do that," said mr. buchard with a rueful laugh. "it isn't worth the price of a good cigar." joe wrote to helen, telling her he would soon be with the circus again, but he did not mention the stock certificate. "there'll be time enough to tell her when i find out if it's the same concern," he reasoned. "it may not be. after all, the stock sanford sold her may be valuable." but joe's hope was a faint one. the day came when he was able to leave the hospital. he found that not only had all bills been paid, but that there was an allowance to his credit. helen had thought he would need money to travel with, and had left him a sum. "of course i'll pay her back when i get the chance," joe reflected. "the circus will pay the hospital and doctor's bills--they always do. and i've got money enough saved up to pay helen back." joe was really making a good salary, and he was careful of his money, not wasting it as some of the more reckless performers did. he said good-bye to his nurse, to the orderlies and to the physician who had attended him. "now don't try to rush things," the doctor warned joe. "you must favor your neck and shoulder muscles for a couple of weeks yet. they will be lame and sore if you don't. take it easy, and gradually work up to your former exploits. if you do that you'll be all right." joe promised to be careful, and then, with the stock certificate safely in his pocket--though it was of no value, he reflected--he set out to rejoin the circus, which had moved on several hundred miles since his accident. "i wonder if she'll lose her money," mused joe, as he rode on in the train. "it would be too bad if she did. of course it isn't all in this oil syndicate, but enough of it is to make a big hole in her little fortune. hang it all, if this oil stock turns out bad i'll take that sanford up to the top of the tent and drop him off." he smiled grimly at this novel form of revenge. but really he was very much in earnest. "something will have to be done," joe decided. but he did not know just what. in due time he reached the town where the circus was showing. as joe's train pulled in he saw, on a siding, the big yellow cars, with the name sampson brothers painted on their sides. there were the flat vehicles on which the big animal cages stood, box cars for the horses and elephants and the sleeping cars in which the company traveled. "oh, but it's good to get back!" exclaimed joe. the parade was in progress as he walked along the main street. he did not stop to watch it, having seen it often enough. besides he was anxious to talk to helen, and he knew he would find her at the tent at this hour, since she was not in the parade. as joe turned in at the circus lots he saw several of the attendants and canvasmen. "hello!" they called cheerily. "glad to see you with us again!" "and i'm glad to be back!" joe exclaimed heartily. "how's everything?" "oh, fine." "had any trouble?" "not much since you had yours. had to shoot princess a couple of towns back." "you mean the lioness?" "yes. she went on a rampage and there was nearly a bad accident, so we had to kill her." "too bad," remarked joe, for he knew what a loss it meant to a show when a fine animal, such as princess was, must be disposed of. "still it was better than to have her kill her trainer or some one," he added. "that's right," agreed a canvasman. joe passed on to the dressing tent. helen saw him coming and ran to meet him. "oh, joe!" she exclaimed. "i am so glad to see you! are you all right again?" "quite, thank you. i'm a little lame and stiff yet, but i'll soon get limbered up when i get in my tights and feel myself swinging from a trapeze." "oh, but you must be careful, joe."' "i will. i don't want to have another accident. and now about yourself. how have you been?" "fine." "and rosebud?" "the same as ever. i've taught him a new trick. i must show you. i haven't put it on in public yet." "i shall like to see him. well, you haven't had any more fortunes left to you, have you?" "no, indeed. i wish i had. but i can increase what i have." "how?" "just buy more oil stock. i had a letter from mr. sanford, saying he could get me some more. it's going up in price; so he advised me to buy at once." "are you going to?" "would you?" helen asked. "i'll tell you later," joe answered. "have you one of the stock certificates you did buy?" "yes. in my trunk. do you want to see it?" joe did and said so. helen got it for him and joe compared it with the one the man in the hospital had given him. his heart sank as he saw that the names of the officers and directors were the same. the circle city oil syndicate was a failure. joe's face must have reflected his emotions, for helen asked him: "what's the matter? is anything wrong?" "i am afraid i have bad news for you," joe replied. "in what way? you're not going to----" "it's about your stock. i'm sorry to tell you that your oil stock is worthless--part of your fortune is gone, helen!" chapter xxiii helen goes helen looked dazed for a few seconds. she stared at joe as though she did not understand what he had said. she looked at the oil stock certificates in his hand. joe continued to regard them dubiously. "worthless--my investment worthless?" helen asked, after a bit. "that's what i'm afraid of," joe replied. "of course i don't know much about stocks, bonds and so on, but a man said this stock certificate wasn't worth the price of a good cigar," and he held up the one the hospital patient had given him. "yours is the same kind, helen, i'm sorry to say." "how do you know, joe? let me see them." joe gave her the two papers--elaborately printed, and lavishly enough engraved to be government money, but aside from that worthless. then joe told of the incident in the hospital--how he had accidentally heard the man speak of the circle city oil syndicate, and the conversation that followed. "if what he says is true, helen, your money is gone," joe finished. "yes, i'm afraid so." she said slowly. "oh, dear, isn't it too bad? and i was just thinking how nice it would be if i could increase my fortune. now i am likely to lose it. i wish i had known more about business. i'd never have let this man fool me." "i wish i had, too," remarked joe. "then i'd have advised you not to risk your money in oil. but perhaps it isn't too late yet." "what do you mean?" "i mean we may be able to sell back this stock. of course it would hardly be right to sell it to an innocent person, who did not know of its worthlessness, for then they would lose also. but i mean the syndicate might buy it back, rather than have it become known that the concern was worthless. i don't know much about such things." "neither do i," agreed helen. "i'll tell you what let's do, joe. let's ask bill watson. he use to be in business before he became a clown, and he might tell us what to do." "a good idea," commented joe. "we'll do it." the old clown was in the dressing room, but he came out when helen and joe summoned him, half his face "made up," with streaks of red, white and blue grease paint. "oh, bill, we're in such trouble!" cried helen, "trouble!" exclaimed bill. the word seemed hardly to fit in with his grotesque character. "what trouble?" "it's about my money," helen went on. "i'm going to lose it all, joe thinks." "oh, not all!" exclaimed the young trapeze performer quickly. "only what you invested in oil stock. here's the story, bill," and joe related his part of it, helen supplying the information needed from her end. "now," went on joe, as he concluded, "what we want to know is--can helen save any of this oil money?" bill watson was silent a moment. then he slowly shook his head. "i'm afraid not," he answered. "money invested in wild-cat oil wells is seldom recovered. of course you could bring a lawsuit against this sanford, but the chances are he's skipped out by this time." "oh, no, he hasn't," helen exclaimed. "i had a letter from him only the other day. he asked me if i didn't want to buy some more stock. i know where to find him." once more the veteran clown shook his head. "he might allow you to find him if he thought you were bringing him more cash for his worthless schemes," he said, "but if he found out you wanted to serve papers on him in a suit, or to get hold of him to make him give back the money he took from you, helen, that would be a different story. i'm afraid you wouldn't see much of mr. sanford then. he'd be mighty scarce." "could we sell back the stock to the oil company?" joe wanted to know. "hardly," answered the clown. "they make that stock to sell to the public, and they never buy it back unless there's a chance for them to make money. and, according to joe's tale, there isn't in this case." "not by what that man said," affirmed the young trapeze performer. "i suppose the only thing to do," went on the old clown, "would be to give the case into the hands of a good lawyer, and let him see what he could do with it. turn over the stock to him, give him power to act for you, helen, and wait for what comes. you'll be traveling on with the show, and you can't do much, nor joe either, though i know he would help you if he could, and so would i." "that's what!" exclaimed joe heartily. "i'll do just as you say," agreed helen. "but it does seem too bad to lose my money, and i counted on doing so much with it. but it can't be helped." she was more cheerful over it than joe thought she would be. he suspected that she had not altogether lost hope, but as for himself joe counted the money gone, and it was not a small sum to lose. "come on, helen," he said. "i noticed a lawyer's office on the main street as i was looking at the parade. we'll go there and get him to take the case. we'll be out of here to-night and we can leave matters in his hands, with instructions to send us word when he has the money back." "and i'm afraid you'll never get that word," said the old clown. there was time enough before the afternoon performance for joe and helen to pay a visit to the law office. joe also reported to jim tracy, who was glad to see him. "i don't want you to get on the trapeze to-day," said the ring-master. "take a little light practice first for a few days. and do all you can for her," he added in a low voice, motioning to helen. "i sure will!" joe exclaimed fervently. the lawyer listened to the story as joe and helen told it to him, and agreed to take the case against sanford and the circle city oil syndicate for a small fee. "i'll do the best i can," he said, "but i'm afraid i can't promise you much in results. let me have the papers and your future address." joe put on his suit of tights for that afternoon, though he did not take part in the trapeze work. he fancied that the lascalla brothers were not very glad to see him, but this may have been fancy, for they were cordial enough as far as words went. "maybe they thought i would be laid up permanently," reasoned joe. "then they could have their former partner back. i wonder if he's been around lately?" he made some inquiries, but no one had noticed sim dobley hanging about the lots as he had done shortly after his discharge. nor had there been, as joe had a faint suspicion there might be, any connection between the train wreck and the discharged employee. "i don't believe sim would be so desperate as to wreck a train just to get even with me," decided joe. "i guess it was just a coincidence. he only wrote that threatening letter as a bluff." helen morton did not allow her distress over the prospective loss of her money to interfere with her circus act. she put rosebud through his paces in the ring, and received her share of applause at the antics of the clever horse. helen did a new little trick--the one she had told joe about. she tossed flags of different nations to different parts of the ring, and then told rosebud to fetch them to her, one after the other, calling for them by name. the intelligent horse made no mistakes, bringing the right flag each time. "and now," said helen at the conclusion of her act, "show me what all good little children do when they go to bed at night." rosebud bent his forelegs and bowed his head between them as if he were saying his prayers. "that's a good horse!" ejaculated helen. "now come and get your sugar and give me a kiss," and the animal daintily picked up a lump of the sweet stuff from helen's hand, and then lightly touched her cheek with his velvety muzzle. then with a leap the pretty young rider vaulted into the saddle and rode out of the ring amid applause. "you're doing beautifully, helen!" was joe's compliment, as helen rode out. "i may be all right on a horse," she answered, "but i don't know much about money and business." the show moved on that night, and the next day, when the tent was set up, joe indulged in light practice. he found the soreness almost gone, and as he worked alone, and with the lascalla brothers, his stiffness also disappeared. "i think i'll go on to-night," he told the ring-master. "all right, joe. we'll be glad to have you, of course. but don't take any chances." mail was distributed among the circus folk that day following the afternoon performance. joe had letters from some people to whom he had written in regard to his mother's relatives in england. one gave him the address of a london solicitor, as lawyers are designated over there, and joe determined to write to him. "though i guess my chances of getting an inheritance are pretty slim," he told helen. "i'm not lucky, like you." "i hope you don't call me lucky!" she exclaimed. "having money doesn't do me any good. i lose it as fast as i get it." she had a letter from her lawyer, stating that he had looked further into the case since she had left the papers with him, and that he had less hope than ever of ever being able to get back the cash paid for the oil stock. joe did not intend to work in any new tricks the first evening of his reappearance after the accident. but when he got started he felt so well after his rest and his light practice, that he made up his mind he would put on a couple of novelties. not exactly novelties, either, for they are known to most gymnasts though not often done in a circus. joe went up to the top of the tent. near the small platform, from which he jumped in the long swing, to catch tonzo lascalla in the trapeze, joe had fastened a long cotton rope about two inches in diameter. he caught hold of the rope in both hands and passed it between his thighs, letting it rest on the calf of his left leg. he then brought the rope around over the instep of his left foot, holding it in position with pressure by the right foot, which was pressed against the left. "here i come!" joe cried, and then, letting go with his hands, joe stretched out his arms, and came down the rope in that fashion, the pressure of his feet on the rope that passed between them regulating his speed. it was a more difficult feat than it appeared, this descending a rope without using one's hands, but it seemed to thrill the crowd sufficiently. but joe had not finished. he knew another spectacular act in rope work, which looked difficult and dangerous, and yet was easier to perform than the one he had just done. often in trapeze work this is the case. the spectator may be thrilled by some seemingly dangerous and risky act, when, as a matter of fact, it is easy for the performer, who thinks little of it. on the other hand that which often seems from the circus seats to be very easy may be so hard on the muscles and nerves as to be actually dreaded by the performer. having himself hauled up to the top of the tent again, joe once more took hold of the rope. he held himself in position, the rope between his legs, which he thrust out at right angles to his body, his toes pointing straight out. suddenly he "circled back" to an inverted hang, his head now pointing to the ground many feet below. then he quickly passed the rope about his waist, under his right armpit, crossed his feet with the rope between them, the toes of the right foot pressing the cotton strands against the arch of his left foot. "ready!" cried joe. there was a boom of the big drum, a ruffle of the snare, and joe slid down the rope head first with outstretched arms, coming to a sudden stop with his head hardly an inch from the hard ground. but joe knew just what he was doing and he could regulate his descent to the fraction of an inch by the pressure of his legs and feet on the rope. there was a yell of delight from the audience at this feat, and joe, turning right side up, acknowledged the ovation tendered him. then he ran from the tent--his part in the show being over. for a week the circus showed, moving from town to city. it was approaching the end of the season. the show would soon go into winter quarters, and the performers disperse until summer came again. helen had heard nothing favorable from the lawyer, and she and joe had about given up hope of getting back the money. the circus had reached a good-sized city in the course of its travels, and was to play there two days. on the afternoon of the first day, just before the opening of the performance, joe went to helen's tent to speak to her about something. "she isn't here," mrs. talfo, the fat lady, told him. "she's gone." "gone!" echoed joe. "isn't she going to play this afternoon?" "i believe not--no." "but where did she go?" "you'll have to ask jim tracy. i saw her talking to him. she seemed quite excited about something." "i wonder if anything could have happened," mused joe. "they couldn't have discharged her. that act's too good. but it looks funny. she wouldn't have left of her own accord without saying good-bye. i wonder what happened." chapter xxiv joe follows some little time elapsed before joe found a chance to speak to jim tracy. there had been a slight accident to one of the circus wagons in unloading from the train for that day's show, and the ring-master was kept very busy. one of the elephants was slightly hurt also. but finally the confusion was straightened out, and our hero had a chance to ask the question that was troubling him. "what had become of helen?" "why, i don't know where she went," jim tracy said. "she came to me almost as soon as we got in this morning, and wanted to know if she could have the afternoon off." "cut out her act?" joe asked. "that's it. of course i didn't want to lose her out of the show, but as long as we're going to be here two days, and considering the fact that she hadn't had a day off since the show started out this season, i said she might go. and so she went--at least i suppose she did." "yes, she's gone," joe replied. "but where?" jim tracy did not know and said so. he was too busy to talk much more about it. "she'll be back in time for the evening performance--that's all i know," he told joe. the young trapeze' performer sought out the old clown and told him what had taken place. "helen gone!" exclaimed bill. "that's queer!" "i thought maybe you'd know about it, bill." "me? no, not a thing. she never said a word to me. are you sure you and she didn't have any--er--little tiff?" "of course not!" and joe blushed under his tan. "she didn't tell me she was going." "oh, well, she'll be back to-night, jim says. i guess she's all right. now i've got to get busy." but joe was not satisfied. it was not like helen to go off in this way, and he felt there was something strange about it. "i do hope she isn't going to try to make any more investments with her money--that is with what she has left," he mused. "maybe she heard of some other kind of stock she can buy, and she thinks from the profits of that she can make up for what she is sure to lose in the oil investment. poor helen! it certainly is hard luck!" joe thought so much of his new theory that he visited the circus treasurer with whom helen had left some of her money. "no, it's here in the safe--what she left with me," the treasurer said. "too bad about her losing that nice sum, wasn't it? it will take her quite a while to save that much." "i wish i had hold of the law clerk who tricked her into buying the oil stock," said joe with energy. "i'd make him eat the certificates, and then i'd--well, i don't know what i would do." "but you haven't got him," said the treasurer, "and i guess their kind take good care to keep out of the way of those they've swindled." "i guess so," joe agreed. there was nothing he could do at present, and he had soon to go on with his act. but joe strong made up his mind if helen were not back early to make a thorough search for her. "that is if i can get any trace of her," he went on. "she may run into danger without knowing it, for she hasn't had much experience in life, even if she is a circus rider." joe was himself again now. his muscles seemed to have benefited by the rest, and the young trapeze performer went through all his old acts, alone and with the lascalla brothers, and joe also put on one or two new things, or, rather, variations of old ones. in one part of his performance he balanced himself upon his neck and shoulders on a trapeze high up in the top of the tent. he was almost standing upon his head. while this is not difficult for a performer to do when the trapeze is stationary it is not easy when the apparatus is swinging. joe was going to try that. a ring hand pulled on a light rope attached to the trapeze on which joe was thus balanced on his neck and set the bar and ropes in motion. they moved slowly, and through only a short arc at first. but in a little while joe, in his perilous position, was executing a long swing. his feet were pressed against the ropes and his hands were on his hips. he balanced his body instinctively in this posture. but this was not all of the trick. when the trapeze was swinging as high as he wanted it, joe suddenly brought his legs together. for an instant he poised there on the bar, supporting himself on his neck and shoulders, as straight as an arrow. then, with a shout to warn those below, he fell over in a graceful curve, and began a series of rapid somersaults in the air. down he fell, the hushed attention of the big crowd being drawn to him. just before reaching the life net, joe straightened out and fell into the meshes feet first, bouncing out on a mat and from there bowing his thanks for the applause. thus joe brought his act to a close for that afternoon, and he was glad of it for he wanted to go out and see if helen had returned. as soon as he had changed to his street clothes he sought her tent. the women of the circus dressed together, each one in a sort of canvas screened apartment, and in the sampson brothers' show they also had a sort of ante-room to the dressing tent, where they could receive their friends. there was no one in this room when joe entered, save some of the maids which the higher-salaried circus women kept to help them dress, "make up" and so on. "is miss morton in?" asked joe of a maid who knew him. "no, mr. strong. i don't believe she has returned yet. i'll go and look in her room, though." the maid came back shaking her head. "she isn't there," she told joe. "i wonder where she can be," he mused. "why didn't she leave some word? are you sure there wasn't a letter or anything on her trunk?" he inquired of the maid. "well, i didn't look. you may go in if you like. i guess it will be all right." none of the performers were in the dressing tent then, being out in the big one doing their acts. joe knew his way to helen's room, having been there many times, for there would often be little impromptu gatherings in it to talk over circus matters between the acts. he looked about for a letter, thinking she might have left one for him before going away. he saw nothing addressed to himself, but on the ground, where it had evidently dropped, was an open note. joe could not help reading it at a glance. to his surprise it was signed by sanford, the tricky law clerk. "i shall be glad to see you if you will call on me when you reach lyledale," the letter read. "i am glad you think of buying more stock. i have some to sell. i will be at the globe hotel." "whew!" whistled joe. "it's just as i feared. she's been doing business with sanford again--trying to make good her loss on the oil stock. he has an appointment with her here in lyledale. that's where she's gone--to meet him. she must have sold some of her other securities to get money to buy more stock. i must stop this. i've got to follow her. poor helen!" joe had found out what he wanted to know by accident. helen, he reasoned, must have received the letter that day, or perhaps the day before, and had planned to meet sanford on reaching lyledale where the circus was then playing. in order to do this she had to be excused from the afternoon performance. "but i'll put a stop to that deal if i can," joe declared. "i'll tell her how foolish and risky it is to invest any more money with sanford. i only hope she'll believe me." joe's time was his own until the night performance. he decided he would at once follow helen to the hotel and there remonstrate with her, if it were not too late. "queer that she kept it a secret from all of us," remarked joe as he started for town. "i guess she knew we'd try to stop her from throwing good money after bad, as they say. well, now to see what luck i'll have." the globe hotel was the best and largest in town. joe had no difficulty in finding it, and on inquiring at the desk was told that mr. sanford was a guest at the place. "he has two rooms," the clerk told joe. "one he uses as an office, where he does business." "oh, then he's been here before?" joe asked. "oh, yes, often. i don't know what his business is, but i think, he is a sort of stock and bond dealer." "more like a stock and bond swindler," thought joe. "mr. sanford will see you in a few minutes," the bellboy reported to joe, having come back from taking up our hero's card. "there's a lady in the office with him now." "a young lady?" joe asked. "yes," nodded the bellboy. "i'll go up now!" decided joe. "i think he might just as well see me now as later." "maybe he won't like it," the clerk warned him. "i don't care whether he likes it or not!" cried joe. "it may be too late if i don't go up now. you needn't bother to announce me," he said to the bell-boy who offered to accompany joe to show the way. "i guess i can find the room all right." joe rode up in the elevator, and turned down the corridor leading to the two rooms occupied by sanford. pausing at the door of the outer room, joe heard voices. he recognized one as helen's. "she's there all right," mused joe. "i hope i'm not too late!" he was about to enter when he heard helen say: "please give it back to me. it isn't fair to take advantage of me this way." "you went into this with your eyes open," sanford replied. "it was a straight business deal, and i'm not to blame for the way it turned out. now this stock----" joe waited no longer. he fairly burst into the room, crying: "helen, don't waste any more money on his worthless investments!" chapter xxv the last performance it would have been difficult to say who was the more surprised by the sudden entrance of joe strong--helen or the law clerk. both seemed startled. once more joe cried: "helen, don't throw away any more of your money on his stocks!" "how dare you come in here?" demanded sanford. "never mind about that," answered joe coolly. "i know what i'm doing. i'm not going to see you get any more of her money." "oh, joe. how did you know i was here?" asked helen. "i didn't want any one to know i came." "i found out. i feared this was what you'd do." "do what, joe?" "buy more stock in the hope of making good your losses on the circle city investment." "but, joe, i'm not doing that. i don't want to buy any more stock. i've had too much as it is." "then what in the world did you come here for?" cried sanford. "you intimated that you wanted more stock. that's why i met you here--to sell it to you." "yes, i thought that's what you'd think," replied helen, and she seemed less excited now than joe strong. "but what i came for was to sell you back these worthless oil certificates. i want my money back." "well, you won't get it!" sneered the law clerk. "you bought that stock and now----" "now she's going to sell it again," put in joe. he seemed to understand the situation now. "helen," he went on, "i think it would be well if you left this matter in my hands. if you'll just go downstairs and to the nearest police station and ask an officer to step around here, i think we can find something for him to do." "police!" faltered sanford. "oh, well, perhaps we won't need one," said joe coolly, "but it's always best, in matters of this kind, to have one on hand. it doesn't cost anything. just get an officer, helen, and wait downstairs with him. i'll have a little talk with sanford." "oh, joe! i--i----!" "now, helen, you just leave this to me. run along." joe strong seemed to dominate the situation. he displayed splendid nerve. helen went slowly from the room. "the clerk will tell you where to find a policeman," joe called to her. "you needn't tell him why one is needed. it may be that we shall get along without one, and there's no need of causing any excitement unless we have to." "joe--joe," faltered helen. "you will be careful--won't you?" "well," and joe smiled quizzically, "i'll be as careful as he'll let me," and he nodded toward the law clerk. "what do you mean?" demanded sanford, uneasily. "you'll see in a few minutes," said joe calmly. when helen went out joe, with a quick movement, closed and locked the hall door. "what's that for?" cried sanford. "so you won't get out before i'm through with you." the law clerk made a rush for joe, endeavoring to push him to one side. but muscles trained on a typewriter or with a pen are no match for those used on the flying rings and trapeze. with a single motion of his hand joe thrust the clerk aside, fairly forcing him into a chair. "now then," said joe calmly, "you and i will have a little talk. you needn't try to yell. if you do i'll stuff a bedspread in your mouth. and if you want to try conclusions with me physically--well, here you are!" with a quick motion joe caught the fellow up, and raised him high in the air, over his head. "oh--oh! put me down! put me down!" sanford begged. "i--i'll fall!" "you won't fall as long as i have hold of you," chuckled joe. "but there's no telling when i might let go. now let's talk business." trembling, sanford found himself in the chair again. "did you sell miss morton any more stock?" demanded joe. "no--i--she--came here to buy, i thought, but----" "well, as long as she didn't it's all right. now then about that oil stock you got her to invest her money in--is that stock good?" "why, of course it----" "isn't!" interrupted joe, "and you knew it wasn't when you sold it to her. now then i want you to take that stock back and return her money. and i don't want you to sell that stock to some other person, either. you just tear it up. it's worthless, and you know it. i want miss morton's money back for her." "i haven't it!" whined the clerk. "then you know where to get it. i fancy if i tell mr. pike, of your law firm, what you've been up to----" "oh, don't tell him! don't tell him!" whined the clerk. "he doesn't know anything about it. i--i just did this as a side line. if you tell him i'll lose my position and----" "well, i'll tell him all right, if you don't give back miss morton's money!" said joe grimly. "i tell you i haven't the cash." "then you must get it. you've been doing business here before, the hotel clerk tells me. come now--hand over the cash--get it--and i'll let you go, though perhaps i shouldn't. if you don't pay up--well, the officer ought to be downstairs waiting for you now. come!" cried joe sharply. "which is it to be--the money or jail?" sanford looked around like a cornered rat seeking a means of escape. there was none. joe, big and powerful, stood between him and the door. "well?" asked joe significantly. "i--i'll pay her back the money," faltered sanford. "but i'll have to go out to get it." "oh, no, you won't," said joe cheerfully. "if you went out you might forget to come back. here's a telephone--just use that." sanford sighed. his last chance was gone. just what or to whom he telephoned does not concern us. but in the course of an hour or so a messenger called with money enough to make good all helen had risked in oil stock. the cash was handed to her. "here, you keep it for me, joe," she said. "i don't seem to know how to manage my fortune." "what about those stock certificates?" asked sanford. "i want them back." "they are worthless, by your own confession," replied joe, "and you're not going to fool some one else on them. "we'll just keep them for souvenirs, eh, helen?" "just as you say, joe," she answered with a blush. sanford blustered, but to no purpose. he was beaten at his own game, and the fear of exposure and arrest brought him to terms. "but you shouldn't have gone to him alone, helen," remonstrated joe, when they were on their way back to the circus with the recovered cash. "well, i'd been so foolish as to lose my money, that i wanted to see if i couldn't get it back again," she said. "i didn't want any of you to help me, as i'd already given trouble enough." "trouble!" cried joe. "we would have been only too glad to help you." "well, you did it in spite of me," helen said, with a smile. "i did not intend you should know where i had gone. how did you find out?" "i saw a letter you dropped in the tent, and i followed. but how did you happen to locate sanford?" "by adopting just what bill watson said was the only plan. i made believe i wanted to buy more stock. bill said that was the only way to catch sanford. if i had tried to find him to get my money back he would have kept out of my way. but when he thought i might have more cash for him, he wrote and told me where i could find him. so i just waited until our show came here and then i called on mr. sanford. "i was just begging him to give me back the money for the oil stock when you came in on us, joe." "well, i'm glad i did." "so am i. i hardly think he'd have paid me if it had not been for you. how did you make him settle?" "oh, i just sort of 'held him up' for it," but joe did not explain the way he had actually "held up" the swindler. "i'm so glad to get my money back!" helen sighed as they reached the circus grounds, over which dusk was settling, for it was now early fall. "and i'm glad, too," added joe. "then next time you buy oil stock----" "there'll not be any next time," laughed helen, as she went to give rosebud his customary lumps of sugar. and that night, in the sampson brother's show, there was an impromptu little celebration over the recovery of helen's money. later joe learned that sanford gave up his place in the law office. perhaps the swindler was afraid mr. pike would find out about his underhand transactions. sanford, it seemed, had done some law business for the oil company, and they let him sell some of the worthless stock for himself, allowing him to keep the money--that is what joe did not make him pay back. it was the night of the final performance. the performers went through their acts with new snap and daring, for it was the last time some of them would face the public until the following season. a few would secure engagements for the winter in theatres, but most of them would winter with the circus. when the tents came down this time they would be shipped to bridgeport, where many shows go into winter quarters. "well, joe," remarked helen, as she came out of the ring just as joe finished his last thrilling feat, "what are you going to do? will you be with us next season?" "i don't know. i've had several offers to go with hippodrome exhibitions, and on a theatrical circuit." "oh, then you are going to leave us?" joe looked at helen. there seemed to be a new light in her eyes. and though she was smiling, there was something of disappointment showing on her face. with parted lips she gazed at joe. "i thought perhaps you would stay," she murmured, her eyes downcast. "i--i guess i will!" said joe in a low voice. "this is a pretty good circus after all." and so joe stayed. and what he did in the show will be related in the next volume of this series, to be called: "joe strong, the boy fish; or, marvelous doings in a big tank." the chariots rattled their final dusty way around the big tent. the "barkers" came in to sell tickets for the "grand concert." the animal tent was already down for the last time that season. with the ending of the concert the bugler blew "taps." the torches went out. "good night, joe," said helen. "good night, helen," he answered, and as they clasped hands in the darkness we will say good-bye to joe strong. the end [illustration: al. g. field, court and scott] watch yourself go by a book by al. g. field columbus, ohio copyrighted by al. g. field, illustrated by ben w. warden introductory watch yourself go by just stand aside and watch yourself go by; think of yourself as "he" instead of "i." note closely, as in other men you note, the bag-kneed trousers and the seedy coat. pick the flaws; find fault; forget the man is you, and strive to make your estimate ring true; confront yourself and look you in the eye-- just stand aside and watch yourself go by. interpret all your motives just as though you looked on one whose aims you did not know. let undisguised contempt surge through you when you see you shirk, o commonest of men! despise your cowardice; condemn whate'er you note of falseness in you anywhere. defend not one defect that shames your eye-- just stand aside and watch yourself go by. and then, with eyes unveiled to what you loathe-- to sins that with sweet charity you'd clothe-- back to your self-walled tenements you'll go with tolerance for all who dwell below. the faults of others then will dwarf and shrink, love's chain grow stronger by one mighty link-- when you, with "he" as substitute for "i," have stood aside and watched yourself go by. s. w. gilliland, in _penberthy engineer_. "to whom will you dedicate your book?" inquired george spahr. well, i hinted to my wife and pearl that i desired to bestow that honor upon them. they did not exactly demur, but both intimated that i had best dedicate it to some friend in the far distance who would probably never read it, or to some dear friend who had passed away and had no relatives living. several others approached did not seem to crave the honor, therefore i herewith dedicate this book to court; not that he is the best and truest friend i ever possessed, but for the reason that should the book not be received with favor he will respect me just the same. he will hunt for me, he will watch for me, he will love me all the more devotedly, serve me all the more faithfully, though the book were discredited. the more i see of dogs, the better i like dogs. it is claimed there is a kind of physiognomy in the title of a book by which a skilful observer will know as well what to expect from its contents as one does reading the lines. i flatter myself this claim will be disproved in this book. i am proud of the book, not that it contains much of literary merit, not that i ever hope it will be a "best seller," but for the reason it has afforded me days of enjoyment. in the writing of it i have communed with those whom i love. if those who peruse this book extract half the pleasure from reading its pages that has come to me while writing them, i will be satisfied. al. g. field. maple villa farm, july , . watch yourself go by an autobiography chapter one trust no prayer or promise, words are grains of sand; to keep your heart unbroken hold your child in hand. "al-f-u-r-d!" "al-f-u-r-d!!" "al-f-u-r-d!!!" the last syllable, drawn out the length of an expiring breath, was the first sound recorded on the memory of the first born. indeed, constant repetition of the word, day to day, so filled his brain cells with "al-f-u-r-d" that it was years after he realized his given patronymic was alfred. [illustration: the old well] "al-f-u-r-d!" "al-f-u-r-d!"--a woman's voice, strong and penetrating, strengthened by years of voice culture in calling cows, sheep, pigs, chickens and other farm-yard companions. the voice came in swelling waves, growing in menace, from around the corner of as quaint an old farm-house as ever sheltered a happy family. in the wake of the voice followed a round, rosy woman of blood and brawn, with muscular arms and sturdy limbs that carried her over grass and gravel at a pace that soon brought her within reach of the prey pursued--a boy of four years, in flapping pantalets and gingham frock. the "boy" was headed for the family well as fast as his toddling legs could carry him. forbidden, punished, guarded, the child lost no opportunity to climb to the top of the square enclosure and wonderingly peer down into the depths of the well. to prevent his falling headlong to his death--a calamity frequently predicted--was the principal concern of all the family. as the women folks were more often in the big kitchen than elsewhere, it became, as a matter of convenience, the daily prison of the first born. the board, across the open doorway, and the eternal vigilance of his guards, did not prevent his starting several times daily on a pilgrimage towards the old well. the turning of a head, the absence of the guards from the kitchen for a moment, were the looked-for opportunities--crawling under or over the wooden bar, and starting in childish glee for the old well. previous to the time of this narrative, the race invariably resulted in the capture of "young hopeful" ere the well was reached. the shrill cry: "al-f-u-r-d!" "al-f-u-r-d!" always closely followed by the young woman who did the scouting for the other guards, brought him to a halt. he was lifted bodily, thrown high into the air, caught in strong, loving arms as he came down, roughly hugged and good-naturedly spanked, and carried triumphantly back to his prison--the kitchen. here, seated upon the floor, he was roundly lectured by three women, who in turn charged one another with his escape. it was never _his_ fault. someone had turned a head to look at the clock, or the browning bread in the oven, turning to look at the cause of the controversy, not infrequently he was found astride the prison bar, or scampering down the path. that old well, or its counterpart, was surely the inspiration of "_the old oaken bucket_." however, their author was never imbued with fascination as alluring as that which influenced the first born in his desire to solve the, to him, mystery of the old well. the more his elders coaxed, bribed and threatened, the more vividly they depicted its dangers, the more determined he became to explore its darkened depths. the old well became a part of the child's life. he talked of it by day and dreamed of it by night. the big windlass, with its coil of seemingly never-ending chain, winding and unwinding, lowering and raising the old, oaken bucket green with age, full and flowing; the cooling water oozing between the age-warped staves, nurturing the green grasses growing about the box-like enclosure. how cooling the grass was to his feet as on tip-toes peeking over the top of the enclosure down into that which seemed to his childish imagination a fathomless abyss, so deep that ray of sun or glint of moon never penetrated to the surface of the water. the clanging of the chain, the grinding of the heavy bucket bumping against the walled circle as it descended, and the splash as it struck the water, were uncanny sounds to the boy's ears. the desire to look down, down into the old well's hidden secrets became to him almost a frenzy. the echoes coming up from its shadowy depths were as those of a haunted glen. he reasoned that all men and women were created to guard the well and that it was his only duty in life to thwart them. balmy spring, with its song birds, buzzing bees and sweet-smelling blossoms, coaxed every living thing out of doors; everything, except the first born and his guards. such was the situation when the bees swarmed. the guards "pricked up their ears," then, with eyes looking heavenward, and snatching up tin pans which they beat with spoons, sleigh-bells and other objects, they rushed from the kitchen to work the usual charm of the country folk in settling the swarming bees. thus unguarded, the little prisoner, carrying a three-legged stool that aided him in surmounting the bar across the kitchen door, trekked for the old well. planting the stool at one side of the square enclosure, he looked down into the cavernous depths; leaning far over, reached for the chain, with the intention of lowering the bucket, as he had often seen his elders do. "al-f-u-r-d!" "al-f-u-r-d!" and the sound of hurrying feet only urged the boy on. he had caught hold of the bucket and was leaning far over the dark opening when he felt a heavy hand upon his shoulders, and himself lifted from his high perch, only to be dropped sprawling on the ground with a shower of tin pans rattling about his devoted head. then the women, half fainting from fright, fell upon him, each in a desperate effort to first embrace him in thankfulness over his rescue from falling into the well. when the women recovered their "shock" the first born was lustily yelling for papa. mamma had him across her knee and was administering the first full-fledged, unalloyed spanking of his childish existence. he scarcely understood at first, then the full meaning of the threats the guards had used to cure him of his one absorbing mania began sifting into his brain through another part of his anatomy. he promised never, never again to peep into the old well. the guards believed him and for days thereafter he lived blissfully on their praises, while everyone, directly or indirectly interested, conceded that mamma's "spanks" had finally broken the charm of the old well for the boy. however, the little prisoner was removed to another cell--the big, front room upstairs--the door securely locked. a large, open window looked out upon the front yard and below the window near the house was the old well. one evening the men, returning from the field, halted to slake their thirst at the well, the up-coming of the old oaken bucket brought from its depths a half-knit woolen sock and a ball of yarn. a strand of yarn reaching to the window above told the story. later, a turkey wing, used as a fan in summer and to furnish wind for an obdurate wood fire in winter, was found limply swimming in the bucket. indeed, for days thereafter, divers articles, missed from the big, front room, accompanied the bucket on its return trips. when one of grandpap's well-worn sunday boots was brought to the surface, it was believed that the last of the missing articles from the big room had been recovered. however, the disappearance of grandma's little mantelpiece clock was never explained. uncle joe and aunt betsy stopped their old mare in front of the house and in chorus shouted "hello!" as was the custom of neighbors passing on their way to or from town. the whole family, including "al-f-u-r-d," betook themselves to the roadside to gossip. "al-f-u-r-d," busy as usual, clambered up over the muddy wheels into the vehicle. he was praised by uncle and aunt for his obedience, and promised candy when they returned from town. clambering down he missed his footing and narrowly escaped being trampled upon by the old mare who was vigorously stamping and swishing her tail to keep off the flies. dragged from under the buggy he was soon out of the minds of the gossiping group, curiosity drew him to the old well. circling it at a respectful distance, he said: "naughty ole well, don't thry to coax me 'caus i won't play with you, nor look down in you never no more. there!" passing to the side farthest from the unsuspecting guards, the handle of the windlass was within his reach. instinctively the desire seized him to lower the bucket, pulling out the ratchet that held it, the old oaken bucket began its unimpeded descent. slowly at first, gaining momentum with each revolution of the windlass, down it fell, bumping against the sides of the well, chain clanging and windlass whirring. it struck the bottom with a splash that re-echoed, followed by a woman's scream so piercing that the old mare started forward. it flashed on the minds of all that at last their predictions were verified. it was all up with "al-f-u-r-d." they pictured him falling, falling--down, down--his bruised, bleeding body sinking to the bottomless depths of the old well. [illustration: uncle joe and aunt betsy] uncle joe's feet caught in the handle of a market basket as he leaped from the buggy and the greater number of his dozens of fresh eggs reached the roadside a scrambled mass. the women guards gave vent to a series of screams that brought the men hurrying from the fields. "al-f-r-u-d" was found, limp and apparently lifeless, his head tucked under his body, clothes over his head, exposing the larger part of his anatomy--a pitiable lump, lying in the sandy path twenty feet from the well. the handle of the windlass had caught him across the shoulders, sending him flying through the air. for days thereafter "al-f-u-r-d" was swathed in bandages and bathed with liniments; for a time, at least, the family was free from the cares of guarding the old well. the old well has given way to a modern pump, the old house has been remodeled, but the impressions herein recorded are as clear to the memory of the man today as they were to the child of that long ago. chapter two trouble comes night and day, in this world unheedin', but there's light to find the way-- that is all we're needin'. "al-f-u-r-d-!" "al-f-u-r-d!" al-f-u-r-d!" town life had not diminished the volume of malinda linn's voice. it was far-reaching as ever. malinda was familiarly called "lin"--in print the name looks unnatural and chinese-like. lin linn was about the whole works in the family. her duties were calling, seeking and changing the apparel of "al-f-u-r-d", duties she discharged with a mixture of scoldings and caresses. when the family moved to town to live, lin became impressed with the propriety of bestowing the full baptismal name upon the first born, and to his open-eyed wonderment, he was addressed as "alfred griffith." but when lin called him from afar--and she usually had to call him, and then go after him--it was always "al-f-u-r-d!" a bunch of misery, pale and limp, was lying in the family garden between two rows of tomato vines, the earth about him disturbed from his intermittent spasms. a big, greenish, yellowish worm was crawling over his head, his tow-like hair whiter by contrast; upon his forehead great drops of perspiration. [illustration: the first cigar] he heard lin's calls but could not answer. he half opened his eyes as she approached him. berating him roundly for hiding from her, bending over him, the pallor of his face frightened her. her screams would have abashed a camanche indian. tenderly taking up the almost unconscious boy, she hastened toward the house, frightened members of the family and several nearby neighbors attracted by her screams. crowded around "al-f-u-r-d" all busied themselves in assisting in placing him in bed. his hands were rubbed, his brow bathed, the air about agitated with a big palm-leaf fan while the doctor was summoned. when the family doctor arrived "al-f-u-r-d's" shirt-waist was opened in front and a big, greenish, yellowish worm fell to the floor. this, and that sickening smell of green tomato vines, assisted the good doctor in his diagnosis. to know the disease is the beginning of the cure. hot water and mustard administered in copious draughts, the little rebellious stomach, made more so by this treatment, began sending up returns. thus was relieved "the worst case of tomato poisoning that had, up to that time, come under the doctor's observation." at that time the tomato had not long been an edible. indeed many persons refused to consider them as such, growing them for merely ornamental purposes, displaying them on mantels and window sills. tomatoes were commonly called "jerusalem" or "love apples." on this occasion the doctor dilated at length on its past bad reputation and the lurking poison contained in vine and fruit. the blinds were lowered and alfred slept. the nurses tiptoed from the room, to return, tip-toeing to the bed to see how he was resting, then returning to the kitchen to advise the anxious ones there that he was resting easy. poor lin was "near distracted" no sooner was it announced that "al-f-u-r-d" was out of danger than she began gathering the "green tomattisus" lying in irregular rows on various window sills to ripen in the sun, giving vent to her pent-up "feelings" thus: "huh! tomattisus! never was made to eat. they ain't no good, no-way. pap's right. they're called jerusalem apples 'caus they wuz first planted by the jews, who knowed their enemies would eat 'em an' git pizened an' die of cancers, an' lord knows what else." she carried the offending fruit to the family swill barrel, where the leavings of the table were deposited. as she raised one big tomato to drop it into the barrel, her hand paused, as she soliloquized: "no, if tomattisus will pizen pee-pul, they'll pizen hogs. they ain't fit for hogs nohow. they ain't fit fer nuthin' but heathens an' sich like, as oughter be pizened." turning to one of several neighbors, whose looks denoted disapproval of wilful waste, she benevolently emptied the tomatoes into the woman's upheld apron, remarking: "lordy. yer welcome to 'em if yer folks like 'em an' ain't carin' much when they die. take 'em. ye kin have 'em an' welcome." while the father was yanking the noxious tomato plants out by the roots and sprinkling the ground with lime, "al-f-u-r-d" began showing symptoms of returning life. after the nurses had tiptoed from the room, supposedly leaving him in deep slumber, he threw back the linen sheets and slid from the bed on the side farthest from the open door leading to the kitchen. cautiously creeping to where lay his trousers--inserting a hand in the deep pocket, which had been put in by lin by special request--he drew out two long, dark, worm-like objects, holding them at arm's length gagging anew at even the sight of them. staggering to the cupboard dropping them into a box half filled with similar worm-like objects, he staggered back to bed as quickly as his weakened condition would permit, suppressing another upheaval of his stomach with greatest effort. notwithstanding the objects mentioned were ed. hurd's best three-for-a-cent stogies, and "al-f-u-r-d" had smoked less than four of the six inches of one of the big, black cigars, the stub of which he had buried near the spot where lin found him, it was several days before he took kindly to food, or, as was generally supposed, had wholly thrown off the baneful effects of the tomato poisoning. while convalescing, afternoon walks were taken near home, circling the episcopal church, back through the old, green graveyard, or a little lower down the hill where the village boys could be seen and heard swimming and splashing in the river. to take part in this sport, to get to the river, to plunge into its cooling depths, "al-f-u-r-d" had a soul-yearning, even more powerful than that of the old well. but he had been sworn, bribed, placed upon his honor and threatened with dire tortures, should he even venture nearer the river than the top of the hill. the yearning would not down. it grew in intensity. he would stand on the front rail of his trundle bed, night and morning, with arms extended above him, palms together, to dive, to split the imaginary water, take a header into the soft, downy tick; then thresh his arms about in swimming fashion as he had seen the big boys cavort in the river. nearer and nearer to the river his newest allurement carried him, until one day he found himself on a strange path leading into a large yard in which stood a neat, white house, with green blinds. purling at his feet, bubbling from an invisible source, was a brook of clear, cold water. very cold it felt to his bare feet as he waded up and down over it's sandy, pebbly bed, the water reaching barely to his ankles. wading nearer to the fountain head, the depth gradually increased. here was young hopeful's long-sought-for opportunity to dive, swim and otherwise disport himself as did the big boys. off came pantalets, waist and undercoverings, through the pure, cold water he waded. with teeth chattering and flesh quivering, holding his hands above his head, under he went. he was having the time of his life, and so busy was he at it that his attention was not attracted by the opening of a door in the nearby white house and the sudden appearance of an elderly, grim-looking woman behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles; brandishing a long, swinging buggy whip, with broad, bright bands here and there along its length. rushing toward the boy, she angrily shouted: "you little scamp, i'll skin ye alive!" "al-f-u-r-d," with a cry, bounded from the water, grabbed for his clothes, missed them, and started on a race at a pace that left no doubt as to the winner. a big dog and another elderly woman--the counterpart of her-behind-the-spectacles--joined in the chase, the dog's deep bays greatly accelerating the already beat-all-record-time of the terrified "al-f-u-r-d." as he neared the parental roof, he let out a series of yells with "mother!" "lin!" "help!" "murder!" sandwiched between. the nearer he drew, the louder the yelps, for he knew he would need sympathy, even though the gold-rimmed glasses and the other elderly pursuer had been distanced by many lengths. lin said when she first heard the screams, she "thought it was only the old crazy woman under the hill havin' another spell. but when they come gittin' nearer an' nearer, she knew it was "al-f-u-r-d" an' somethin' turrible had happened." it was then lin, mother and several neighboring females rushed to the front door as "al-f-u-r-d" flew in at the gate, up the path and into his mother's outstretched arms, endeavoring to pull her apron about his nudity. "where's your clothes?" demanded the frightened mother. "where are they?" "who took them off you?" "she did! she did!" howled "al-f-u-r-d," jerking his head toward the gate, just as the elderly woman behind the spectacles entered. trembling with fear she began to explain and apologize to lin and the mother, frequently turning to "al-f-u-r-d" to entreat him to come to her, assuring him that he need not fear her. but the big buggy whip, with the silver bands, dangled above his head and the more she entreated the louder his yells and the further he forced himself into his mother's garments. [illustration: she did! she did!] lin grabbed his clothes from the spectacled lady berating both soundly, giving them but little opportunity to explain. others joined in the wordy attack, much to the elderly woman's confusion and shame. the fact that they were old maids, living alone and associating with but few of their neighbors, lent bitterness to the invectives hurled at them, the climax was reached with a parting shot from lin: "drat ye!" she exclaimed, "if ye had yungins of yer own--which is lucky for 'em that ye haven't--ye'd have some hearts in yer withered old frames." the spectacled maiden, apparently more frightened than the other, began to feel what a monster she was, what an awful crime she had committed, following an embarrassing pause, the effect of lin's final shot, mother again demanded the cause of "al-f-u-r-d's" nudity. "i s'pose i ought to have pulled down the blinds," she began apologetically, "and let him have his swim out. likely it wouldn't have hurt the spring much. still a body doesn't like to drink water out of a spring that a boy's been swimmin' in, no matter if his folks are clean about their house-keeping." she was certainly sorry and so anxious to caress "al-f-u-r-d" that she and the mother made it up, then and there, and many an afternoon thereafter did the two spend together bemoaning the evil spirit that had prompted the boy to make a swimming hole of the family spring. kindly invitations nor the promise of sponge cake ever induced "al-f-u-r-d" to again visit the grounds, or the white house with green blinds, a buggy whip with silver bands on it, a big dog and two old maids who, according to lin, "didn't know nuthin' 'bout children." chapter three in the heydey of youth he was awfully green, as verdant in truth as you have ever seen; but he soon learned to know beans so it seems. "there's shorely sumthin' 'bout water that bewitches that boy," often remarked lin. "i never seen the like of it. i'll bet anything he'll be a baptis' preacher some day, jes' like billy hickman." there never was a boy reared in brownsville whose heart does not beat a little faster, whose breath does not come a little quicker, whose cheeks do not turn a little redder when his mind goes back to the old swimming place near johnson's saw-mill, where the big rafts of lumber were moored seemingly for the pleasure and convenience of every boy in town. the big boys had their spring-boards for diving on the outside where the current was swifter, the water deeper, the little ones their mud slides and boards to paddle about and float on in the shallow, still water between the rafts and the bank. there may have been factions and social distinctions as between the inhabitants of the little town when garbed and groomed, but in the nudity of the old swimming place there was a common level, and all met on an equal footing. james g. blaine, philander c. knox, professor john brashear and many others, who have climbed the ladder of fame, were boys among boys in this old swimming hole. it was here they were given their first lessons in courage and self-reliance. a balmy afternoon in late june the boys of the town were in swimming; "al-f-u-r-d" could plainly hear their shouts of glee as he sat in the front yard at home. how he longed to participate in their sports. what wouldn't he give to be free like other boys? was there ever a boy who did not feel that he was imposed upon, who did not imagine he was abused above all others? such was the feeling of "al-f-u-r-d". he had been subjected to a scrubbing. lin had unmercifully bored into his ears with a towel shaped like a gimlet at one corner, assuring his mother he was "dirtier 'an the dirtiest coal digger in town." he was arrayed in a clean gingham suit, topped with an emaculate white shirt, flowing collar and straw hat. lin spent a long time in curling his hair despite protests. those curls were "al-f-u-r-d's" abomination. the more he abominated them the longer they grew. they reached down to the middle of his back. arranged in a semi-circle, extending from temple to temple, they made his head appear so abnormally large his slender body seemed scarcely able to support it. he seemed top-heavy with his long curls. [illustration] "al-f-u-r-d" was to go alone to grandfather's and escort him home to dinner. there was to be company, and lin was determined that "al-f-u-r-d" and his curls should appear at their best. the road of life starts the same for all of god's children. the innocent babe, fresh fallen from heaven to blossom on earth, sees nothing but the beautiful at the beginning of the journey. the road is strewn with flowers and it is only when the prick of the thorn is felt that one realizes one is on the wrong road. for just one short block "al-f-u-r-d," on the occasion referred to, traversed the right road. there the right road turned abruptly to the left. there was no road "straight ahead," but the river was there. the sound of boys' voices shouting in high glee came floating up from the old swimming place. school had let out and every boy in town was in swimming. "al-f-u-r-d" blazed a new trail to the river. climbing over the paling fence surrounding the burying ground, through back yards, descending the steep hill, he found himself standing on the bank of the river gazing at a spectacle that stirred his young blood--half a hundred nude boys diving, splashing, swimming and shouting were in the river below. [illustration: the new boy in town] his appearance was greeted with yells and laughter. he was a "new boy" in town. "al-f-u-r-d" was abashed by the reception accorded him. of all the howling horde in the water below there was but one familiar face, that of cousin charley. "take off your curls and come on in, sissy," shouted one of the swimmers. a dozen of them assured "al-f-u-r-d" the water was "jest bully." entreaties of "come on in," came from dozens of boys. advice of all kinds came from others. the reference to the curls made "al-f-u-r-d" wince. he had long felt that those curls were the one great impediment in his life--the one something that made him the butt of the jokes and gibes of other boys. he hated those curls. his first swimming experience doubly intensified his hatred for curls. evening was drawing near. the big yellow sun had dropped behind krepp's knob, the shadows of the hills almost reached across the ruffled surface of the river. the river bottoms at the base of the hills, with their waving grasses and tassled corn, extending beyond the bend in the river opposite albany, the old wooden bridge farther up the river, the high hills behind him, presented a scene of beauty all of which was lost upon "al-f-u-r-d." the boys in the river held him entranced. he was absorbed in the scene, and, for the moment, he even forgot his curls. writers frequently refer to the monongahela river as "murky"--but where's the boy who ever basked in its cooling waves who will not qualify the statement that its waters are the clearest, its depths the most delightful, its ripples the softest and its shores the smoothest? jimmy edmiston intimated to the writer that the monongahela was only clear during a "cheat river rise." (cheat is the name of a small stream of virginia emptying into the monongahela above brownsville. its waters are never muddy, no matter how heavy or protracted the rains along its course. when the cheat river pours its transparent flood into the monongahela the latter rises without riling. hence the expression: "cheat river rise.") jimmy has so long lived away from brownsville that his memory is defective. associated with the muddy missouri he labors under the delusion that all rivers are muddy--even the monongahela. [illustration: the old swimming hole] "al-f-u-r-d" was rudely caught from behind by several boys, undressed in less time than it took lin to hang the hat on his curls. nor had he barely been reduced to a state of nudity when some unregenerate in the river below let fly a lump of soft, mushy mud, large as a gourd. the mud landed squarely on the broader part of his slight anatomy. with a yelp he wiggled loose from his captors and bounded up the hill. his slender legs and body, topped with the large crop of atmospherically agitated curls, made him a figure so ludicrous that the boys yelled in ecstacy at the sight. "al-f-u-r-d" was recaptured by two stout-armed boys, one on either side. they carried him to the top of the "mudslide." "slick 'er up," came the cry from all sides. this had reference to the slide upon which fell a veritable cloudburst of water splashed up from the river by the hands of a dozen devilish youngsters. "al-f-u-r-d" was elevated to the height of the heads of his tormentors. in chorus from the mob at the words, "one, two, three," he was dropped to the slide, striking its soft, slick surface in an angular attitude, with feet and legs waving a strenuous protest above his head. the fall gave him a momentum that sent him over the slippery surface at a speed that rushed him into the river with eyes and mouth wide open. with a splash, under he went, forcing great gulps of water down his throat. strangling and choking, he came to the surface, spouting like a whale calf. [illustration: the slippery slide] what a shout of merriment went up from his tormentors. barely had he taken in a full breath than a bad boy--they were all bad, at least "al-f-u-r-d" so informed lin afterwards--again forced his head under water. "duck 'im agin!" someone shouted as his curls floated on the surface of the water above his hidden body. for the third time "al-f-u-r-d" ducked--or rather, was ducked, swallowing another quart or two of monongahela. coming up cork-like, he tried to make his escape. up the bank he ran choking and crying. unfortunately, he took the track of the slide. half way up his feet flew from under him, landing him upon his stomach. back he slid, feet first, his nose plowing up the soft mud, his mouth filling with the same substance. terrified beyond expression, under the water he went, choking, strangling, struggling. he felt that his time had come. popping to the surface, one of the older boys stood him upon his feet, washed the mud from his mouth and nose and, by sundry "shakes," partially emptied him. fearing they had gone too far with their hazing, some of the larger boys led him further into the stream, handling him as tenderly as they had roughly, assuring him of perfect safety. he was caused to lie on his stomach and, with cousin charley holding his broad, calloused palm against his chest, "al-f-u-r-d" was given his first lesson in swimming. one boy declared, even before "al-f-u-r-d" had moved a muscle, that he had already learned to swim. it was the consensus of opinion that the only thing that prevented his swimming was his curls. to overcome this handicap his hair was braided, tied and cross-tied and his top-heaviness reduced to a dozen scattered knobs and knots--knots pulled so tight they glaringly exposed the white scalp between, and the tying of which brought tears to his eyes. even this rearrangement did not prevent his sinking time and again as the lesson progressed and finally, the mischievousness of his instructors appeased, he was led, half-dead, out of the water, up the steep bank to where he had been disrobed. as he stooped to gather up his rumpled garments a most welcome sound came to his ears: "al-f-u-r-d!" "al-f-u-r-d!" contrary to his usual custom, the second syllable was not off the lips of lin until, in his loudest tone, he shouted: "yes,'m!" when he called for lin to "come and get me," all the boys took a header into the river, only their faces and hair-covered heads appearing above the surface; they treaded water, or swayed around on the bottom. as "al-f-u-r-d" looked back on them they seemed like so many decapitated heads floating in space, a sight that dwelt in his memory long afterwards. when "al-f-u-r-d" gathered his garments into his arms, endeavoring to hide his nudity, and started toward the voice, a laugh went up that made the valley echo. lin declared: "if the tarnel critters had been dressed, she'd have thrown every last devil of 'em off the raft into the river." owing to conditions she hid behind mrs. hubbard's house and not until "al-f-u-r-d," in his unrecognizable appearance rounded it, did he come face to face with his rescuer. crying and sobbing he fell into lin's arms. firing a volley of imprecations upon the horde that had wrought the wreck before her, lin kept up a continuous tirade against the boys in the river; and addressing herself to "al-f-u-r-d" between speeches, she said: "fur gracious, goodness sake, ef you don't look like granny gadd with yer hair braided over yer head like this; hyar ye air trapesin' through town agin, mos' naked like ye did las' week. the hull town'll be talkin' about ye. ye'll give us all a bad name. why didn't ye put on yer clothes?" "al-f-u-r-d" sobbingly informed lin of the cruelties heaped upon him in which cousin charley had taken part. lin's anger increased as the boy talked. when he told of them throwing him down in the water times without number, lin's indignation burst all bonds. shaking "al-f-u-r-d" violently she fairly yelled as she demanded to know what he was doing while they were throwing him down. "al-f-u-r-d" between sobs, answered: "i wasn't doin' nuthin'; i was gettin' up all the time." lin's answer was a jerk that lifted the boy off the earth. as she smacked her palms together, she defiantly hissed: "ef ye had my spunk, ye'd hev knocked hell's delight out of some of 'em." the defiance of lin, the thoughts of the cruelties practiced upon him, or some other force, changed the boy's manner instantly from sobbing and supplicating. he became screamingly aggressive. flying to the roadbed, which had a plentiful supply of loose stone on it, he began a fusillade on the enemy below that drove the whole horde from the raft into the river. "al-f-u-r-d" had practiced stone throwing since he wore clothes and, like all boys of that period, his aim was most accurate, as several of those in the old swimming hole on that eventful day will testify. a rain of stones fell on the raft; one boy, more venturesome than the others, started up the hill but "al-f-u-r-d's" fire repulsed him. lin, hidden behind the house, had changed her manner and was now pleading with "al-f-u-r-d" to desist. "ye might crack some of their skulls and then they'd git out a warrant and rease lynch (referring to the town constable), would be after ye." "al-f-u-r-d" left the line of battle only when exhausted. that first swimming lesson and the fusillade of rocks that followed engendered animosities that involved "al-f-u-r-d" in many rough and tumble encounters afterwards. lin, catching up the clothes the boy had dropped upon the ground, soon discovered why he had not put them on. the sleeves of the waist were dripping wet and tied in knots as tight as two big, strong boys could pull them. the pantalets were first unraveled, reversed, pulled over the sand-covered limbs of the boy, the waist wrapped about his shoulders, (the knots in the sleeves could not be untied), his hat pushed down on his head owing to the arrangement of his hair until it rested on his ears. the procession started homeward, up alleys, through back yards to prevent being seen by the neighbors, until lin hoisted the boy over the fence at the lower end of the garden. the whole family had congregated in the back yard, all greatly disturbed over "al-f-u-r-d's" absence. as he dropped into the garden from the top of the fence he began crying, as was his wont, to create sympathy. [illustration: lin and "al-f-u-r-d"] as he wended his way up the garden walk, the mother shouted: "lin, where on earth has he been?" "in the river over his head. it's a wonder he wern't drowned to death." the mother breathed a silent prayer that he had been preserved to them. father deftly slid his hand into his left side trouser's pocket and, pulling forth a keen-bladed knife, cut a slender, but tough, sprout from the black-heart cherry tree. tenderly taking the boy by the arm, he slowly led him to the cellar and introduced another innovation into the fast unfolding life of the first born. the pilgrimages of father and son to the recesses of that dark, damp cellar became frequent. the innovations of town life were so many, "al-f-u-r-d's" unknowing feet fell into so many pitfalls, the father, affectionate, even indulgent, felt he was in duty bound to use the rod. in fact, the old cellar, the rod, the boy and the father, were a cause of comment among those familiar with the family. uncle jake said: "john never asked what 'al-f-u-r-d' had done when he returned home, but simply asked, 'where is he?' escorting him to the cellar and chastizing him on general principles." lin said: "habits will grow on peepul, and even when 'al-f-u-r-d' does nothin', he jes' goes to the cellar and waits to be whipped." chapter four from the sweet-smelling maryland meadows it crawled, through the forest primeval, o'er hills granite-walled; on and up, up and on, till it conquered the crest of the mountains--and wound away into the west. 'twas the highway of hope! and the pilgrims who trod it were lords of the woodland and sons of the sod; and the hope of their hearts was to win an abode at the end--the far end of the national road. brownsville. do you not know where it is located? do not ask any human being who ever lived in brownsville as to its location on the map--that is, if you value his friendship. your ignorance of geography will be exposed and you will be plainly informed: "we do not want anything to do with a person who does not know where brownsville is located." [illustration: market street, brownsville] strange as it may seem, though many excellent histories have been written, there is none extant that has given any full and adequate description of brownsville's early days and people--quaint, curious, serious, humorous, wise and otherwise--good people all. brownsville was the most important town on that "modern appian way," the national road, or pike, extending from baltimore, maryland, to the ohio river, and lengthened beyond, in after years, to cincinnati and richmond, indiana. brownsville was founded soon after this country gained its independence, although it had been an established frontier post long before known as red stone old fort. it was the center of the whiskey insurrection, during which george washington gained his first military experience in the west, experience that would have saved braddock's defeat and death, had he taken washington's advice, and might have changed the entire history of this nation. but that england should control the american colonies is but repeating history. england is the only country in the world that has successfully colonized her foreign possessions. therefore, brownsville was founded, and mostly settled, by the english, and to this day her foremost citizens are englishmen. this statement of facts does not detract from the estimable qualities of the low dutch who have drifted in from bedford and somerset counties. brownsville outputs--"monongahela rye whiskey" and chattland's crackers are world-famous food essentials. brownsville was at the head of navigation on the monongahela river in the palmy days of the old "pike." unlike the appian way, of which there is no connected history but only glimpses of it in the bible, the old "pike" is embalmed in history, in poem and prose. it commemorates an epoch in history as fascinating as any recorded. a highway so important, so largely instrumental in the country's early greatness and development that it strengthened the ties between the states and their peoples. its legends so numerous, its incidents so exciting that their chronicles read like fiction. brownsville grew and prospered while the old "pike" was at the height of its greatness. it was here the travellers from the east or the west either embarked or disembarked from the river steamers or the overland stage coach. in the year the writer spent four days and parts of as many nights in a stage coach journey from wheeling, west virginia, to baltimore, maryland, over the national road. in august, , the same distance was covered in an automobile in a little over a day and a night, with many stops and visits to historical spots marked by recollections of the old days and nights of this king's highway. brownsville, in the halcyon days of the national pike, was of greater commercial importance than pittsburg, her banks ranking higher and her manufactories more numerous. this supremacy was maintained from to . when the baltimore & ohio railroad was opened to the west, the glories of the old "pike" began to fade. the mechanical establishments, especially the boat-building and marine engine shops, among the biggest interests of brownsville, kept in the lead until well into the days of the civil war. now, reader, will you not be a bit abashed to ask: "where is brownsville?" to henry clay belongs the credit of first urging congress to appropriate funds to build the national road, but to albert gallatin, who was from the brownsville section and achieved great distinction while treasurer of the united states, belongs the honor of its conception. he was the first to advocate the great benefits that would accrue to the country if such a road were constructed. washington, when a mere youth, sent to england a report urging the advisability of a military road from the coast to the ohio river. he suggested the indian trail across the allegheny mountains. this trail was afterwards named braddock's road. it should have been called washington's road, as he, at the head of a detachment of virginia troops, traversed it one year before braddock's disastrous invasion of the west. all roads led to brownsville in those days. did you ever hear of workman's hotel in brownsville? it stands today as it did one hundred years ago, at the head of market street. it has housed jackson, harrison, clay, sam houston, davy crockett, james k. polk, shelly, lafayette, winfield scott, pickens, john c. calhoun, and hundreds of others of less note. james workman, the landlord of this old house of entertainment, was noted for his hospitality and punctuality. when "old hickory" jackson, on his way to washington to be inaugurated president--for be it remembered the old "pike" was the only highway between the east and west--was workman's guest, the citizens of brownsville tendered the newly elected president a public reception. the presbyterian church was crowded, the exercises long drawn out. during their progress, jimmy workman stalked down the middle aisle. facing about, after passing the pew in which general jackson sat, he said, in a voice plainly heard all over the church: "general jackson, dinner is ready and if you do not come soon it won't be fit to eat." so great was workman's devotion to his guests that he imagined the dinner was more essential than speeches or prayers, and such was the respect for the famous landlord that the services were curtailed. brownsville and bridgeport were boroughs separated by dunlap's creek, spanned by the first iron bridge built in america. it is standing today as solid as the reputation of the old burgs it joins together. brownsville had the first bridge that spanned the monongahela river. in fact brownsville had a bridge long before pittsburgh. while bill brown and his progenitors were ferrying pittsburgh inhabitants across the river in a skiff, brownsville folks were crossing on a "kivered" bridge. and were it not for further humiliating bill brown, the discoverer of pittsburgh, still greater glories could be recalled for brownsville. james g. blaine was born on the west bank of the monongahela river. the land on which the blaine house stood was the property of an indian, peter by name. he sold the land to blaine's grandfather, neil gellispie, the price agreed upon being forty shillings an acre, payable in installments of money, iron and one negro man, a slave. ye gods! how did the "plumed knight's" detractors in the "rum-romanism-and-rebellion" campaign overlook the fact that the blaines once bought and sold slaves? [illustration: james g. blaine's home] philander c. knox was born on the hill on the east side of the river. professor john brashear was born on the western edge of the town. elisha gray, the original inventor of the telephone, was from brownsville; as were john herbertson, builder of the first iron bridge in the united states; john snowden, builder of two iron gunboats for the civil war, and bishop arnett, of ohio. brownsville first promulgated a word of slang that has greatly beautified the english language. but let it be recorded to the old town's credit, the evil was propagated without malice aforethought. brownsville's borough limits show its shape to be somewhat like that of a hot-air balloon--a big body with a neck; and the narrow strip of land between the river and dunlap's creek stretching toward bridgeport from time out of mind has been designated by the inhabitants of either side of the creek as the "neck." brownsville had a temperance revival. strict observance of the liquor laws was being enforced. jack beckley was haled to court on a dray, too oblivious of everything to answer any charge. the burgess, before committing him to the lock-up, questioned the watchman, jim bench, as to where jack got his liquor. "did he get it on the hill?" the officer truthfully answered: "no, he got it in the neck." the town took up the phrase and thereafter any person who met with any sort of mishap "got it in the neck." [illustration: a national pike freighter] chapter five no wonder cain went to the bad and left no cause to praise him; no neighbors, who had ever had boys of their own, came telling ad and eve how they should raise him. "al-f-u-r-d" learned with his first swimming lesson that kinship does not lend immunity; in fact, lin asserted that cousin charley's kinship was only a cloak of deception. however, the more cousin charley teased the younger boy the greater "al-f-u-r-d's" admiration and yearning for his companionship. lin cautioned "al-f-u-r-d" to shun cousin charley as he would a "wiper." lin could never pronounce her v's. when she went to the grocery and asked for "winegar," the young clerk laughed outright. the next visit lin simply said: "smell the jug and gin me a quart." when the mother admitted she feared cousin charley would ruin "al-f-u-r-d's" disposition, lin followed with the declaration that cousin charley "layed awake nights makin' up lies about "al-f-u-r-d" to git his pap to whup him." lin said: "why, he don't do a thing all the live-long day but git 'al-f-u-r-d' in scrapes and muss his curls." after the swimming hole experience "al-f-u-r-d's" parent forbade cousin charley the house. uncle bill, who was responsible for cousin charley's being, also ordered cousin charley to seek a home elsewhere, enforcing the order by advising cousin charley that he had done all that he intended to do for him. in forceful words cousin charley was told that he must "dig for himself," that "he could not stay anywhere no matter how good the job, that he always got into some kind of a scrape and his father was tired of it." "go out in the world and dig for yourself like i did. then you'll hold a job when you get one." cousin charley took genuine delight in being thus exiled. he endeavored to work on the sympathies of all with whom he conversed, reporting that uncle john and aunt mary had driven him from their house and that his father had driven him from home, advising him to dig for himself. charley dwelt so upon the phrase "dig for yourself" that it became a sort of cant saying. cousin charley called at "al-f-u-r-d's" home to gather his essential personal effects. his woe-begone looks so touched "al-f-u-r-d" that tears more than once filled his eyes as the elder boy continued his preparations to leave. "al-f-u-r-d's" sorrow so touched the mother that she began to relent. but cousin charley, like many other persons who have injured their family when taken to task, felt a sort of pride in doing something he imagined would cause them further pain. cousin charley was obdurate to any overtures towards a reconciliation, or at least pretended to be. go he would. he had poor "al-f-u-r-d" entirely miserable as he listened to the recitation of the many wrongs he declared he had suffered. "i've worked harder than any boy in brownsville. i never knowed anything but work. pap lets jim and george do as they durn please. if i crook my fingers i ketch the devil. i kin go out and dig fer myself and they'll be sorry for the way they have treated me." "al-f-u-r-d" clung to the bigger boy, begging him not to leave. the sight affected both lin and the mother, and the latter ventured the prediction that she might prevail upon pap to allow cousin charley to remain if he would solemnly promise to be a better boy. cousin charley was not to be mollified. he thanked the mother for her kindly interest in him but added that he could not remain under uncle johns' roof after the cruel manner in which he had been treated. (as a matter of fact his treatment had always been of the kindest). cousin charley knew this full well but he knew also that he had the sympathy of the two women excited and he chose to work it to his evil nature's content. continuing, he added insinuatingly: "you'll see. wait 'til 'al-f-u-r-d's' a little older. uncle will keep on whaling him in the cellar and some day you'll find him missing, curls and all." this reference to curls touched lin's sympathy. the reference to "al-f-u-r-d" leaving home also touched the mother as the tantalizer intended it should, and she further argued with the boy to remain at home with his family. "no i can't. i've made up my mind to dig fer myself. i'm goin' west. you've always treated me right and i'll write you often and let you know how i'm gettin' along and maybe if 'al-f-u-r-d' is driven from home like i've been i'll have a place fer him." the mother turned a trifle resentful as she said spiritedly: "charley, you have not been driven from home. your father has become tired of your conduct and it would be better if you apologize for your behavior and promise to become a better boy." cousin charley hinted at some deep and dark wrong that would ever prevent his approaching his father and he prepared to leave. both women entreated him to linger yet another day. but cousin charley began bidding them good-bye, the crocodile tears coursing down his cheeks as he sobbed: "i'll never fergit you two. you've always been good to me." (as a matter of fact, lin threatened to scald him that morning.) "i know i may be half starved to death before i git work but i'll stand it. and durn them all, i'll show them i'm somebody afore they see me agin." at the reference to starving, lin rushed to the big kitchen cupboard. the larger part of a roasted chicken, a dozen doughnuts, pickles, rusks, enough to feed an ordinary man several times, was done up in a neat package and handed to charley by lin as she pityingly remarked: "ef the bakin' was done i'd gin ye more fer i'll warrant it'll be a long time 'fore ye'll eat cooking like ye've hed here. fer vagrants never know what they're eatin'." charley's leave-taking was most affecting. "al-f-u-r-d" begged to be permitted to accompany him a little ways on his journey. five minutes the boys walked hand in hand. into sammy steele's deserted tannery, through a long, dark room with dust and rubbish covering the floor, into a smaller room, more dismal if imaginable than the larger room but much cleaner. [illustration: the exile] three boxes, the larger used as a table, the two smaller ones as seats, made up the furniture in the room. a small blaze of fire in the old-fashioned soft coal grate gave a faint light. cousin charley whistled a time or two, and lint dutton, the son of the leading dry goods merchant of the town; and tod livingston, the son of the dry goods man's head clerk, put in an appearance. it was not long until "al-f-u-r-d's" sympathetic heart was touched with the wrongs of the three exiles. it seemed the trio had all been driven from home and were going out into the world to dig for themselves. charley explained there were many things to adjust ere the exiles departed and the room in the old tannery would be their retreat until they left the town for good. to impress "al-f-u-r-d" with the fact that provisions were the one thing necessary, lin's contribution was spread out on the larger box and all proceeded to devour the viands. even "al-f-u-r-d" enjoyed the repast. "al-f-u-r-d" was sworn to secrecy as to the retreat of the exiles and adjured to bring all the eatables he could secure. the sight of cousin charley consuming a dried apple pie such as were made in those days, plenty of lemon peel and cider to juice the apples; charley holding the pie in his hands, the juice running down his cheeks as he expatiated on the wrongs that had been heaped upon him in general and by "al-f-u-r-d's" and his own father in particular, so worked on "al-f-u-r-d's" sympathy that nothing cooked or uncooked that was eatable, that he could smuggle to the exiles, was too good for them. for the first time since lin came into the family the mother suspected her of dishonest practices. a coldness sprang up between the women. this unpleasantness almost drove the boy to confession, but the fear of the exiles kept him from exposing them. [illustration: the exile's retreat] the father set a watch on "al-f-u-r-d." he was seen to fill his pockets and a small basket, hide the basket in the coal shed until the shadows of dusk. the father followed the smuggler to the exiles' camp. several other boys who had learned of the pies, pickles, preserves, doughnuts, and other good things that "al-f-u-r-d" carried to the old tannery, had gone into exile and were always conveniently near when "al-f-u-r-d" appeared with his food contributions. the father was close onto "al-f-u-r-d" when he entered the larger room of the old tan house. "al-f-u-r-d" set the basket with the coarser food in it on the box that served as a table while he began issuing the more dainty contributions from his pockets. handing cousin charley a doughnut from one pocket he was in the act of pulling a handful of pickles from another when the irate parent rushed into the little room. the exiles' camp was broken up, and the exiles driven out into the cold world. "al-f-u-r-d" was escorted home then to the cellar where the seance was a trifle more animated than usual, at least "al-f-u-r-d's" cries so denoted. lin's denunciations of those who had devastated her pantry of the coarse as well as her daintiest cooking, was of the strongest. lin was very proud of her skill as a cook. when the truth came out and she learned that "al-f-u-r-d" was the culprit, she immediately began making excuses for the boy, and when his screams from the cellar penetrated the kitchen, lin's sympathy was fully aroused. with the rolling pin in one hand, flour to her elbows on her bare, muscular arms, she rushed into the cellar, with flushed face and confronted the parent: [illustration: "lin"] "hold on yer, hold on! ye've whipped that boy enough and you're whippin' him fer nothin'. ef it hadn't bin fer them low, lazy skunks "al-f-u-r-d" a-never teched a thing in this house. they never had nothin' to eat at home. their folks is too lazy to fry a doughnut or put up pickles. "al-f-u-r-d" jes pitied 'em, that's why he took things to 'em to eat." this reasoning mollified the parent, besides lin had a gleam in her eyes that intimidated him. lin had threatened to skedaddle, as she put it, several times of late, and one like her was not often found. therefore lin's reasoning decided the father to wreak vengeance on those who, through "al-f-r-u-d's" generosity, had depleted the pickle barrel. grabbing his heaviest cane he stalked toward the door, vowing he would wear out every last one of the boys who had made him so far forget himself as to punish one whose age and inexperience made him their dupe. [illustration: hold on! hold on!] the mother and lin, thoroughly frightened at the anger displayed by the man, used their strength and arguments to prevent him doing something terrible. the mother pointed out the danger of the law and the disgrace attached to an arrest by the borough constable. lin reminded him that he might do something rash, that all the boys had papas and several men might jump on him if they caught him abusing their off-spring. the father swore he could lick the daddies of all the boys one at a time. meanwhile "al-f-u-r-d" made his escape to the garret to ruminate upon the unreasonableness of parents in general and his father in particular. uncle bill was even more obdurate than when he first declared charley must "dig for himself." cousin charley was looking for work, fearing he would find it, and secretly hoping his father, under pressure of the mother, would soon open the door of home to him. but cousin charley was compelled to look the world in the face in a serious manner for the first time in his life. captain lew abrams, a retired steamboat man, big of frame, kind of heart and fond of a joke, informed the exile that he would give him an opportunity to follow his father's advice literally, namely, to dig for himself. "i have a big potato patch, the crop is a heavy one and it don't seem my boys will ever get the potatoes dug. i will give you a job digging potatoes by the bushel or on shares." the captain did not care to hire by the day. cousin charley figured mentally that digging potatoes on shares, a custom prevalent in those days, would bring quicker returns. charley began to "dig for himself" the very next day. after a long, hard day's work, he presented himself at the back door of "al-f-u-r-d's" home, sunburnt and hands blistered, clothing torn, full of beggars-lice and spanish needles. he explained that the offer of captain abrams was temptingly profitable and that he would remain in the neighborhood for a few weeks longer digging potatoes on the shares. lin at first looked upon him with suspicion. but when she noted his sunburnt face and blistered hands and when charley carefully laid on the table a half dozen big brown-colored potatoes with that peculiar purple around the eyes, a color so highly prized by growers and consumers, lin, glancing sympathetically at charley through the kitchen door as he ate as only a hungry boy can, whispered to the mother: "his pap's too hard on him. he's not so ornery as he's cracked up to be. it's the devilish clique he runs with that's spiled him," and, with this, carried another helping of food to the boy. half in earnest, half in fun, lin said: "durn ye, ye can be good ef ye want to, but it jes' seems like ye don't want to. ef ye ever do another thing to 'al-f-u-r-d' i'll scald all the hair off yer freckled head." cousin charley laughed and chided lin into further good humor, confiding to her the interesting information that he was going to work from daylight to dark. this declaration captured lin. she highly regarded anyone who labored. cousin charley kept up a continual talk. among other statements he said that after he dug captain abram's potatoes, if he could effect as advantageous arrangements with other farmers, he would soon be wealthy. he even insinuated that he had over-reached the captain in his contract for digging potatoes but if the captain showed any tendency to "back out" he would hold him to it. "a bargain's a bargain," said charley and lin nodded approvingly. she never guessed that cousin charley possessed so much sense. charley picked up the largest of the potatoes he had deposited on the table and requested that lin roast it in wood ashes for breakfast. "it'll jes' bust open and is as dry as powder. sech taters you never et, they melt in yer mouth." it was then the mother was called in, lin explaining it was a good chance to buy potatoes cheap. cousin charley explained that his share of the crop he was digging would be so big he would have to sell as he went along even if he didn't get full price for them. he assured the women that the samples were not culled: "jes' took as they come." [illustration: cousin charley] the mother bought several bushels at much less than the retail price at murphy's store. at the low price at which cousin charley sold potatoes he had taken several orders before reaching "al-f-u-r-d's" home. when "al-f-u-r-d's" mother purchased he suddenly concluded he'd better begin delivering right away. when the mother reminded him that it was almost night cousin charley met her with the argument "ef a feller wants to git along in this world he's got to hump night and day. that's the way old jeffries got rich." jeffries was the business competitor of "al-f-u-r-d's" father. cousin charley finally prevailed on the mother to loan him the horse and wagon to deliver his potatoes. the father was out of town for the night, and the mother consented reluctantly. lin wanted the potatoes badly after charley's description. "al-f-u-r-d," as usual, cried to go with cousin charley. cousin charley's seeming industriousness had reinstated him in lin's good graces. after the boys had driven off, following lin's caution to the older boy to "be keerful of 'al-f-u-r-d'," she remarked to the mother, referring to charley: "he'll fool old bill yet. some peepul may want charley to dig fer 'em 'fore the winter's over. i'd thought more of old bill ef he'd lathered charley good an' plenty stid of turnun' him out to dig fer himself. i do hope he'll sell plenty pertaters." meanwhile, cousin charley, his delivery wagon, "al-f-u-r-d" and all, arrived at captain abram's house. the family were visiting a neighbor. cousin charley was evidently an adept at loading potatoes as well as digging. it was surprising the quantity he claimed for his share of the day's digging. "al-f-u-r-d," cousin charley, and a load of potatoes soon arrived at "al-f-u-r-d's" home. several large sacks were quickly carried into the cellar, lin assisting the boy. lin took this excuse to inspect the goods as her confidence in cousin charley was not entirely free from suspicion. as lin watched the boy carrying the heavy potato sacks she half hated herself for doubting him. this feeling prompted lin to accept the potatoes. "they're not zackly as big as the ones he fetched first but they're nice taters, better'n we git at the store an' besides a body feels better helpin' a poor devil that's workin' his head off to do right." jane mccune, tommy ryan and jim bench had bought potatoes while they were cheap. these deliveries were soon made and cousin charley had money to distribute. "al-f-u-r-d" and lin both came in for a nice piece of it. as lin remarked: "cousin charley was not close when he was doin' well." [illustration: the boys had a full load] the women invited charley to remain all night but, showing the old exile spirit, he declined, adding: "i like you and lin, but i'll never stay under uncle john's roof until he apologizes fer what he done to me. i'll dig fer myself. there's money in this potato business fer me, i'll show them who i am." the boy jingled the big coppers and little dimes in his pocket until "al-f-u-r-d's" eyes sparkled with admiration. the next morning captain abrams clanged the big, old fashioned iron knocker on the front door. the father started up stairs to answer the knock, and "al-f-u-r-d" and the other children whooped up the path beside the house to peep at the early caller. the door opened. "howdys" and hand shakes. the captain, puckering up his funny little mouth, not unlike that of a sucker fish, addressing himself to the father, inquired: "john, where's bill's charley?" the "i don't know" answer surprised the captain. looking at "al-f-u-r-d" in a quizzical manner, he said: "i thought he was staying with you all." the father replied spiritedly, and he seemed to be addressing himself to "al-f-u-r-d" as much as to the captain: "no, he ain't here any more. i wouldn't permit him to enter my house; he's so infernal ornery that his father had to drive him out. bill jes' told him to go out and dig fer himself. we've washed our hands of that boy. his end will be the house of refuge." "but john," and the captain looked serious, "who sent alfred and charley out on a foraging expedition last night with your old mare and wagon?" both men looked hard at "al-f-u-r-d." with a consciousness born of innocence, "al-f-u-r-d" pulled himself up to his full height, running his thumbs under his first pair of elastic suspenders, a present from cousin charley, who had remarked as he adjusted them: "none of my relations will run around here with one gallus when i've got money." "yes, sir," chirped "al-f-u-r-d," "we was out to your house but you weren't at home. cousin charley went after his pertaters. he wanted to bring mother hers and jane mccune and tommy ryan." the captain was nodding his head approvingly at "al-f-u-r-d," encouraging him to go on. the father was so confused he could not listen longer, and casting a look at "al-f-u-r-d" that boded him no good, the mother and lin were called into the room, and the captain, in a half apologetic manner explained: "charley came to me with a long story about his father driving him from home and telling him he would have to go out and dig for himself. he used the phrase, 'dig for himself' so often that i, in a half joking way, arranged with charley to dig potatoes on shares. he dug one day. i don't know how many potatoes he dug as me and my folks were visiting the lenhearts. afore we got home last night, charley came out there with your horse and wagon and hauled away all the potatoes he dug during the day and all my boys had dug and sacked the past week. i don't know how many he took but old man bedler at the toll gate said the boys had on a full load." then "al-f-u-r-d" counting on his fingers, said: "yes, mother got seven bushels, tommy ryan got eight bushels and he's to get two more bushels tomorrow night, and jim bench five bushels and will take all cousin charley kin bring him. and jane mccune got five bushels and she didn't have the money. but charley says if she don't pay him he'll steal her dog." the captain was laughing heartily but politely. the father and mother looked as if they had been convicted of larceny. lin jerked out: "well, ef that don't beat the bugs. a-stealin' pertaters. i'd as soon be ketched stealin' sheep. i tell ye now, that charley's headed fer the pinitentiary." this speech seemed to crush the father and mother. they felt somehow as if they were implicated. but captain abrams apologized in every way for annoying them. they all seated themselves, the blinds pulled down and a solemn compact entered into that the matter never be referred to again. the father paid for the potatoes, taking "al-f-u-r-d's" figures. "al-f-u-r-d" was warned if he ever mentioned the affair outside of home that he would be sent to the house of refuge. the family felt that they were everlastingly disgraced. the mother felt it most keenly. the father was half disposed to hold "al-f-u-r-d" partly responsible and a trip to the cellar was strongly threatened. but lin interfered by saying: "why, his mother and me is wus than 'al-f-u-r-d'. any grown body'd knowed charley couldn't dig that many pertaters in a week, let alone a day." time wore on and the potato episode was seemingly forgotten. the family felt that the disgrace had been lived down and all were thankful the matter had not become the talk of the town. uncle bill, charley's father, was a good talker, fond of argument and usually the center of a group, particularly when political or religious subjects were under discussion. a long bench in front of bill isler's tin shop, ranged close up to the building. the town pump stood across the ten feet wide sidewalk opposite. it was a pleasing sight to look upon this gathering of inequality of rank and property and equality of intellect discussing all questions, the affairs of their neighbors in particular. [illustration: uncle bill and the boys] there was a full bench: joe gibbons, barney barnhart, jase baker, billy graham, birney wilkins, and george muckle fee. fee was a peculiar character, with an unusual deformity, since his neck was bent like a huge bow, not unlike a limb with the knee bent, his face looking to the ground. to look to either side he must turn his entire body. the only human being he ever thought kindly of was his wife, susan. he always spoke of her respectfully. some people he hated more intensely than others. uncle bill was an especial mark of his vituperation. when they passed on the street george would turn his body half way around to mutter and curse him--however, not that uncle bill could hear. george's usual position at the gathering in the evening was back against the old pump facing those seated on the bench, with lowered face and upturned eyes, looking from one speaker to another, scowling or smiling as the remarks met with his approval or otherwise. the subject under discussion was "boys." a number of boys of the town, almost grown men, had been apprehended stealing scrap iron. uncle bill, as usual, had the center of the stage. he had about concluded a lengthy discourse as to the management of boys, bad boys in particular, and as usual concluded by relating for the hundredth time, how he managed his boys. "i just called 'em up and says: 'boys, i've raised you up to what you are and i've done for you all a parent could do. you're strong and able to do for yourselves and don't depend on me longer. go out in the world and dig for yourselves.'" fee, squirting a flood of tobacco juice with the words, said: "yes, and ef they'd all dig like charley did, you'd had purtaters to last you a life time." the roars of laughter that went up were convincing proof that there are no secrets sacred in a small town. chapter six. blessings on thee, little man, barefoot boy with cheek of tan; with thy turned-up pantaloons and thy merry, whistled tunes; with the sunshine on thy face through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; outward sunshine, inward joy, blessings on thee, barefoot boy. alfred's parents concluded it would be good for the boy to send him to the country for a time, freeing him from the influence of town boys. therefore they sent him to uncle joe's, a prosperous farmer, a little inclined to take too much hard cider or rye at sheep-washing or hog-killing time, fond of fox chasing and hunting and shooting at a mark. uncle joe went to town at least once a week when aunt betsy accompanied him. he observed the proprieties and respected his good wife's wishes. long had she labored to get him to join the church of which she was an exemplary pillar. thus far she had not succeeded. a neighboring farmer, the leading member of the church, was the barrier. uncle joe and this neighbor, "old bill colvin," as uncle joe designated him, had been at logger-heads for years over line fences and other trifles that farmers find excuses to quarrel over. [illustration: alfred at nine] uncle joe's prejudice was so strong that when questioned as to whether he did not want to go to heaven, he defiantly informed the minister, "not if old bill colvin is there." if a cow strayed, hog died or turkey was lost, it was attributed to old bill colvin. when the bees swarmed and uncle joe with the fiddle scraping out "big john, little john, big john, davy," aunt betsy beating a tin pan with a spoon, poor old granny, bent with age, following slowly jingling a string of sleigh bells, and in feeble, squeaky voice asked uncle joe if the bees were going off, although no swarm had ever left the place, uncle joe, vigorously scraping the fiddle, walking under the cloud of circling bees, not heeding granny's query, would say: "look at 'em, look at 'em, they're leaving; we can't get 'em to settle. there they go. look at 'em, look at 'em. dam 'em, headed for old bill colvin's." uncle joe was noted for his honey, watermelons, peaches, turkeys, maple-sugar and sweet potatoes and loud voice. he was the loudest voiced man in red stone township. every living creature on the farm stood in fear of uncle joe's voice. if the stock jumped the fence into another field, uncle joe's voice awed them into jumping back again. fence rails, hoes, rakes or anything that came handy had so often been wielded by his powerful arms on them that his voice was sufficient almost any time to frighten horse, cow or hog into seeking safety in flight when he shouted. the day for alfred's going to the country arrived. aunt betsy had the neuralgia and uncle joe came alone on horseback. meeting former friends, he tarried long at the tavern. when under the influence of stimulants he became even louder. john rathmell, the town watchman, endeavored to quiet him. finally, he ordered uncle joe to go home or he would arrest him. uncle joe was riding black fan, his fox-hunting mare. she was seventeen hands high, mostly legs, a natural pacer. she could jump over anything under the moon. her hind legs the longer,--they seemed to be the propelling power and appeared to move faster than her front legs. when at top speed she traveled sort of sideways. this seemed a wise provision of nature as it prevented her running over herself, or like a stern-wheel boat, with too much power going by the head. uncle joe obeyed the order of the officer of the law. tardily, leisurely and tantalizingly mounting black fan, taking alfred up behind him, he headed the mare in the opposite direction from home. alfred feared he was going down the hill into the "neck" to get more liquor and he almost decided to get off and go back home. [illustration: "you can all go to h--ll"] at a pace as respectable as ever a funeral cortege traveled, uncle joe rode until opposite the old market house, there turning the mare around heading her homeward. straightening her out in the middle of the road, rising in his stirrups to emphasize his contempt for the law in the person of the watchman, uncle joe gave vent to a yell that brought store-keepers to the doors, pedestrians to turn around and drivers to pull to the side of the street. he gave the mare her head. at the sound of the voice nearer and consequently louder than ever before, she shot forward at a speed never equalled on that street. at every revolution of her hind legs her body under alfred rose and fell like a toy boat on a ruffled bay. uncle joe rose and fell with the movement and at every rise he yelled even louder than before. [illustration: the end of the ride] the minion of the law and several idlers, always seeking an opportunity to meddle, rushed to the middle of the street, but as well might they have attempted to arrest the wind. the shoes of black fan struck the flinty limestones on the pike, the sparks flew, and her trail was a veritable streak of fire. as the mare rounded the turn at workman's hotel, uncle joe, as a parting shot, yelled: "you can all go to h--ll." how alfred maintained his hold he never knew nor did the mare slacken pace greatly until home was reached. alfred is of the opinion to this day that uncle joe forgot he carried a handicap. the corn-cob stopper in a large bottle which uncle joe, (as was the custom of farmers in those days), carried in his right hand overcoat pocket, came out, the contents splashed in alfred's face and saturated his clothing. alfred was almost stupefied with the fumes of the liquor and had the distance been further he surely would have fallen from his seat. as the mare halted, uncle joe vigorously threw his leg over her back to dismount, sweeping alfred from his seat as though he had been a rag-doll. down he fell head first and no doubt sustained bodily injury had not providence, or a kindly cow deposited a cushion as soft as velvet for his reception, and curls. his yells and calls brought the family to the rescue. alfred was not received as courteously as on former visits; however, after a bath in a tub of not overly warm water, the family were a trifle less distant. the wife was very much provoked over the husband's actions. reinforced by billy hickman, the preacher, and several church members, renewed her efforts to have uncle joe ally himself with the church. uncle joe assured one good brother that if sheep-washing time was over--it was then september and sheep are washed in may or june--he would join the church. he explained that he felt he must have a little "licker" sheep-washing time or he would "ketch the rheumatiz." the district fair was on, black fan was entered in the free-for-all pace. she was considered a joke by horsemen and the knowing ones. but alfred would have bet all he had that black fan was the fastest goer in the world. ike bailey's black bess, john krepps' billy, john patterson's morgan messenger, were the other entries, all under saddle except morgan messenger. patterson drove him to a sulky, the only sulky in the county, the wheels higher than the head of the driver. it was the idea of the builder the larger the wheels the greater the speed. black fan had much the worst of the get-away and it looked as if she would be left in the stretch. it was a half-mile track. twice around completed the heats. the crowd laughed themselves hoarse at uncle joe's entry and rider. [illustration: "git up, fan!"] the other riders leaning forward, holding their bridle reins close down to the bit, seemed to lift their horses as they sped away from black fan whose rider was leaning back holding the briddle reins at arm's length as if he feared she would go by the head. there was no grandstand, the populace standing thick along the track, separated from it by a rough board fence. as the horses neared the starting point on the first turn, black fan far in the rear, uncle joe was seen pushing through the crowd, towering above the multitude. he made his way to the side of the track, climbing up on the fence-board next to the top, he stood erect. the leaders flew by and, as black fan got opposite, he raised his arms as if to throw a stone or club at her, at the same time, in stentorian tones, yelling: "git up! git up! git! git out of that, you black b---- h! git up fan. gin her her head! don't hold her, dam her! let her go! scat!" [illustration: "give her head! don't hold her!"] as the last yell left his lips over he went onto the dusty track head-first. black fan surely imagined uncle joe was after her, she shot forward, her hind legs going so fast she looked in danger of running over herself, taking up nearly the width of the course. john patterson and his high-wheeled sulky were swept off the track. black bess jumped the fence, ran off with her rider and was disqualified. only john krepps kept his little horse on the track, but black fan had the race in hand. great confusion reigned. several fights started, uncle joe being in the midst of all of them. everybody surrounded the judges, and the other horse owners protested the race. as the judges were all farmers with the usual fairness pervading decisions as between town folks and country ones, black fan was given the race. [illustration: after the race] uncle joe led the mare all over the fair grounds with alfred mounted on her, and notwithstanding the boy was surfeited with ginger bread, cider and other district fair delicacies, he importuned the uncle for more. finally the uncle impatiently handed him two cents, "so there go eat ginger bread till you bust." uncle joe celebrated his victory all afternoon. when he advised alfred that they would soon start home and that he could ride behind him on black fan, alfred slid down and requested a neighboring farmer to permit him to ride home in his dead axe wagon. uncle joe did not get home until very late, claiming that he did not know that alfred had gone before and that he was searching the fair grounds for him. alfred's aunt gently chided him and advised that when he went anywhere with his uncle thereafter he must remain until his uncle came, but to urge his uncle to come early. uncle joe was very sick the next day. aunt betsy said it served him right. she hoped he'd "puke his innards out." alfred was busy carrying the afflicted man water by the gourdful from the spring. uncle joe would not permit him to bring it in a pail: he wanted it cold and fresh. "dip her deep, son," he would say as he emptied the gourd and sent the boy for more. the sufferer grew worse and finally aunt betsy's womanly sympathy impelled her to go to the sick man. she began by saying: "i oughtn't to lift a hand to help you. any man that will pour licker down his stomach until he throws it up is a hog and nothing else." catching a whiff of that which had come up, she turned up her nose and contemptuously continued: "i don't see how any one can put that stuff down them." she held her nose and turned her head in disgust. the sick man raised his head and feebly answered: "well, it don't taste that way going down. go away and let me die in peace. i deserve to die alone; i don't want any of ye to pity me. just bury me is all i ask." [illustration: she asked him if he were not afraid to die] the woman's sympathy entirely overcome her anger as the man well knew it would. she begged to be permitted to do something for him. he was obdurate. he was "not worthy of being saved"; all he desired was to "die alone and be forgotten." she asked him if he were not afraid to die. "no, no" he answered, "i'm not afraid to die but i'm ashamed to." feeling his heart was softening, she begged to do something to relieve him, a cold towel for his head or hot tea for his stomach. no, nothing could do him any good, so he declared. "if you don't have something done for you, you might die." "let me die, but if i ever get over this one, it's the last for joe. i hope every still house in fayette county will burn down afore night and all the whiskey ever made destroyed." the wife exulted greatly at these words and renewed her entreaties to do something for him. "well, if you insist on doing something for me", and he hesitated, "but i know it will do no good--go down to the kitchen, fill a big coffee cup half full of bilin' hot water, dissolve a lump of loaf sugar in it, drop in a little lump of butter 'bout as big as a robin's egg. then reach up in the old cupboard in the hall, top shelf and way back in the corner, you'll find a big, black bottle. pour quite a lot out of this bottle into the cup, fill it up. grate a little nutmeg into it and fetch it up yar." then holding his hands to his head as if suffering great pain, dropping his voice to a faint whisper as if he were about to collapse, he said: "bring it up here and if i don't want to take it you jes' make me." not long afterwards the whole neighborhood was talking of the conversion of uncle joe and the day of his baptism marked an epoch in that section. the lion and the lamb were roaming together. old bill colvin and uncle joe were making cider on the shares. many were the strange tales told of how the conversion of uncle joe came about. the day of baptism saw the largest gathering in the history of red stone meeting house. alfred, cousin charley and all the country folks round about were there and many from town. many were the conjectures made by the idle gossipers as to whether joe would hold out. tom porter prophesied that the first time joe got on a tear he would lick the preacher. billy hickman, the preacher, was a mite of a man, while uncle joe was a giant in comparison. [illustration: alfred's ride] uncle joe had never been ducked or put under water but once, that the writer knows of. it was sheep-washing time. the sheep in a pen on the bank of the creek. uncle joe and another man in the creek up to their middles washing the sheep. alfred and another boy in the pen catching the sheep dragging them to the bank as the workers called for another sheep. there was one old bell-wether that was too strong for the boys. after futile attempts to drag him to the creek alfred decided to ride him. jumping astride of the animal it made frantic efforts to free itself from the burden. round the pen, bleating and panting it ran. it started for the creek and from a height of several feet it plunged, hitting uncle joe square between the shoulders. [illustration: they all follow] its weight and alfred's sent the powerful man under the water. where one sheep leads another will follow. as he attempted to rise, sheep after sheep hit him on head or back. under he went again as often as he arose until the whole herd were out of the pen. this experience probably accounted for uncle joe's actions the day of the baptism. grouped on the banks of the creek, in fence corners, some lying on the grass under the red haw trees, were the rabble--all there out of curiosity. standing near the creek, chanting a familiar hymn as only an earnest congregation of good people can sing, were the church members. walking slowly from the church was the preacher and uncle joe, the disparity in their size all the more marked as they waded into the water. uncle joe seemed ill at ease and it appeared as though he was sort of holding back. by the time the minister was in up to his middle, the water only flowed about uncle joe's knees. the little preacher paused, folded uncle joe's hands across his breast. uncle joe looked behind him as much as to say: "it's a long ways down to the water." the minister began the solemn baptismal service. at the last word he attempted to lay uncle joe back, immersing him in the usual manner but uncle joe resisted. alfred said afterwards he "knowed uncle joe was skeered, that hickman couldn't rise him up after he got him under." alfred explained that it was hard to keep from strangling when you went down backwards. "that's the way i nearly drowned. they ought to baptize 'em forward," was his conclusion. the silence was oppressive. the minister sort of squirmed around and began the service over. at the last word he made another effort to immerse the sinner. again his strength was insufficient, both men jostled around. sam craft, who was watching the proceeding from a fence corner, at the failure of the second attempt to dip the penitent, drawled in a voice thick with hard cider: "trip--him--bill--dam--him--trip--him." uncle joe quickly took hold of his nose with thumb and finger; stooping, he put his face under water to his ears, left the preacher standing in the creek as he rushed out, not to the church members but to his old cronies, until led to his proper place among the congregation. the conversion of uncle joe made aunt betsy happy. alfred had liberties he never enjoyed previously. he rode billy, the pony, when and where he chose. he ran rabbits, chased through the woods until the scant wardrobe he brought from home was in rags and tatters. the great civil war had just begun. all the country was marching mad--soldiers passing and repassing along the pike. aunt betsy and lacy hare, the hired girl, decided that alfred should have a soldier's suit that would surprise the natives. neither had ever been blessed with children, neither had ever attempted to make a garment such as they fashioned in their minds for alfred. the original that alfred's suit was patterned after was a military uniform worn by john stevenson in the war of between mexico and the united states. as the faded garment was brought from the garret and alfred, with wood-ashes and vinegar brightened up the ornaments and medals, he thought john had been a mighty general, judging from the medals he wore. when he learned john was only a fifer his admiration for him greatly increased and often he coaxed john to play the old tunes that cheered the warriors on to victory in the many battles john graphically described not recorded in history. lacy with a pair of sheep shears cut out the coat, while aunt betsy held the pattern down on the heavy grey cloth. the goods were of the home-made quality, known as "linsey-woolsey," a material worn by farmers almost universally in those days. the household scissors were too dull to cut it, hence the sheep shears were pressed into service by lacy. the coat cut, alfred had to stand out in the entry while the women used his nether garments to pattern by. the door a little ajar, alfred impatiently watched the two women cut out the pants. lacy remarked, after he had asked for his pants twice: "land sakes! have a little patience. you climb trees, run through thickets, till you're rags and tatters, and i hope when we get these clothes done you'll settle down and save them to wear when you go anywhar." the women decided, or rather endeavored, to make the suit after the cut of the uniforms worn by the soldiers. lacy insisted that a blouse would not look well on alfred and it was decided to make him a jacket at the bottom "close fittin'" as lacy expressed it. nothing like this suit was ever seen before or after the war. angles and folds were, where should have been smoothness; too short at the bottom, too high at the top, too tight where they should have been loose and vice versa. the jacket was short in the waist and high in the neck. lacy remarked as they basted the thing that there seemed too much cloth in some parts but she thought it would take up in the sewing. the surplus cloth in the west side of the pants hung to the boy's calves, covering the limbs that far down. therefore, it was difficult to decide at a distance where the jacket ended and the pants began. in fact, the boy, from a backside view at a little distance, seemed to be wearing a long-tailed coat. going from you, alfred looked like a grown man; coming towards you he looked more natural. wherever there appeared a bunch or angle that seemed out of place, lacy endeavored to modify the over abundance by tacking on one of the ornaments taken from the old uniform of which a great number were used. the shoulders of the jacket seemed to fit to suit lacy, therefore she used the epaulets from the shoulders of the old soldier's uniform elsewhere. the seat of the pants hanging so low, lacy said looked too bare, whereupon she tacked the epaulets on that part of the pants, with the yellow and red fringe hanging down. there was a very large lump resembling "richard the third's" hump; on this lacy perched a brass eagle with wings spread as if about to fly off with the coat. red and yellow stripes ran up and down the outside seam of the pants. lacy said they "looked so purty it was a shame the folds of the cloth kivered so much of the stripe"; she "allowed it was too bad that more of the folds had not found their way into the seat of the pants cos it wa'n't noticed there, the epaulets hid it." lacy had such a great quantity of this yellow and red material, she insisted on running a double row around the cuffs of the coat and around the bottom of the pants. aunt betsy gently dissented but lacy seemed the moving spirit in the project and the elder woman deferred to her. the aunt said the only fear she had was that folks might think the suit too gaudy. aunt betsy said she feared they had not sewed the braid on straight or the pants wouldn't pucker so at the knees. all the ornaments, space could not be found for elsewhere, were tacked on the cap. the vizor or brim was the only disappointment to the women. no stiff leather procurable, they used cardboard and blackened it with shoe polish. this soon broke and crumpled. lacy remarked: "the blame rim spiles the whole outfit." it dangled in alfred's eyes all the time, hence he generally wore the vizor behind. the soldier clothes were to alfred a thing of beauty and joy until he went to town. alfred collected all the country boys he could enlist and called them the "red stone blues." he found an old, rusty sword, its scabbard a load, yet he carried it wherever he went. others of his company had corn cutters, old scythes and muskets. alfred attempted to drill the boys as he had seen the home guards and sam graham's zouaves do in town. two old stove pipes were mounted on wheels for cannon. it was alfred's ambition to ride at the head of his command as did the commander of the ringold cavalry, but lacy had attached the epaulets to the seat of alfred's trousers as they came from the shoulders of the old coat, and the tin shape frames prevented alfred assuming any attitude while in the uniform than that of standing. when alfred spoke to lacy as to the advisability of changing the location of the epaulets she explained that they had nothing suitable to replace them. when alfred complained he could not sit down, lacy said: "law sakes, you shouldn't think of it. them 'air things are too purty to kiver up." the battle of bull run had been fought. the country was ablaze with excitement, war and rumors of war, war stories, war talk. everybody was up in arms, soldiers moving everywhere, as the locality was not far from where battles were soon expected. uncle joe and aunt betsy went to town to hear the news. alfred, left alone, marshalled his hosts in battle array. in the romance of pierce forrest, a young knight being dubbed by king alexander, he was so elated he galloped into the woods, cut and slashed trees until he eased his effervescence and convinced the army he was a most courageous soldier. alfred at the head of his army, strode down the column as jupiter is said to have strode down the spheres as he hurled his thunderbolts at the titans. alfred and his army charged and recharged, uncle joe's hedge fence. on and on they charged, coming on the enemy standing ten deep in line, asking or giving no quarter; the enemy fell bruised and bleeding. every stalk of uncle joe's broom corn patch lay on the ground, not one stalk standing to tell the tale. how vain are the baubles of war. alfred standing in the midst of the field of slaughter--he could not sit down--heard a roar that froze his hot blood and scattered his army to the winds of anywhere and to the thickets. uncle joe, returning, had witnessed the slaughter of his broom corn from the top of the hill by the big shell-bark hickory nut trees. his yells not only struck terror to alfred's heart but black fan and other stock broke from the fields into the big road where they stood trembling. [illustration: alfred's redstone blues] lacy said she hadn't heard uncle joe chirp since he was baptized. when he hit his finger with a hammer she felt certain he would "break out," but he stuck to his religion. as he crossed the apex of the hill and saw the broom corn falling before alfred and his minions, the roar that floated across the flat sounded very much like: "whatinthehellanddamnationdoesthismean?" when alfred saw ajax drawing nearer, his sword fell from his hand and alfred fell on the broom corn, an object of abject fear. ajax grabbed him by the nape of the neck and seat of his uniform, nearly ruining one of the epaulets. never was warrior so ignobly driven or dragged from a field of victory. aunt betsy could find no excuse for alfred. broom corn was a necessity in the household work. every farmer made his own brooms. after a very short trial by court martial it was decided that the country was too quiet for alfred and that he should be transferred to town at once. although tried and found guilty, alfred, to his delight, was permitted to retain his side-arms and wear his uniform. the next day, standing between aunt betsy and uncle joe in the old buggy driving the old mare, he began the journey home. he was arrayed in full regimentals, the brim of the cap turned behind, his yellow hair hanging in strings, (it had never been curled since he went to the country). everyone they met cast admiring glances at alfred's uniform. the aunt was proud of the attention attracted. passing through sandy hollow, sid gaskill, the roughest girl in the neighborhood, motioned the buggy to stop. as sid inspected alfred she requested him to turn around. looking him over she asked: "who made 'em?" referring to the uniform. alfred promptly replied: "lacy hare helped aunt betsy make 'em." the aunt's face showed her satisfaction. not even when sid inquired if the clothes were made to wear in a show did the aunt's pride in alfred's suit diminish, although the inference is that it was the military character of the clothes rather than the cloth or fit, she was proud of, as aunt betsy was very patriotic. all the way to town she was picturing what a surprise the suit would be to mary and john, and it was. alfred was driving the old mare as she had not been driven in years. uncle joe made him slow down. uncle joe sometimes exceeded the speed limit leaving town but usually went in at a respectable gait. alfred's desire to see the loved ones at home was so strong that he jumped out of the buggy as they entered the town. running ahead of the buggy he passed uncle bill's: waving a welcome to martha and hester, who stood in the front yard, he regarded their laughter as evidence of their pleasure at seeing him back home again. when martha shouted, "what devilment are you up to now?" he never imagined it was his appearance that so amused the girls. over the fence, across lots to the rear of the house he scampered. lin was out mopping the floor of the back porch. perched on the top of the fence he caught sight of her. "hello, lin? how-dye?" lin heard the voice. she did not recognize the speaker at once. "hello, lin?" he shouted again. lin shaded her eyes, gazed hard at the boy, dropped the mop, and alfred heard her call: "my gawd, mary! come out here, quick!" the mother appeared as alfred neared the house. looking curiously at him, she covered her face with her apron and began to laugh. lin ran into the house screaming and laughing. the boy stood abashed. the mother motioned him to approach her, pushing him into the house. she obtained a view of the rear of the warrior's uniform and a fresh outburst of laughter prevented her even speaking to him. lin and the mother clasped each other in their arms as they swayed, weakened with laughter. lin was the first to recover her speech. the boy's feelings were hurt. "where's your regular clothes?" lin first asked, "you bin in a-swimmin' agin and lost 'em, i reckon." the children came romping home from school, sister lizzie rolled on the floor as she caught sight of the boy and asked lin, between screams: "who dressed brother al up like that?" the mother ordered him to remain in the room until they got other clothes for him. they did not want the neighbors to see him dressed as he was. the boy's spirit began to assert itself. "laugh, if you feel like it. lacy hare and aunt betsy made me these clothes, they're regular soldier clothes. i'll bet if you laugh at them when aunt betsy comes she will tell you something. i don't see nothin' to laugh at." "landsakes," spoke up lin, "step in the parlor and look at yerself. ef you don't laugh you're not the kind i took ye fer." alfred did laugh and he got out of the clothes mighty quickly. lin was delegated to explain to aunt betsy why they changed alfred's clothes so quickly. aunt betsy informed them: "the boy had jes' romped until he was most naked. they didn't want to send to town for clothes for him, so lacy and her jes' banded together and made him the suit. they had plenty of time and they concluded to make him a suit different from any other boy's. and it warn't much trouble to trim it up and make it nice rather than to make it plain. it took two days more to trim it than it did to make it." lin told the good, honest soul they could not think of alfred wearing the clothes every day in town. "we'll keep 'em off him 'til the next battle and when the peepul are all sad over their friends that's been killed, we'll dress him up and send him down the street." many years afterwards, the writer, rummaging through the garret of the old home, the odd garments fashioned by lacy hare and aunt betsy were discovered. recollections of the mirth they aroused when first brought to the notice of the family, prompted the carrying of the old musty outfit to the sitting room below. but somehow the odd looking suit failed to excite any merriment. it was rather regarded with reverence. the sight of it sent the thoughts of all traveling back to other and happier days. the mother thought of those whose kindly hands had fashioned the fantastic garments; of an elder sister who had filled a mother's place in the family. she remembered a happy home, its like unknown in all the country about, where hospitality was liberally dispensed, visitors always welcome. she thought of the first wife's passing, the coming of another to the big house. the lowering of the family name by the second marriage. the shunning of the old home by friends and relatives; of the rapid decline of the master; evil associates whom he preferred to those who had honored and loved him; the estrangement of family and friends. in her mind she could see in him a bent old man, prematurely old, leaving his home to seek shelter with strangers, lost to the sight of former friends, his whereabouts known only when the final summons came to him; his identity made known by his last request: "i have left money with george gallagher to bury me. bury me beside betsy." and in her mind she saw two graves side by side, one with a marker reading "my beloved wife," the other unmarked. the mother softly said as she folded the coat and nether garments: "put them away again." chapter seven backward, turn backward, oh, time in your flight, make me a child again, just for tonight. "help is mighty skeerse an' ye got to take what ye kin git," was lin's answer to the query of a neighbor as to why they had re-employed cousin charley after the confusion he had created in the family of alfred. cousin charley was sent to the country on an errand that was supposed to consume a couple of hours. it was circus day. the head of the family gave the boys sufficient money to pay their way from side-show to concert. that they might not miss any of the sights of circus day, charley arranged with lin to serve breakfast by a. m., to give him an early start, enabling him to return by o'clock and take alfred to the circus grounds to remain all day, the custom of the country folk in those days. many families brought their lunch with them and picnicked on the show grounds. among them was abner linn, a large man noted for his appetite and great strength. abner was making his way through the crowd on circus day, clearing a path, as it were, for his delicate little wife and more than half a dozen children. the frail little woman carried a large basket filled with eatables. the basket was more than a load and the little woman struggled to keep near her muscular husband. glancing back and noticing the wife faltering, he relieved her of the basket and started forward at a faster walk than before. gentle harry mason admiringly complimented him by saying: "abner, that was very kind and thoughtful of you to carry that heavy basket for your wife." ab, with a leer, said: "gosh, i was afeard she'd get lost." alfred cried to go to the country with charley. lin said: "ye'll be so tired ye can't enjoy the show ef ye walk out thar an' back so early in the mornin'." go alfred would. up town hill, through sandy hollow, through the old toll gate to thornton's lane where the boys were to turn off the old pike. but they did not turn off. they lingered under the big locust trees throwing stones at birds and against the high fence surrounding the fair grounds where black fan had won her famous race. the circus was coming in on the old pike from uniontown. all circus travel was overland in those days. cousin charley argued if they did not see the show come in they'd miss one of the big sights of the day: they had plenty of time. the show would pass that way soon and alfred was only too willing to linger. the dew, sparkling like diamonds as it lay on grass and plant, had disappeared; a summer's sun was pouring its direct rays on the old pike. cousin charley prevailed on the younger boy to continue the journey further eastward on the pike until they met the wagons. cousin charley explained that he was familiar with a short cut to their destination, and as they crossed the creek they would have a swim. this met with the hearty approval of alfred. the boys walked out the old highway, passing captain abram's fine farm where charley had dug potatoes on the shares, on beyond uncle jack's big stone house, nearly to redstone school-house ere the circus wagons were met. as the wagons rolled by, the boys conjectured as to what each contained. there were no animal vans as the menagerie had not combined with the circus in those days. the big, gold-mounted band wagon, followed by a dozen passenger wagons, buggies and hacks, a half dozen led ring horses and ponies, passed, and the cavalcade was lost in the dust. striking across the fields the boys were soon on the banks of dunlap's creek. instead of the gently flowing stream in which they expected to bathe their heated bodies, they found a raging, muddy torrent, fast flowing, spreading over bottom lands, water half way up the stalks of the growing corn. cousin charley declared the water too muddy for bathing purposes; but he would undress, construct a raft of the plentiful rails that had lodged along the banks of the creek, and seating alfred on the raft, he would swim, pushing the raft across the creek. cousin charley began constructing the raft near the creek bank proper, where the water was backed into the field. he dragged the rails through the water, sometimes lying down and swimming, at other times diving under the water. alfred could not resist the temptation to undress and assist with the raft. [illustration: the life raft] when completed, cousin charley seated alfred on the top of the raft, the clothing of both boys being piled on his lap that they might not get wet. the raft was pushed off, cousin charley insisting that he was a stern wheel tow boat, kicking his feet out of the water to imitate the splash of the wheel. the boat did not make great headway but backed and went ahead as the raft floated down the creek. the banks were steeper on either side, therefore, the tow boat decided to go down the stream a little further ere landing. in fact, the towboat was having such a good time he did not fully realize the current was carrying his tow rapidly towards the old mill dam. neither did the passenger on the raft realize this until he noticed a changed expression on the face of the tow boat. he further realized that the tow boat was laboring powerfully. in rounding a bend in the stream the tow actually swung around in the current, the tow boat not having power to prevent it. the younger boy for the first time noticed the roaring of the old dam, a fact the boy doing the towing had been aware of and terribly worried over for some time. in his excitement, the younger boy stood up on the raft. "set down! set down!" frantically yelled the boy in the water. another alarming fact presented itself at this juncture. several of the under rails had worked out and were only connected to the raft by one end. this caused the raft to settle on the port side and the younger boy could no longer keep his seat, fearing he would tumble off backwards into the stream. the boys became more and more excited, the roar of the old dam grew nearer and nearer. louder and louder came the noise of the waters tumbling over it. both boys pictured themselves being swept over the dam into the whirlpool below. no victim of niagara's treacherous tides ever neared his doom with greater terror. down, down, floated rails and cargo; cousin charley struggling as he never did before; alfred screaming as he never did before or since. when cousin charley began shouting for help, the younger boy became hysterical. the roar of the rushing water seemed to drown all other sounds and cousin charley's voice, though he shouted at the top of his lungs' strength, sounded to alfred's ears like a voice in the distance. "set down! set down! for god's sake, set down! you'll fall off. set down!" yelled cousin charley. instead of obeying, alfred clambered higher and higher on the rails, waving his shirt frantically and shouting for help. the shirt served as a signal of distress. morg gaskill was in the field above the young house. he saw the shirt waving. the roar of the waters drowned the boys' voices. gaskill, rushing to the saw-mill, grabbed a log hook and ran up the banks of the creek. the boys could see the break of the water as it rushed over the crest of the dam and the white, foamy splashes as it bounded up from where it fell below. cousin charley was barely holding on to the tow; alfred was sinking down on the almost disintegrated raft. gaskill, muscular and active, rushed into the water up to his middle, shot the pole out. the hook caught over the rails, but they pulled out. alfred fell on them as the raft drifted apart. down went all of charley's wearing apparel excepting his big straw hat and one shoe which alfred clutched unconsciously in one hand. as alfred fell forward on the rails he grabbed the hook or pole and held on for dear life as gaskill pulled him ashore, more dead than alive. the elder boy was floated off holding onto two rails. it was but a moment until the strong young man had both lads ashore. they dragged the hook along the bottom of the creek but not a vestige of the clothes of either could be found. charley had one shoe and a large straw hat. alfred had a shirt, rather long, and a hat. explanations were gone into. gaskill went into the house, returning with an old rubber boot, a calico shirt and a pair of corduroy pants. many patches made their original material a matter of doubt. he explained that was the best he could do for charley and said: "i don't know what we will do for the chap," scanning alfred, "unless he wears one of hannah's dresses," which cousin charley endeavored to persuade alfred to do. alfred declared he would sneak home as best he could with only the shirt. the boy realized that cousin charley would never cease teasing him if he wore the dress. alfred's body was covered with mud, cousin charley insisted that he go down to the water's brink and wash the mud from his body but alfred could not be prevailed upon to go near the creek. a large pail of very cold water was fetched from the well. with a mischievousness little short of cruelty, the water was poured on alfred's head, streaming down over his body, his teeth chattered, his lips turned blue. the women folks of the house were coming, so alfred ran into the high grass to hide; while cousin charley and gaskill renewed their search of the creek for the lost clothes. the house had been searched and nothing suitable to clothe alfred could be found. there were no boys in the family. there was a whispered consultation and one of the women hastened to the house. returning, she handed gaskill a white linen garment. he walked towards alfred, his face distorted, endeavoring to suppress his laughter. gaskill, unrolling the something made of muslin, commanded alfred to get into it. as he put one foot through the upheld opening, he caught sight of cousin charley's face and his attempted concealment of laughter. this so exasperated alfred that he did not notice the garment he was being encased in. he upbraided cousin charley for his unseemly levity: "yes, laugh, you durn big fool! laugh! you was skeered more than i was. dog-gone ye, it was all your fault. if we had drowned you would have been to blame, then i reckon you'd laughed tuther side of your mouth. you big fool, you." by this time gaskill had the muslin garment fastened on alfred. the waistband, which was too wide, gaskill doubled over and pinned it. the legs were the same size all the way down, extending only a little below the knees. the seat seemed to have a surplus similar to the uniform lacy hare had fashioned, although this part of the garment stood off from his person, not clinging like the heavy material of the military clothes. alfred, surveying himself as they walked towards the house where mr. young had invited them to have a bite of dinner, "after their skeer," began to realize that the linen garments he wore were similar to those that lin washed last and never hung on the line in the front yard where the men came in. this discovery did not prevent him laughing at himself. [illustration: "i won't go through town with them things on"] alfred hesitatingly entered the house. gaskill and cousin charley were tittering and laughing. gaskill inquired: "well, how are you going to git home?" charley replied: "i reckon i'll have to hide him out 'til after dark or send him on ahead for, by the eternal, i won't go through town with him with them things on." old mrs. young, gently leading the abashed boy to the table, spoke words of assurance, reproving the men for their levity. the youngs were of the dunkard faith, a religious sect numerous in the vicinity. on their way home alfred was the more hilarious of the two. in a spirit of bravado he declared he intended to walk right down the main street crowded as it would be on circus day. he further declared his intention to tell pap and mother the whole story--just how it happened. alfred seemed to have the better of the bigger and older boy. in fact, during the past year alfred had been gradually gaining the mastery of cousin charley insofar as mind was concerned. it has been said that each mind has its own method, no two reason and think alike. alfred seemed to think quicker than cousin charley and often turned the tables on the older boy in a mental contest. on this occasion cousin charley finally gained the mastery by his threats not to take the younger boy to the circus. it was agreed that cousin charley should tell the folks of the day's adventure. as they neared home their mirth diminished as their fears increased: how to run the gauntlet, as it were. so far they had avoided the highways, skulking through thicket and fields. as they neared the old smouse place, now occupied by mart massie as a dairy farm, the milkman was hitching up preparatory to making his usual rounds. cousin charley, perhaps feeling it would be a good rehearsal, recounted the story he had concocted to relate to alfred's parents. the milkman was greatly interested in the thrilling narrative and consented to store the boys in the back end of the milk wagon, delivering them when he delivered the milk to their folks. the boys thought it a very long milk route. alfred had cousin charley as nearly nervous as his nature would permit by more than once threatening to get out and walk home. when they neared home, passing through church street, alfred made a move to leave the wagon, crawling over the end gate backwards, his limbs dangling outside, his head and body hid by the closely drawn curtains. cousin charley, after struggling, pulled him into the wagon under cover. [illustration: "if ye ain't lyin' about this and i'm hopin' ye air"] several women had caught sight of the limbs and the unmentionable garments. while the driver was entirely ignorant of the cause, he was forever disgraced on this part of his route. an old scotch lady declared to several of her neighbors the "shameless hussy was bare to the kilt." arriving in front of alfred's home, cousin charley hustled him into the house the front way as lin came up the path from the back part of the house in answer to the bell of the milkman, who was of the gossiping kind, and managed to give lin the outlines of cousin charley's story as he drew the milk and cream from his large cans. lin could scarcely wait until he poured the milk into her pitcher. giving the milk vendor a withering look, she slammed the gate and hissed: "i'll bet a fippennybit that's another of charley's durn lies." hurrying into the kitchen she seized a rolling pin, her favorite weapon. two stairs at a time she bounded, reaching the room where cousin charley had related about half of the harassing details of the rescue of alfred. this was his story: "he had stopped to rest. alfred got out of his sight in some way. he heard screams from the creek. he saw alfred floating down the stream on a log which he had been paddling around in the shallow water. it was but the work of a moment to disrobe. plunging into the raging torrent he had to swim for dear life to overtake the fast floating boy on the log. he had just managed to land him before the dam was reached. a moment later and they would both have been carried over the dam to certain destruction." the mother was faint with nervousness and sadly shook her head as she said: "that boy will be the death of me yet. his disobedience is something i cannot understand. no wonder his father is out of patience with him." lin was watching charley closely, occasionally casting side glances at alfred. she had a gleam in her eyes that made charley falter more than once in his narration. charley was still in the details when lin interrupted him with: "durn yer pictur', ye nivir take this boy anywhar yer not back with a cock and bull story. next ye'll be fightin' injuns or gypsies to save alfurd and it all amounts to alfurd gittin' whupped an' somethin, fer ye to laff over." here she brandished the rolling pin over charley, raising herself higher as the boy shrank from her threatening motions. "ef ye ain't lyin' 'bout this, an' i'm hopin' ye air, we ought to be mighty thankful to ye. but i'm boun' to hev the truth. set down, or i'll knock ye down." "'al-f-u-r-d,' i want ye to stan' up like a little man. ye nivir tol' me a lie 'cept when ye stol' us hungry carryin' vittles to this houn'," as she pointed to the thoroughly frightened charley, who whined: "that's all the thanks i git for risking my life." "shet up," lin almost yelled, "ye'll not tell one word of this to mr. hatfield." "stan' up 'al-f-u-r-d' an' look this helgrimite in the face an' shame the devil. didn't he push ye in the creek?" "no, ma'am," falteringly. "i went in myself." charley began to look triumphant. "did he pull you out?" "no, ma'am, morg gaskill pulled us both out." lin fairly hissed: "i knowed ye was lyin'." thus encouraged, alfred graphically related the adventures of the day, not omitting any of the details save the dangling of his limbs out of the milk wagon. charley was taken aback and thereafter his credibility was destroyed in so far as the mother and lin were concerned. he pouted and endeavored to deny portions of the younger boy's recital but was met with such positive assertions from alfred that he retired entirely discomfited. lin's only comment was: "durn ye; i'd be afeard to put my head in a circus, much less a church." lin looked upon one with as much reverence as the other. the boys missed the afternoon performance but were there early for the night show. at the opening note of the hand organ in the side-show cousin charley and alfred were inside. the orator had eloquently described the curiosities pictured on the long line of banners in front of the side-show. but the most alluring object had not been mentioned, namely, a long show case filled with jewelry, symbolic numbers, bank notes of all denominations. a dice box on top of the glass-covered case was the means by which the yokels were assured they could extract the jewelry, bank notes, etc. the father had given charley ample funds to cover admission fees to all shows and a liberal allowance for refreshments. alfred was very much interested in the big snake and the lady whom the lecturer introduced as a snake charmer. the lecturer announced that the performance was over, but another would be given in fifteen minutes. all those wishing to remain for the next performance were privileged to do so. those congregated around the show case whereon the dice rattled were the only ones to remain. alfred heard the man behind the case saying: "try your luck again, young man. you were within one number of the capital prize. you can't win it every time. try again." charley did try again and again. he did not win the capital prize but in lieu of $ he had two brass rings, a pair of brass cuff buttons and a lead pencil with a sharpener on the end of it. the shades of night were falling. the lights in the big tent could be seen over the side wall. hundreds of candles on a pyramid-shaped candelabra made of boards. think of it, ye modern ringlings, candles the only lights! the band playing, alfred imagined the show going on: the horses going around. all the glories and beauties he had been anticipating for weeks would be lost to him. he implored cousin charley to hurry up and purchase their tickets. hundreds were buying tickets. the big red wagon was open, the ticket seller handling the pasteboards with lightning-like rapidity. it was ben lusbie. he was the lightning ticket seller of the circus world. such was his dexterity that forepaugh afterwards lithographed him as an attraction. alfred's urgent appeals to "hurry and get our tickets" were lost upon cousin charley. he was seemingly dazed. the man at the big door shouted: "everybody hold their own ticket; all must have tickets." the hustle and confusion made alfred still more impatient. he gave the older boy's arm a rough jerk as he urged him to get their tickets. cousin charley seemed to wake up and the awful truth was revealed--cousin charley had been robbed. alfred must stand right there until he took the jewelry back to the side show and recovered his money. alfred stood right there. hundreds passed him, laughing and crowding into the big show. the longer alfred waited the more miserable he became. despair came over him. he waited, cousin charley did not come. the crowd thinned out; deeper and deeper alfred's heart sank within him. anger began to take the place of disappointment. he would beat cousin charley black and blue with the first thing he could lay his hands on. he would expose all he had been concealing in a hundred mean things charley had been guilty of. the band played louder in the big tent. the feeling that he was missing all came back to him stronger than ever, bringing the hot tears to his eyes. they rolled down his cheeks until it seemed they would dampen the earth at his feet. alfred saw a large man pushing his way to the ticket wagon. it was doctor bob playford, the biggest whole-souled friend any boy ever had. when the circus came, it was the custom of bob playford to wait until the crowd got in, then, collecting all the boys on the lot who could not command the price of admission, make a contract with the door-keeper and put them all in the show. there are scores of men now, boys then, whose prayers have gone up that kind hearted bob playford found it as easy to enter the gates above as he made it for them to enter that heaven to a boy below--the circus. alfred knew full well that doctor playford would buy him a ticket but his pride would not permit him to ask this. accompanying the doctor were willie playford, his son, and bob kennedy, his nephew. the boys, recognizing alfred, asked if he were going in the show. endeavoring to swallow a big lump in his throat, his voice choked as he answered: "no." "were you there this afternoon?" again alfred answered: "no." no longer able to restrain himself he told of charley's folly. the doctor, approaching, alfred's story was repeated, as it progressed, alfred's sobbing and crying increased. the doctor, giving him a sympathetic look and a rough shake, said: "now stop crying, stop crying, you dam little fool. when the circus comes to town you always come to me and i'll see that you get in." the big doctor, alfred and the boys were seated long before the performance began, alfred forgetting cousin charley, the raft, the garments he had dangled out of the milk wagon; in fact all the trials and tribulations of life were as fleeting dreams. happiness lingered within his whole being. the sights and wonders, the clowns were all flitting before him. the evening was one of bewilderment and enchantment to the boy. the old clown was his especial delight. he fairly shouted at his quips and antics. when the mules were brought in and $ offered to the boy or man who could ride one of them, alfred was tempted to make the trial. he felt certain he could do better than those who were being cast off like babies by the agile animals. the show over, they started with the crowd toward the door. a whistle sounded, the walls of the tent fell as if by magic. the doctor and the boys stood a long time watching the tents lowered. as they passed up the narrow passage leading from the show lot to the street, cousin charley met them, his appearance evidencing his shame and disappointment. the doctor began chiding him. charley, in his illuminating way, explained that he went into the side show, and the man coaxed him to shake the dice. he shook and came within one every time he shook of winning the capital prize. he left the game, was induced to go back and shake again and the first dash out of the box he won the capital prize. they refused to give it to him, grabbed the money he had in his hand and put him out of the tent. he had been up on the hill to see squire wilkinson to swear out a warrant for their arrest but the squire was at prayer-meeting. (they always have prayer meeting when the circus comes to town). he ran back to find the man who took his money. "if i'd found him, i'd licked him or he'd licked me," concluded charley. the big doctor playfully straightened out his powerful arm, pushing charley backwards. gazing at him in a humorously contemptuous manner as he said: "look here, my boy, you lie. you were gambling? no one but a country jake would try to beat that game. i lost two dollars on that eight dice case myself. now let me give you a little advice: 'don't bet on another man's game unless you have money at home, for you are sure to lose all you have with you.'" alfred and cousin charley wended their way home alfred endeavored to express his sympathy in detailing the wondrous sights he had witnessed in the circus. alfred was sorry for cousin charley and while his intentions were commendable his descriptions of the circus only added to the disappointment and chagrin of the elder boy. that night alfred dreamed of heaven in his happiness. he dreamed that heaven was one big circus, with angels in pink tights and clowns capering on the golden streets. peanuts and candy were heaped in piles invitingly, free to all. he dreamed of a big, blue-eyed man who stood at the golden gates and passed all the boys in free and when they did not come of their own accord he beckoned to them. he seemed to enjoy the happiness of the boys more than the boys themselves. next morning at breakfast the wonders of the circus were gone over again. alfred did not breathe a word as to cousin charley's loss of the money at the gaming table. since the night of the circus alfred had busied himself preparing to give his first show. the costumes and a place to give the exhibition seemed to worry him more than the entertainment he was to offer. lin was his assistant. it might be more proper to state that lin was the prime mover, and the director of the proposed exhibition, although lin kept her activity concealed from the other members of the family. she explained her participation in the coming show thusly: "well, it's better fer a body to keep yer yungins to hum even ef it does clutter up the house to hev their fun. alfurd's mos' crazy 'bout bein' a circus clown an' ye'd die laffin' to see the little cuss cuttin' didoes. i'd rather see him doin' it than hev him trapesin' the streets like bill's charley." lin never lost an opportunity to cast a reflection on charley. alfred, lin and the mother were seated at the breakfast table, discussing alfred's show. ways and means were the subjects. the mother was an interested listener, although a quiet dissenter. she could not understand how alfred, even with lin's aid, could offer anything in the way of a show to entertain even children. the price of admission was to be two ten-penny nails. the boat building industry was thriving and the boys often went aboard a new boat picking up the nails the carpenters let fall in their work. the nail idea was lin's and we must accord her some degree of originality. "pins had always been the equivalent for cash for admission to amatoor shows." lin said "our show." she always said "our show" when talking to the neighbors. when the show was referred to at home it was "alfred's show." costumes were the perplexity of alfred. he desired "purty" clothes: it made the acting look better. lin added: "purty duds makes a lot in a show, or in meetin'," meanwhile looking mischievously at the mother. she said to alfred: "ye've got a tolerable good start fur as ye're concerned yerself, with the two suits ye fetched hum lately--the soldier suit lacy hare and aunt betsy made ye an' the one mrs. young lent ye." morg gaskill had requested the return of the latter mentioned garments but alfred's climbing of fences, running through briar patches and dangling out of milk wagons had pretty well used the garments up. the mother therefore in return sent similar garments. alfred insisted that the unmentionables mrs. young loaned him should be the basis of his clown suit. although alfred has worn many grotesque costumes since, none ever more strongly appealed to the risibilities of an audience than did those same garments. lin said they were "the funniest fit she ever seed an' she wondered to gawd who they ever wuz made fer. two meal sacks fastened together would fit jes' as well." the show passed off as amateur shows generally do, with a great many hitches, accidents and quarrels. the night was a stormy one, without and within. the audience all came early and stood around the kitchen stove while alfred and the other performers robed themselves, for there were no dressing rooms. lin commanded the audience to turn their faces and look toward the stove while the actors were dressing. the audience were compelled to go through the kitchen to gain entrance to the place of exhibition, the cellar. on lin would fall the labor of cleaning up next day; therefore, as each auditor appeared at the kitchen door, lin shouted: "wipe yer feet 'fore ye come in." that the show might go on without hindrance, or for some other reason, the father and mother visited a neighbor that night. this was a great relief to alfred and lin. lin said: "ef mary ever sees this kitchen afore i git at it in the mornin' she'll hev a fit of the conniptions." the show was very unsatisfactory to alfred. he was dissatisfied with his company and declared they "couldn't do nuthin'." one or two weakened at the last moment. when looked for to take their place in the ring they were found seated or standing among the audience and no persuasion from the manager or the audience could induce them to go on with their part of the performance. this was exasperating to alfred. he either enacted their roles or explained the part they were expected to perform. lin went wild over his impersonations of daniel boone, santa anna and davy crockett. lin said: "i tell ye what, lacy hare's soldier suit come in jes' right." young bill colvin, a nephew of uncle joe's neighbor, was seated near the ringside. he plucked at one of the epaulets while davy crockett was supposed to be holding the cabin door against the wolves. this ruffled the temper of davy to such an extent that he smote bill. bill smote back. over and over they rolled on the cellar floor. davy might have been a mighty man pitted against the wolves, but bill colvin was getting the better of him until lin rushed to the rescue. parting the combatants, young colvin was rushed to the door, flung half way across the street by lin and the door slammed in his face. lin was more loudly applauded than any other part of the show. she made a speech: "ef there's any other freckled faced willun here thet's goin' to do anythin' to bust up this show, now's the time fer 'em to wade in while i'm het up. huh, bill colvin thinks caus' his daddy's rich he kin do anythin' he wants to, but he'll find he's up agin a stump when he starts a fuss in this shanty." lin's sunny disposition was rarely crossed by shadows, but she was terribly angry and the best of order was maintained for the remainder of the evening. although there was no visible evidence of the mud and dirt tracked into the kitchen by the audience, the next morning the mother forever put the ban on future shows in so far as the cellar or kitchen were concerned. lin had constructed a rude candelabra after the style of the one in the circus. it was left hanging in the cellar. lin lit them up when aunt betsy came on saturday to show her how "purty" they were. afterwards, in the absence of lin, the mother confidentially imparted the information to aunt betsy that "lin was crazier over such things than alfred, and it was pretty much all her doings." * * * * * lin had been busy for weeks, in fact, ever since the show in the cellar, patching, sewing, and putting together old rag carpet, canvas, heavy with paint, that had been ripped from the hurricane deck of an old steamboat. alfred was to give another show, this time on jeffries' commons and under canvas, or rather, inside of canvas. since the night the side wall fell as dr. playford and he were leaving the tent, the boy had been revolving this plan in his mind. he felt certain he could collect, with the aid of the boys, sufficient material to encircle the ring which had been long constructed and used to practice in. a center pole with side poles planted in the ground like fence posts. a top for the tent was out of the question but nearly sufficient material had been collected to encircle the poles, making a sidewall nearly ten feet high. lin had announced the price of admission at one cent and had so extensively advertised the show by word of mouth that the children were already visiting alfred's home to buy tickets of admission. this aggravated the mother more greatly than even the cellar show. the mother feared the neighbors would think that she was interested in the show, financially. lin said: "let 'em think what they durn please. some of 'em's in a mighty big hurry to pay fur their tickets. ef they'd pay back the saleratus, salt, sugar, tea, coffee, an' sich they've borryed from us we'd be better off. but some peepul will spend money quicker fer fun than they will fer vittles or religion." it was the night before the show. a consultation was held in the tent between alfred and his aids. there was an opening of at least ten feet in length in the side of the tent and no canvas or other material to close it up. turkey evans had brought the last strip of an old rag carpet he had taken surreptitiously from an unused room of his home. the two old quilts tom white had stolen from betsy smart were in place with half moons, hearts, diamonds, and sunflowers worked on them in raised figures. they gave the tent the appearance of an indian tepee. win scott had contributed all the coffee, grain or salt sacks he could secure by rummaging every building on stable street. some of the boys had even appropriated the aprons worn by nimrod potts, the shoemaker. as mr. potts was of goodly size the two aprons from his shop went a long ways toward making a partition between the tent and the dressing room. spliced to the bed tick bindley livingston had thrown out of the third story window of his father's house, the aprons closed up the opening completely. but the big opening near the door was still a gaping void. after all had confessed to their inability to furnish another yard of material, alfred advised that in the garret of his grandfather's home there was a large cedar chest filled with whitest linen, three pieces of which would close up the opening but he knew grandpap would not let him take it "caus' he was a baptis' and agin shows." win scott argued that it would be no harm to take the linen. the fact that it had lain there unused was proof positive they would never miss it. just as soon as the show was over they would take it back and no one would ever know it but themselves. alfred being entirely familiar with grandfather's house it was planned he should creep upstairs, open a window and throw sufficient of the linen out of the garret into old man morehouse's back yard where the others would station themselves, carry the linen to the old school house and secrete it until the following morning. alfred's limbs trembled so he could scarcely stand as he opened the back door of the big stone house. up the long flight of stairs he crept, the creaking of a loose board startling him so he nearly fainted. although not a light burned in that part of the house, so familiar was he with its interior that he had no difficulty in finding his way. as he reached the top of the stairs leading to the garret, still on hands and knees, the old furniture, odds and ends piled around indiscriminately, took on the grotesqueness of imps, demons and other fantastic figures. so wrought up was his imagination that nothing but the fear of ridicule from his confederates forced him on. crawling along the dirty, sooty, begrimed floor, he soon located the old cedar chest. raising the lid, the aroma of camphor and rose leaves nearly overcame him. even in the dark he could discern the folds of whitest linen. counting out five pieces, he tiptoed to the window. with the signal--a soft whistle--down floated the first sheet, caught by one of the boys ere it touched the ground. the next sheet hit the brick pavement with a thud. partly unfolding the next two alfred followed their fluttering course to the earth with his gaze. he could see the white objects moving off like specters floating through space. they appeared so ghost-like the sight almost paralyzed him. shaking with nervousness, the last sheet left his hands accidently catching on the window fastening. it spread out like a great, white bird with flapping wings and slowly fluttered to the earth. a door opened below. alfred nearly collapsed. tip-toeing across the room he stumbled over an object on the floor causing a great racket. falling on the floor he crawled behind a number of old quilting frames and lay there ever so quiet expecting momentarily to hear some of the family ascending the stairs. crawling slowly to the stairs he softly descended, opened the door and shot out into the darkness of the night. the perspiration streaming down his face. wiping it away with his soot begrimed hands, so blackened his countenance his companions scarcely recognized him when he reached the rendezvous, the old school-house on the commons. when the last sheet fluttered down from the garret, win scott stepped under it. tommy morehouse's back door opened. with the sheet fluttering about him, scott ran down the garden path and out through the barn into stable street. nearly opposite the stable from which he had just emerged was the big stable of the marshall house, a tavern kept by isaac vance, the uncle of ike stribeg, the afterwards noted circus agent. baggy allison and hughey boggs, characters of the town, were seated on a bench outside the door of the big stable. scott, pulling the sheet more closely about him and waving his arms wildly, quickly crossed the street towards the two worthies, thinking to have some fun with them. both caught sight of him at the same instant. one corner of the sheet, fluttering high in the air, it certainly was a skittish looking object that floated down upon the two superstitious men. over went the bench, a chair or two, allison stepped in a tin pail as he arose, his foot entangled in it. the clattering of baggy's foot in the pail added ten fold to the terror of hughey. he swore afterwards he could feel the clutch of the long, bony fingers of the ghost on his neck. [illustration: he could feel the clutch of long, bony fingers on him] the hostlers flew, both trying to enter the narrow door of the tavern. wedged in the doorway, each thought the other holding him. fighting, cussing, scratching, they were pulled into the big tap room filled with guests. all imagined the two hostlers were fighting and endeavored to separate them. baggy allison was very slow of speech; hughey boggs stuttered painfully. after they were separated they kept up their clawing and waving. baggy, pointing toward the stable, blurted out: "ghost! ghost! ghost after us! ketch it! ketch it!" hughey stuttering more terribly, owing to his fright had, only got to "gh--gh--gh--gh," when baggy had finished explaining the cause of their fright. bud beckley, old johnny holmes and jim hubbs, the town constable, were the first to run towards the stable, but nothing was to be seen in any direction. baggy and hughey were unmercifully scored for their cowardice, and were ridiculed for days afterward. win scott was as badly frightened as the two hostlers. the flight of the men caused him to redouble his speed. on down stable street to playford's alley, out along the high stone wall enclosing nelson bowman's castle, on to jeffries' commons, formerly an old graveyard. here, according to report, the spook sank into a sunken grave. albert baker's mother saw the apparition as did sammy honesty, one of bowman's servants. * * * * * saturday morning, the day of the show, was one of those days that nature often bestows on brownsville: not the fleck of a floating cloud in the firmament above. even the winds slept that they might not ruffle the tranquility of the scene or alfred's tent. lin was greatly disturbed over the opening in the tent. she declared: "every dadratted, stingy critter in the neighborhood would jes' stan' outside and peek in fer nuthin'; and jes' to think, we got all the other places kivered only that plague-goned old hole right by the door." when win scott arrived with the white linen sheets, lin was greatly surprised. she feared they were not come by honestly. the boys assured her they had borrowed them, promising to return them as good as they came. lin was finally persuaded to tack and sew the sheets on the tent. when completed, she surveyed her work for a moment and said: "we're all hun-ki-dora now"--a slang phrase in those days signifying "all right." jeffries commons swarmed with children. so impatient was alfred to open the circus that he refused to eat dinner. lin fetched him a pie which he devoured as he worked. win scott was the door-keeper and treasurer. lin had a wordy war with the treasurer soon after the doors opened. willie shuman, who was lame, wanted to sit on the treasurer's seat, a soap box near the main entrance. win objected solely on the grounds that real shows did not permit patrons to sit where they pleased but made them stand around. lin secured another soap box and willie was given the kind of seat he desired "up high," as lin expressed it, "so nobody could stan' in front of him." lin insisted on counting the receipts several times while the audience was assembling and when they reached sixty-eight cents, she concluded it was too much money to entrust to any one connected with the show. emptying the pennies in her pocket, she pinned it up, remarking: "ef there's no trouble comes up about them there new linen sheets, we'll give another show tonight. i hev all the lights hangin' in the cellar ready." the ghost seen the night before had been the talk of the town and that it disappeared on the old commons near the tent was whispered about among those in attendance at alfred's show. lin heard whispers of the reports and somehow she could not entirely dispossess her mind of the idea that the new linen sheets were connected in some way with the ghosts. however, so deeply interested was she in the manifold duties she had imposed upon herself that ghosts and linen sheets were, for the time, forgotten. sitting on a soap box holding two children on her lap, so they could see it all, lin was calling on alfred to come back into the ring and repeat a twisting about trick he had just performed. lin said the children wanted to see him do it "agin." encores were numerous from lin, no matter whether the major portion of the audience desired them or not; if the children expressed a wish to see any feat repeated lin simply commanded that it be done and if the performer hesitated to take a recall, lin sat the children off her lap and marched the performer out and compelled him to comply with the children's wishes. although it was balmy spring, there was a tinge of chill in the air that touched one. many of the boys were compelled to undress to don their costumes, and joe sandford's costume especially was not conducive to comfort and warmth. alfred had strongly impressed it upon all who participated in the performance that they must have real show clothes. many and surprising were the costumes. tom white's father had been a member of the sons of malta. young white wore his father's regalia, a cross between the make-up of captain kidd and rip van winkle. joe sanford's costume made alfred slightly jealous. lin had trimmed the garments loaned alfred by mrs. young. she had made him a body dress from an old patch quilt, the figures worked in yellow and red. yet the colors were not as bright as those in the costume of joe. it was spring time, house-cleaning and wall-papering time. mrs. sanford, being of an inventive turn of mind, collected the wall paper scraps, particularly the red border paper. fashioning a suit out of the paper, she pasted it together. the costume was after the style of napoleon, as we have seen him in pictures. joe was without clothing of any kind except the pasty wall paper suit, stripes on the trousers running up and down and on the jacket encircling. as joe walked about the dressing room to keep warm the paper suit rustled and swished. he was the admiration of all the performers. although joe was not to appear until later he insisted that he be permitted to perform his feats at once, that he was almost frozen. lin was advised of this fact and said: "oh, well, let him do his showin'. ef he ketched cold he would hev the tisic, (phthysic)." joe was subject to this affliction. joe's part of the performance was hanging on a horizontal pole a little higher than his head, skinning the cat, then sitting upright on the bar, clasping his knees with his hands, revolve around the pole. joe had performed this feat a thousand times. but he had never attempted it in a show costume constructed of wall paper. [illustration: joe's wall paper duds] the wall-paper suit began to give along the pasted seams even while joe was skinning the cat. lin said afterwards: "he was so durned skeered and a wheezin' with the tisic he didn't know whether he was a-foot or a-horseback. i seed the rips openin' every time he stirred." joe was evidently uncertain as to the strength of his show clothes. despite a parting of seams he squirmed upon the horizontal bar, gripped his knees with his hands. thus doubled up the strain on the wall paper was greater than ever. joe ducked his head forward. the first revolution, the greater part of the wall paper suit was scattered over the saw-dust ring. joe started on the second revolution but when he got under the bar he hung there swinging backwards and forwards. lin said: "he jus' clung thar doubled up like a toy monkey on a stick, jus' swinging like the pendulum of a stoppin' clock." the red flowered belt and a sort of collar around the neck remained. joe had on very white stockings; however, they only reached below the knee. as he had lost his hat at the beginning of his stunt he was almost devoid of clothes. the vast audience giggled and shouted "accordin' to their raisin'" as lin expressed it afterwards. joe, through shame or stage fright, made no effort to release himself. the situation became embarrassing to the few grown ones present. mothers took occasion to look down at their children, smoothing their hair or straightening their clothing. the big girls looked another way but the greater part of the audience yelled with delight. lin "jus' couldn't stan' it any longer." dropping the children, she rushed to poor joe's rescue. she was compelled to unclasp joe's hands from the bar. in his fright and confusion he had a vise-like grasp on it. in the position in which he hung his face was hidden. lin said that "his old wall-paper duds was all off him" and she reckoned "long as his face was kivered he'd hung thar 'til he fainted or fell." when lin stood the poor fellow on his feet after relieving him from his perch, he was confused. instead of going into the dressing room where all the boys were yelling with laughter, poor joe ran out of the tent across the commons and crawled into jeffries' coal house. the door-keeper, win scott, hurried his regular clothes to him, but joe left for home and never thereafter did he essay to become an actor. every child carried home as a souvenir a remnant of joe's wall-paper show suit. meanwhile, alfred was changing the clown suit for lacy hare's military uniform in which he always appeared as davy crockett and daniel boone. someone called to him: "alf, here comes all yer grandpap's family." alfred peered through a hole in mrs. evans' rag carpet and his blood froze in his veins. heading the procession was grandpap, wide flowing, white collar, hat in hand. he appeared to alfred an avenging nemesis. following closely, came uncle ned, stern, and solemn aunt sarah. cousin charley and old tommy moorehouse brought up the rear of the advancing column. alfred felt the tent swaying as if in a gale. the tent swayed again. lin sat the children down quickly, "thinkin' it was some of the tarnel brats that had pestered the show tent ever since alfred started it." at the door she came face to face with the angry grandfather. "you're more to blame than the boy" was all alfred remained to hear. half naked, half dazed--for alfred feared his grandfather's wrath greatly--down the big hill the boy fairly flew, through the jimson weeds, their prickly pods stinging his bare breast and arms until the blood flowed. nor did he slacken his pace until the old coal road was reached. then along the dusty road to krepp's coal bank; into the dark tunnel penetrating the hill, nor did he stop until so far under ground that the opening to the coal mine, although large enough to admit a horse and cart, appeared to the sight as a ring of daylight no larger than an eye. realizing that the white and red clown paint lin had smeared on his face would be difficult to explain to the miners should he encounter them, alfred endeavored to remove it by washing it with the yellow sulphur water standing in the cart tracks where it had dropped from the damp sides of the old mine. he only spread it with the yellow water; his face presented a sight similar to an indian's in full war paint. his fears subsiding, he retraced his steps towards the entrance. the opening darkened and he could discern a figure standing out against the sky beyond. hastening on he whistled shrilly. the answering whistle he recognized as that of his treasurer, win scott. when they met, win gave alfred the particulars of the wrecking of the tent by uncle ned and imparted the information that all grandpap's family, with the linen sheets, had gone home excepting the grandmother, and he had a message requesting that alfred come to her at once, with the assurance that he would not be punished. the grandmother had frequently interceded in alfred's behalf and he was greatly pleased to receive her message. he felt so good over the turn of affairs that he could scarcely walk up the long hill so weak was he with laughter over joe's wall-paper circus clothes, nor did his good humor forsake him until they approached the spot where the tent, the work of many weeks, lay on the ground teetotally wrecked. win gave alfred a graphic description of uncle ned's wrecking of the tent, the escape of the audience, of lin's offering to pay for the sheets and her subsequent anger. lin endeavored to appease uncle ned's wrath. "but the more she talked the wuss he raved." when alfred entered the kitchen, lin's face was still red from anger and weeping. looking angrily at alfred, she began: "why did ye run? by golly, i'd stood my ground ef they'd all piled on me. ef it hadn't been fur grandmother, i'd licked ned myself." alfred explained that if he'd been dressed he'd stayed, but being "mos' naked he jus' knowed uncle ned would pull the tent down caus' he always wants to tear things up by the roots. i didn't want to be ketched naked like joe." at the thought of joe's mishap his laughter broke out again. lin's good nature began to assert itself. suppressing her smiles she placed her fingers on her lips which implied silence. jerking her head toward the sitting room door she informed the boy his grandmother was "thar waitin' fer ye," adding: "ye needn't be skeered, she's got more religion and more sense than the whole caboodle of 'em put together. go on in." softly approaching the door leading to the room he heard voices, his father's among them. he was half inclined to flee again. timidly rapping on the door he heard footsteps leaving the room. lin took him by the arm and led the boy into the large room. it was growing dark. his grandmother sat alone. they halted in front of the gentle lady, lin addressing alfred in an encouraging manner, said: "'al-f-u-r-d,' tell grandmother the truth. don't stan' up and lie like cousin charley does, caus' he allus gits ketched up in it." the boy looking into the kindly face of the quiet old lady felt no fear; however, his shame was most intense. drawing the abashed boy nearer to her, she put her arm about him, softly saying: "i greatly fear you have been led by those older than yourself to do things you would not have done had you had proper advisors. i fear you will get into serious trouble if you do not follow your father's and mother's advice. now, alfred, listen to every word grandmother says to you. you will not be punished for taking the sheets more than your conscience reproves you. you are a good boy and everyone loves you. it is only your father's love for you that influences him to be severe with you at times. your playful spirit, your mischievousness leads you into many actions that pain us all greatly but i am sure you do not intend to be bad. you are not vicious, only mischievous. now tell me, alfred, who prompted you to take the linen out of the chest?" "no one. i was all to blame. lin has sixty-eight cents and i have nearly three dollars uncle joe gave me and i'm going to give it all to uncle ned to pay for any tearing of the sheets and lin will wash and starch them. they'll be as good as new." with this speech the boy broke down completely. kneeling, he buried his face in the old lady's lap. she stroked his head gently, and in a tone more soft and quiet than heretofore, she asked the contrite boy if he was aware of the reverence in which the family held the linen contained in the old chest. the boy assured her that he supposed the old chest and its contents were cast off or unused articles the same as other goods stored away in the garret. when the grandmother informed the boy the family held the contents of the old chest as almost sacred, that the linen was the last winding sheets of those of his family who had gone to the great beyond, his shame brought a flood of tears that nothing the grandmother could say would stop. it was the custom that persons who died in those days were covered with whitest linen and this linen was ever afterwards preserved by the family as sacred. the grandmother in gentle tones reminded the boy of loved ones whom he held in sweetest remembrance, and when he fully realized that the linen in the old chest had been their last covering the tears of the boy and the aged woman mingled as he solemnly promised to so conduct himself in the future that his behavior would never wound her feelings more. thereafter the boy always found a loyal defender in the grandmother when troubles came to him. "i'll jes be durned ef ol' gran'muther ain't got more sense in a minute than her son ned will have ef he lives twict es old es jehu adams," said lin, referring to the oldest man in the neighborhood. "why, jes' see what she hes dun fer that boy. he's a perfec' little angel since she hauled him over the coals. bet he'd never teched them sheets ef he'd knowed they wus fer layin' out dead peepul in. he'd got others somehow, an' i'd been sort a lazy like 'bout sewin' 'em on the tent ef i'd knowed what they'd bin used fur. it's no wonder baggy allison and hughey boggs got skeered. durned ef they warn't purty near ghosts, enny how." "ef it had been left to gran'muther she'd let the show go on es long es we had the sheets hung up. they warn't hurtin' nobody. no, by golly, it's jes' like ned; he's jes' like his daddy an' the other baptusses. they don't hev any fun and they hate to hear a body laugh. huh, ef it had been a prayer meetin' or somethin' mournful for the baptusses' meetin' house to git money fur, ned ud never tore down the tent. durn him! his heart ain't bigger'n a rat pellet and it's twict es hard. he don't know nuthin' but to eat an' pray. let him kum yere fer another meal of vittles and i'll not cook it fur him; i'll jes' tell mary and john so. why, grandmother's talkin' to him done alfurd more good than all the whippin's he ever got in his born life." "it jes' worries ned to deth to see a boy, a boy. he gets a heap of pleasure out of not havin' any fun in life." chapter eight though the road be long and dreary, and the end be out of sight, foot it bravely, strong or weary, trust in god and do the right. the realities of life are continually changing. persons can retain a hobby or an illusion for a time or for all time. an illusion may live in our minds, even become a part of our lives. life is but thought. pleasant illusions are, as a rule, weapons against meanness and littleness. illusions, when based upon the sensible and material things of this life, are uplifting. it is said genius and common sense never dwell in the same mortal. the lives of all of those of genius of whom the world has been informed have been governed to a very great extent by illusions not fanatical fads, not an illusion that impels one to endeavor to solve improbable problems. the centralization of ideas on some particular project or profession that appeared impracticable at first, often leads to an inspiration, the enthusiasm created by the illusions leading to success. illusions have side-tracked many life-failures. you may endeavor to persuade yourself that you have no illusions. search your mind. is there not a recollection of something you have worked and hoped for? you may not have attained that which you aimed at, yet the illusion enriched your imagination. is there not something that you dreamed of in youth, forgotten for years, that has come to you later on? hug your illusions if they are pleasant. treasure them, they make you cheerful, they sun your soul. the father and mother of alfred had different ideas of the boy's future. the father was wedded to his calling and fondly hoped the boy would follow in his footsteps in mechanical pursuits. it was the mother's hope that the son would become a medical practitioner. the grandfather prayed that the boy would embrace the ministry as had two of his sons. consequently, when alfred seriously announced that he had determined to become a clown in the circus, the family were greatly shocked, but the boy's declaration was regarded as a harmless illusion. this idea had taken complete control of his boyish imagination. urged on by illusory hopes he was constantly practicing tricks and antics that led him into many heartbreaking escapades that made the cellar sessions more frequent. but nothing could suppress his good nature and innate love of fun. there was but one human being in the world thoroughly in sympathy with the boy's ambitions. she it was who bought the rouge and red that painted his face in his first attempts to become a clown. she it was who cut up one of her best red skirts to complete the costume of which mrs. young furnished the foundation in the garments alfred was sent home in the day of the rescue from the raft. and it is a fact that to this day the costumes of clowns and near-clowns have been patterned after those self-same garments and they are as strikingly funny to spectators today as they were in the days alfred first wore them, a tribute to lin's ingenuity. lin often remarked: "alfurd will come to town some day a real clown in a circus and the whole country will turn out to see him, and litt dawson (the congressman) won't be so much when alfurd gits a-goin'. why, he kin sing eny song and do ent cut-up antik eny of 'em kin. he's the cutest boy i ever seed. they'll never whup his devilishness out of him." lin was always an appreciative audience for alfred. when he learned to do head-sets, hand-springs and the like she urged him on to greater acrobatic achievements. when he attempted to walk on his hands she followed his zig-zag course, steadying him when he threatened to topple over. when bent wilgus, a bridgeport boy, came up to jeffries' commons and entered the ring that was once enclosed by alfred's tent, and performed a dozen feats that alfred had never even witnessed, thereby winning the applause of the crowd of boys, both lin and alfred remained silent. when he did a round off a flip-flap and a high back somersault, a row of head-sets across the ring, finishing by doing heels in the mud, alfred turned green with envy. he felt his reputation slipping away from him and realized he was deposed as the boys' and girls' idol, as an actor. lin felt like driving the usurper off the commons. later, she consoled alfred with the statement that bent wilgus had gum in his shoes that made him bounce so. "his daddy keeps a shoe store an' thet's where he gits bouncin' shoes from. i'll git ye a pair ef i hev to send to filadelphy fur 'em." the quaker city was the metropolis of the world to the good people of the town in those days. new york city was never considered in the same breath with old philly. brownsville had but one representative in the show profession so far as any one knew. he had left the town many years before and it was reported had become a great actor. alfred had never heard the word actor save in connection with a circus performer. he had never witnessed or even heard of a dramatic actor. he had gotten his idea for his impersonation from a rider, who, standing on a broad pad on a horse's back in the circus ring, impersonated noted characters such as richard iii, daniel boone, davy crockett and a shepherd boy. the reputation of tony bailles, the only actor brownsville ever produced, was folklore in his native place. tony had never appeared in his home town. and that which greatly enhanced the reputation of the great actor in the minds of the people in his home was the oft repeated stories of his prowess as a fighter. in those days every man and boy was judged by his personal courage. courage was the supreme test by which all males were gauged. the man or boy who did not have the bravery to uphold his dignity with his fists was not worthy. in the tales told of tony bailles' great prowess with his fists and feet, it was asserted that he more often used his feet than his fists and that his adversary rarely got near him. as they advanced upon him tony kicked them under the chin just once. one kick and all the fight was out of them. tony was one of alfred's illusions. he desired to imitate him, travel all over the land and become a great actor, a greater actor than even his heroic model, as alfred had never heard tony's great feats described. the kick under the chin was tony's only feat impressed strongly enough on alfred's mind to have him imitate. tommy white, lash hyatt and jim campbell were either housed up or walking about with stiff necks and swollen jaws ere it was discovered that alfred was imitating tony bailles. lash hyatt's folks, feeling sure the boy had the mumps, sent for the doctor. it was then revealed that alfred did not fight fair but "kicked you under the chin before you could raise a hand," as the boys described it. alfred tried the tony bailles' high kick on big, husky george herbertson. the kick started as it had with the other boys but instead of reaching the chin at which it was aimed, a big, husky blacksmith's helper checked it. alfred sat down so suddenly he imagined the earth had "flew" up and hit him. while the blacksmith helper held his leg aloft alfred, as he lay on his back, saw a big fist coming straight for his face. he has no distinct recollection of when it reached its landing place. uncle ned snowden assisted alfred home, where he remained in doors several days with two parti-hued eyes. while housed up, alfred promised lin he would always thereafter fight fair. consequently, he thereafter carried two big limestones, one in each coat pocket for george herbertson. somehow the blacksmith boy was always too quick for alfred and the next time they met, which was on the bridgeport wharf, the blacksmith boy trimmed alfred again. and thus it was that the old iron bridge, the first of its kind constructed in the united states and built by john herbertson, the father of george, became the dead line between the boys of the two towns. if a boy from one town was found in the other he was compelled to fight or flee. [illustration: the first iron bridge built in the u. s.] the word "actor" to the good people of those days always referred to a circus performer as mentioned previously. it is related of joseph jefferson, the dean of the dramatic profession, that while visiting his plantation near new iberia, louisiana, he walked over the grounds accompanied by an old, colored field hand. he talked in his usual manner with the old negro telling him of the many cities in which his contracts compelled him to act ere he would again visit his beautiful southern home. the old negro said he was sorry "kase all de folks, white uns an' black uns, was jes mos' crazy for to see massa joe ak." as they walked and talked the old negro informed mr. jefferson that dan rice's circus was "dere a while back, jes on the aidge ob kane cuttin' time, an' dey had some mighty fine actuhs but nuthin' like de actin' ob massah joe." the old fellow, growing more confidential at the pleased manner in which mr. jefferson received his compliments, added that he would gladly walk to new orleans to see him act. when the great actor advised the old fellow that he would not appear in new orleans that year, the old fellow said: "now des look at dat. i'll nevah git to see you ak, massa joe." the actor assured him that at some time in the future he would have that pleasure. the old negro said: "no, no, i'm an ole man. i ain't got much futhah to go, an' i des doan wan' to die fo' i see you ak." mr. jefferson assured the earnest old negro that he would be glad to arrange some plan whereby not only he but all of his friends in the parish might witness him act. the old negro began in an entreating tone: "massa joe, i knows you'd like to ak fer all ob us but lor' only knows when it'll be. i'se mos' f'raid to ax ye but de grass out yar is so sof' an 'nice i jes' thought maybe ye'd ak out a little fer me. jes' twist about an' turn a couple of summah-saults fer dis pooh ol' nigger." this was the only idea alfred had of acting. he longed to see tony bailles act, that he might catch an idea. he felt it would be so much easier for him to learn to act by seeing bailles than it would be to see others, that bailles was more like himself, not a superior being, as other actors were regarded. cousin charley was even more elated than alfred when they read and re-read the joyous announcement, to them, that van amburg's great golden menagerie and zoological institute was headed for brownsville. the startling news was spread that tony bailles was with the show. alfred scanned the bills, no names appearing on them or descriptions of the great feats their owners performed, and his youthful mind could not comprehend this omission in advertising. animals of all species were pictured but the graceful bare-back rider, high in the air above the horse's back, throwing a back somersault through a paper balloon, was not there. the lady rider on the back of a fast flying steed, one foot pointing to six o'clock, the other to high noon, was searched for in vain. alfred finally arrived at this explanation of the oversight in not advertising the circus actors--that the menagerie was so immense the circus was a secondary consideration. he argued that they never advertised the side-show but it was always there. circus day dawned, the crowds came, the old town was a scene of bustle and activity. the town people were all agog, all the older ones seemed to be seeking tony bailles. alfred and charley followed his brother joe up through bridgeport to the new show grounds. the advertisements gave it that the old bottom, the usual show grounds, was too small for the big show. when the grounds were reached a large man with a very red nose announced from the top of a wagon the program of the day: first, mlle. carlotta de berg would ascend a slender wire from the ground to the apex of the grand pavilion. after this thrilling free exhibition the grand annex containing one thousand animate and inanimate wonders would throw open its doors. as this was a new name for the side-show, cousin charley and alfred began to get their money ready. (alfred carried his own money this show day). but when the front of the tent was reached and the same old gaudily painted pictures swayed in the breeze, both boys involuntarily halted as they realized the grand annex was that deadfall known as the side show. cousin charley swore he "seen the same feller standing in the door of the tent that swindled him and so many others at the last show." cousin charley said: "he dodged back when he seen me." in the verdancy of his suckerdom, charley imagined the fakir who had done him had preserved as keen a recollection of the transaction as himself. he learned afterwards that there is a sucker born every minute and the crop of fakirs is nearly as great. a tall, black-haired man, with rather a heavy face, black velvet vest, stood at the door. a long gold watch chain was around his neck and running across the velvet vest it made the chain appear the most conspicuous thing about the man. of course he wore other articles of clothing but the above description stands out in alfred's mind to the exclusion of his other apparel unless it be the flat-top hat and the white bow tie. the hat and tie gave the wearer a sort of clerical appearance. he had the appearance of a respectable gambler, such as were on river steamers in those days. and this was tony bailles, the actor-athlete of alfred's dreams and talks. alfred was simply bewildered. his hero stood aloft pacing to and fro on an elevated platform, describing the wonders of the great moral exhibition especially for ladies and children. alfred argued to charley that this was tony's home and his oratory would appeal more strongly to the people than a stranger's and he was only of the side show for the day. he disliked to have the hero of his dreams discredited so prematurely and he still hoped to see his idol in spangled tights in the big show performing all kinds of wonderful feats. but the big show was an animal show, pure and simple, not an actor, not a clown, not a rider, not a horse, not even a ring. two ponies and a little cart introduced in the show could not dispel the gloom that had settled over the disappointed gathering in the big tent. the only excitement of the day was when bill gaskill, mart claybaugh, ab linn, and two or three washington county men engaged in a fight. when tony bailles rushed in to quell the disturbance and did not kick one or more of the combatants under the chin, the boy's admiration gradually turned to disgust and he was ready to leave the tent although all were admonished that the most astounding and greatest treat in natural history was about to be brought to their notice. the mammoth of mammoths, the behemoth of holy writ was about to be exhibited, the only one in captivity, something to tell your children and your children's children of. the hippopotamus was brought from his cage and waddled into the roped enclosure in the center of the tent. bob ellingham, the lecturer, talked long and learnedly on the habits and capture of the animal. the name hippopotamus was mentioned at least twenty times in the lecture as a dramatic climax. ellingham rubbed a piece of white paper over the animal's back. standing on a stool above the heads of the multitude he held the once spotless sheet of paper in his left hand, pointing his right forefinger at the paper, now discolored with the matter that oozed from the animal's body, he dramatically exclaimed: "he is truly the behemoth of holy writ. see, he sweateth blood!" as he stood motionless, still holding the paper aloft, old man hare, lacy's father, who had stood a most interested listener during the lecture, looked up into the lecturer's face and, in a querulous tone asked: "what fer animal did ye say it was?" "a guinea pig, you dam old fool," flashed back ellingham, as he stepped off the stool, while the crowd yelled, "bully for hare." the old fellow felt greatly grieved although the shouts of approval from the crowd partially appeased him. how he talked back to the show man made him quite a hero among the country folks for a long time afterwards. it is safe to assert that a more disappointed audience never left an exhibition than filed out of the big tent. even the ministers, and they were all admitted free, were not satisfied. bob playford did not gather up the boys on the lot and pay their way in. as the audience filed out the man with the big red nose stood on top of the wagon and invited everybody into the tent where christy's original minstrels were about to offer the good people of brownsville the same choice and amusing performance they had won fame with in the principal theatres in new york city. songs, glees, choruses, banjo solos, pathetic ballads, side-splitting farces, the whole concluding with a grand walk around by the entire company. bob playford and dan french made all manner of fun of the big man with the red nose. playford laughingly shouted: "pay no attention to him, he don't belong to the show, he lives out in the country. he's a neighbor of old man hare's." cousin charley and alfred were won by the man's eloquence or the twanging of the stringed musical instruments that could be heard in the tent. they were soon inside. a platform on a wagon served as a stage, and a curtain with a cabin and woods as a background hung at the rear of the stage. the entire company of seven persons attired in shirts and trousers made of bed-ticking material, were seated in a semi-circle on the improvised stage. this was alfred's first sight of a minstrel first part. "gentlemen, be seated." the opening chorus was not half over before alfred was laughing as heartily as ever boy laughed. the antics of the fellow with the tambourine who hit the singer sitting next to him on the head with it in time with the pattering of the sheepskin on his knees, hands and head, the assumed anger of the singer as he again hit him a resounding thwack, the finish, where the man with the bones and tambo worked all over the small stage and seemed in danger of upsetting it with their antics, had the crowd wild with their enthusiasm. [illustration] the songs, the jokes, the final farce, "handy andy," pleased alfred so greatly that he remained for the next performance as did lin and her beau, cousin charley and several of alfred's friends. he bought a song book containing only the words. he caught several of the airs and sang them all the way home. it was difficult to convince alfred that the performers were white men blacked up. at supper van amberg's great moral menagerie received a lambasting that boded no good for its future in brownsville. lin said: "it was jes a show for baptusts and sich and they was all thar. huh, they let the preachers in free gratis, an' they ought to let everybody in fer nuthin' caus it warn't wuth nuthin'. durned ef i walk to the grounds to see seven shows like it. the niggers in the side show beat the big show all holler." alfred declared that outside of the animals _his_ show was better than van amberg's. lin added: "yes, ef joe sanford's wall-paper suit wus out of it." the supper was not over ere lin and alfred were in the parlor with the melodeon endeavoring to sing the songs of the minstrels. they had the book and hot were the arguments as to whether they had the tune right or not. lin, cousin charley, alfred, billy woods, and bill hyatt decided to go back to the minstrels at night. alfred sang the songs under his breath. he drank in every word of the jokes and the farce he committed to memory. when they reached home the melodeon was started up again, and its strains swelled out on the night air until the father closed the rehearsal abruptly by ordering all to bed. the seed had been sown; even the chaff had taken root. the clown illusion still clung to alfred but the minstrel idea seemed nearer realization. did ever a party of amateurs decide to assault the public that they did not use a minstrel performance as their weapon? despite the protests of the parents, the old melodeon, notwithstanding its age and other infirmities, was worked overtime. alfred sang and resang the songs they had learned or deceived themselves into believing they had learned at the minstrels. billy woods had a good ear for tunes. as lin put it, billy caught more of the tunes than any of the others. billy became a nightly visitor. billy's flute and the melodeon did not harmonize as the melodeon had only three notes left in it. lin just waited when a note was missing until the next measure and then "ketched up" as she expressed it. amity getty was another addition to the little band. he was really a good performer on the guitar. alfred's especial favorite in the minstrels was the fellow who handled the tambourine. the mother said there was not a pie pan in the house they could bake in, alfred had them so battered and dented thumping them on his knees, head and elbows. "i declare, i believe the boy is going crazy; i don't know what we will do with him," often said the mother. cousin charley was of an inventive turn of mind. he had become greatly interested in the nightly singing and fashioned a tambourine out of an old cheese box by cutting it down. dennis isler put tin jingles in it and put on a sheepskin head. the instrument in alfred's hands became a terror to the household. he was banished to the commons where, surrounded by the children of the neighborhood, he did his practicing to the delight and danger of his audience as he persisted in finishing his antics by thumping one of the audience on the head with his instrument of torture, which generally sent the recipient of his thwack home, holding his head and crying. this usually brought a complaint from the victim's parents and alfred's visits to the cellar accompanied by his father became so frequent that a boy with less ardor would surely have lost interest in his instrument. alfred repeatedly advised lin that they never could be minstrels if they did not have bones. he selected billy storey to perform on these necessary adjuncts to the minstrels. when lin brought home from john allison's meat shop a rib roast, the mother, astonished at the size of it, said: "my goodness, lin, that roast is big enough for any tavern in town." the fact was lin had not closely studied the bone player's instruments. she was of the opinion it required eight bones instead of four, hence the magnitude of the roast. the little band made the big front room the mecca for pilgrims nightly. the mother was nearly frantic; after every concert of the embryotic minstrels she solemnly admonished lin and alfred that that would be the last. lin in turn would accuse alfred of being the cause of all the din and racket. "ef it hadn't been fer cousin charley makin' alfurd thet infernal head drum (lin could never say tambourine), mary would never sed a word as she jus loves music es well es eny body else." lin asserted that "the durn jingling contraption, jes spiled the hull thing and ye don't make good music with it nohow." lin's deductions could not be controverted. alfred did not make good music with his tambourine but it is a fact that he succeeded in drowning a great deal of bad. it was a night never to be forgotten; one of those nights that will linger long in fondest remembrance by any who have enjoyed them. it was the night of one of those old time parties, one of those healthful, pleasure giving affairs, an old fashioned family party. relatives, near and distant, uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces, cousins and friends, came by invitation to the old home. games and recitations, blind-man's buff, button, button, who's got the button, uncle joe, blindfolded, pursuing the prettiest girl at the frolic, brought roars of laughter from everyone but aunt betsy. lin, sitting on a crock endeavoring to pass a linen thread through the eye of a cambric needle; uncle jack, blindfolded trying to pin the tail on the proper place on the paper donkey stuck against the wall. when he stuck the pin in the keyhole of the parlor door the laughter shook the sash in the windows. the young folks formed in a circle holding hands, slowly revolving around a bashful young man standing in the center of the circle. as they circled they sang that old ditty so dear to the youth of those days: "king william was king george's son, and from a royal race he sprung; and on his breast he wore a star, that marked his bravery in the war. go choose your east, go choose your west, go choose the one that you love best." here the young man tagged the girl of his choice. of course, the girl broke from the circle and ran but was easily captured. she was led to the center of the circle which again revolved and the song continued: "down on this carpet you must kneel, just as the grass grows in the field; salute your bride and kiss her sweet, and you may rise unto your feet." when the bashful young man received a thumping thwack from the girl of his choice in return for the kiss he planted on her rosy cheek, the laughter was renewed tenfold. all this may look cold in print to the young folks of today but it made the hot blood of the boys and girls of those good old days flow faster than the patter of their feet to the tune of the songs they sang. sis minks sang "barbara allen" with such telling effect that the assembled multitude became "as subdued as a quaker meetin'" as lin described it. sis was an old maid and lived in the country; her dog had followed her to the party. the standing of every family in those parts was rated by the number of dogs they possessed. sis's people had stood high for many years but their canine possessions had decreased. when questioned by a neighbor as to the number of dogs in his possession, the father of sis ruefully replied: "wall, i hev a house dog, a coon dog, a fox dog an' a 'feist'--it just seems like i can't git a start in dogs again." it was the house dog that had followed sis. sis always sang "barbara allen" with her eyes shut. lin said: "becaus' she'd furgit it ef she looked." sis was in the midst of barbara's woes when someone opened the door slightly. her dog slipped in. seeing his mistress before him and hearing her voice, the dog instinctively crept towards her. as her voice grew more tremulous describing barbara's sad fate, the dog, encouraged by the kindly tones, crept nearer. rising on his hind legs he drew his long, red tongue across her face and mouth. sis opened her eyes and sat down in confusion and no entreaties could induce her to continue. lin said: "i'll bet a fippennybit she thought she'd bin kissed by some feller." alfred did not greatly enjoy the party. he whispered to lin: "let's practice." [illustration: sis opened her eyes and sat down] lin ran her fingers over the keys of the melodeon. the others wanted to be coaxed as amateurs always do. there is no backwardness that requires as much persuasion to appear before an audience as that of an amateur, but when once persuaded there is no cheerfulness that exceeds that of an amateur in responding to an encore. it was not long before the little band began their concert. as they had been rehearsing for several weeks, the opening chorus, with musical accompaniment, was rendered with such vim that the assembled guests were carried off their feet. alfred's antics with the tambourine, storey's manipulation of the bones, the singing, the instrumentation, were a revelation to the good people. alfred's reputation as an actor was known to all the guests. urgent requests were made that he should don his costumes and perform his feats. alfred and lin hastened to his room, returning soon, alfred in his clown make-up, mrs. young's lowers and lin's body dress. prolonged laughter and applause greeted his appearance. first he essayed to sing a clown song entitled "the song of all songs" which runs thusly: "the subject of my song you have seen i dare say, as you've walked along the streets on a fine summer's day; on fences and railings wherever you go, you will see the penny ballads pasted up in a row. i noted them down as i read them along, and i've put them together to make up my song. there was abraham's daughter going out on a spree with old uncle snow in the cottage by the sea. do they think of me at and i'll be easy still, give us back our old commander with the sword of bunker hill." there was a great deal more of this jingle of words, ringing in the titles of all the songs of the day. notwithstanding, alfred had sung it without pause or hesitation night after night with only his associates as an audience, yet at "the sword of bunker hill" his voice faltered and a stage fright that could not be conquered overtook him. the words of the song had left his mouth, the tongue was paralyzed. as many an older actor has done before and since, alfred endeavored to conceal his confusion by stalling. it was really alfred's first appearance before a heterogenous audience. alfred learned even at that early age that there is a difference in audiences. notwithstanding his failure, with the density of perception that usually pervades an amateur's mind, alfred changed his costume to lacy hare's military togs. he mistook the shouts of laughter aroused by this suit as approval of his acting. lin relieved the situation by leading alfred out of the room ere he had presented half of his famous impersonations. lin said afterwards: "i don't know what got inter thet boy. why i allus said he had brass enuf in his face to act afore a protracted meetin' but be durned ef he warn't es bad es joe sanford when he stuck on the pole. i never been more cut up in my life, fur i would a swore he was too spunkey to git skeered." the remainder of the program was more than successful. everyone acquitted themselves creditably excepting alfred. lin sang the pathetic ballad: "out in the cold world, out in the street, asking a penny of each one i meet; shoeless i wander about through the day, wearing my young life in sorrow away. no one to help me, no one to love, no one to pity me, none to caress, fatherless, motherless, sadly i roam; a child of misfortune, i'm driven from home." lin had a deep, sweet voice, almost a baritone. she was full of sentiment and magnetism. deeply in earnest she sang the song with telling effect. a tear, a heartfelt tear, came from the eyes of more than one of the sympathetic group. uncle joe and uncle jack and one or two of the elder men had been led to the cellar several times during the evening, for a more pleasant purpose than alfred generally went there for. the hard cider was kept in the cellar, the sweet cider upstairs. uncle joe was as mellow as a pippin. at the end of lin's first chorus he threw her a handful of change. the other men threw coppers or small silver pieces. lin, like a true artist, stood unmoved and continued her song. alfred picked up the money and handed it to her. she disdained to receive it. how the fires of jealousy burned within alfred's breast as he noted the triumph of lin. how the men could become so affected as to throw her money he could not comprehend. before the next song, lin lectured alfred before the entire company, saying: "the fellur with the head drum (tambourine) in the circus minstrels never beat it in the sad tunes, only in the comic ones. es long as ye've bin showin', a body'd think ye knowed thet much." this calling down further humiliated alfred. bill storey followed in a tuneful baritone, singing: "oh, the old home ain't what it used to be, de banjo and de fiddel am gone, an' no more you'll hear the darkies singing among de sugar cane an' corn. great changes hab come to de poor colored man, but dis change makes him sad an' forlorn, for no more we hear de darkies singing among de sugar cane an' corn." then all sang the chorus: "no, the old home ain't what it used to be, (etc.)" this number met with great approval. professional jealousy surged through alfred's breast. he hated everyone who had been successful. thoughts of all kinds of revenge ran through his mind. he would tell mother that the ten pound rib roast was bought only to get eight bones for bill storey and four bones was all he could rattle on at one time. alfred felt that the whole company had conspired against him, that they were the cause of his not being appreciated. supper was announced. yes, supper, and they all sat down to a table; none of your society lunches, juggled on your knees, as served at the fashionable functions of today. when uncle wilse called down blessings upon all, even those sitting around the fire in the other room, who could not find places at the first table, bowed their heads reverently. cold roast chicken, pickles, sweet preserves, doughnuts, jellies, fine and red, cold claw, beets, hot mince pie, pound cake, layer cake, apples, tea, coffee and cider. it took mother and lin all day to prepare the repast. fun and jokes were passed at and upon one another and everybody was happy, everybody but alfred. with jealousy gnawing his vitals he sat between two big, grown-up men, unnoticed save when he requested some edible passed to him. he almost made up his mind to forsake the amusement profession and take his mother's advice to study to become a doctor. supper over, good nights were said. guest after guest departed. one garrulous gentleman remained; he was noted for his staying qualities. he would visit a family in the country near his home and keep them up until after midnight, which was a terrible breach of etiquette in those days when country folks went to bed with the chickens and town people who stayed up after eleven were looked upon with suspicion. the mother had caught herself nodding several times, the father was yawning, lin could scarcely keep her eyes open, and alfred had taken two or three naps. the prolonged visit had become almost unbearable to all except the lone guest who kept up a commonplace conversation, just sufficiently animated to keep him awake. in the middle of one of his dryest sentences lin jumped up and said: "come on folks, let's go to bed, i expect uncle wilse wants to go home." chapter nine never mind the pain for gladness will outlive it. when your neighbor needs a smile don't hesitate to give it. then came sorrow into the life of alfred. the father was ill for many months; war came with its blighting influences, bringing ruin to many, prosperity to a few. the father's family were virginians, the mother's marylanders. true to their traditions they believed in the people of the south, not favoring secession, however. in the white heat of continued controversy relatives became enemies. to add to their troubles brownsville was visited by the most disastrous fire in its history. alfred's folks lost everything, even to their wearing apparel. alfred was the most fortunate member of the family. he entered and re-entered the burning home after he had been warned not to do so. at every return from the blazing house he carried some of his boyish belongings. lin, in recounting the thrilling scenes of the night of the fire, said: "ef the men hed hed any sense all the things could hev been got out. jim lucas and tom brawley jes piled the bedsteads, bureaus, looking glasses and arm-cheers out of the third story winders an' durn ef i didn't see tom brawley kum out of the house with a arm load of pillurs wrapped up in a blanket. hit takes a fire or a dog fight to show whuther peepul hev got eny judgment or not." on his last trip out of the house alfred carried his dog "bobbie," two pet frizzly chickens, the uniform lacy hare and aunt betsy fashioned, mrs. young's part of his clown suit and the head-drum or tambourine. lin fairly snorted when she saw the boy approaching; "now look at the dratted, fickle boy, leavin' his sunday-go-to-meetin' clothes to perish fur them ole show duds. hit beats the bugs jes to think thet boy 'ud run into thet house blazin' like a lime kiln from top to bottom. a body'd thot he'd tried to save somethin' thet would a done us good. but no; all he thinks about is them ole show things. it's a wonder he didn't try to get the melodeon out eny way." the condition of the family was changed in one night from prosperity to near-poverty. the mother resolutely refused all proffered aid from relatives with whom relations had been strained. to uncle joe's and betsy's offer she returned the message: "if we were southern sympathizers before the fire, we are not beggars now." lin was as defiant as the mother: "huh, yes. ef we'd let 'em help us now, the fust election kum up they'd throw it up to us. uncle billy is a candidate fer county jedge, i reckon he wants a few votes. the lord will purvide a way." she added: "jus tell joe an' betsy an' all the rest of 'em thet we'll hoe our own row yit a while. no siree-horse-fly-over-the-river-to-green-county, we don't want no abolishunist to help us." alfred could not fully comprehend the feelings that influenced the members of the family in the stand they took, but anything his mother said or did always met with his loyal support. the proud, strong-minded mother guided the destinies of the family through the troublesome times that followed. the strictest economy was practiced in all things. brownsville has ever been noted for the hospitality of its people and the plenteous supplies found on the tables of all. therefore, when the usual good things were missing from the table and the mother explained that it would not be for long but for the time being it was imperative to live sparingly, alfred put all in a good humor by calling on muz, (the children's favorite name for the mother), "muz, cook it all up at once and let's have one good, big meal like we used to have, then starve right." uncle jake and aunt betty and all their family were steadfast friends during all the days of distress, as were uncle william and grandfather and his family. even cousin charley exerted himself to be of assistance. lin afterwards declared that the biblical prophecy, "meny shall be called an' only a few kum," had found verification in charley's changed conduct. since lin "jined" church, she often attempted to quote scripture. among other offerings that cousin charley bestowed upon alfred were two hounds with a colony of lively fleas. this gift was greatly appreciated by alfred as the dogs were good coon hunters. it was not long ere the news came to alfred's folks that cousin charley had stolen the hounds from turner simpson, a colored man who lived near the town, and noted for his superior hounds and numerous children. when the mother firmly commanded that the dogs be returned to their owner alfred was greatly disappointed. lin informed the boys that the dogs had to eat and that the mother had enough mouths to feed "without runnin' a dog's boardin' house. why ye durned little fool ye, don't ye know charley's jus put them dogs yar to git 'em kept. they'll jus keep 'em yar till they want to hunt coon an' then they'll take 'em. ef it wur a hoss or hippotumas es was in thet sorry animile show, an' charley 'ud gin it to ye, i'd feel ye could call it yer own. but a houn' dog, never. he'd never part with a houn'. some fine mornin' the houn's'll turn up missin' an' ye'll find dr. playford hes bought 'em fur about five dollars." lin's reference to dr. playford gave alfred an inspiration. he was on his way to dr. bob playford's with the hounds chained together and nearly pulling him off his feet, so eager were they for exercise. the sporting doctor's eyes glistened as he looked the dogs over and noted their good points. alfred explained that they were a present from cousin charley, that he prized them greatly but his mother would not permit him to retain them. the doctor purchased and paid for the dogs, handing the boy a crisp five dollar greenback bill. although greenbacks were greatly depreciated in value at that time, no bill of like denomination has ever before or since had the purchasing power that that five dollars had for alfred. he could scarcely contain himself until he arrived at home, that he might hand the money to his mother. the doctor informed alfred that he would give him an additional dollar if he would deliver the dogs to turner simpson, adding: "simpson keeps all my hounds; he has a pack of them there now and these two will be all i'll need for a while. be careful of the dogs, almost anybody will steal a hound dog and brag about it afterwards." when requested to deliver the dogs to simpson, alfred was dumbfounded. he was soon on his way with the dogs. they did not have to drag the boy as on the way to the doctor's house. when they struck the old road above the tannery, alfred gave the hounds a run, until turner simpson's house came into view. their arrival brought hounds from under the old log house, the porch and the stable. kinky, woolly-headed, barefooted pickanninnies peeked through broken window panes and out of half-opened doors. the baying of the hounds brought old simpson out to the road. alfred advised him that dr. playford had paid him one dollar to deliver the hounds and sent instructions that they be properly cared for. "oh, shucks. you jes tell bob i allus takes good keer ob his dawgs," spoke the old negro in a half joking way. "an' you say to de doctor, dat when he wants to take a pair ob houns away from yar agin he better jes tell me. i done sarch four days fuh dem houns. i neber dream de doctor hed 'em. i nearly hed a fite wid john mccune's boys kase i cused dem ob kidnapin' de houns. now i mus' go ober an' tell john de doctor hed de dawgs all de time." the six dollars were given to the mother. lin declared alfred the best boy in the world and one who, "ef he had the chance, could take keer of himself." a few days later cousin charley brought alfred a fine pair of white and blue pigeons in a nice little box. after talking on many subjects charley came to the real object of his visit. he stated that he had bought the two hounds from a man whom he did not know. he paid the man the cash for the dogs. now he had learned that the dogs had been stolen from turner simpson and he felt it his duty to restore them to their rightful owner. lin was washing dishes at the beginning of charley's talk. she seated herself on the table--a favorite position of lin's--and nodded approval at the end of every sentence charley uttered. when _he_ concluded, lin began: "i'll be tee-to-tall-y dog-goned ef this haint the mos' curious sarcumstance thet's ever kum up. now a man--and lin emphasized each word with the laying of the forefinger of her right hand into the palm of her chubby left--stole turner simpson's houns. ye say ye bought 'em--nodding at charley--ye didn't know they wus stole. ye gin the houns to alfurd. now ye kum after the dogs; ye has to gin the houns back to turner simpson. ye furgit who ye got the houns from an' can't git yer money back, ye're out jus thet much. now s'posin' alfurd sole them air houns to doctor bob playford--charley crimsoned--an' the doctor says 'yere alfurd, yers a dollar, carry the houns to turner simpson's' an' alfurd 'ud do hit, then yer conscience 'ud be easy, wouldn't hit?'" "yes um," meekly answered charley, "but i don't think bob playford wants to buy any houns, he has a plenty, 'bout twenty i reckon." lin smiled as she informed cousin charley that "he hed twenty-two by this time. an' let me tell ye sumthin' further: ef ye're tradin' in birds or pigins or whatever ye call 'em, ye better fin' sum other feller to handle 'em kase alfurd's got on a swappin' canter an' it'll be hard to head him." lin laughed long and heartily. cousin charley mumbled something about the principle of the thing as he left the house. it developed that cousin charley had been doing quite a business in hounds. the pair alfred had, or a similar pair, had been sold to doctor playford, at least twice during the past six months. when charley needed a little money, he just sold the doctor a pair of his own hounds. the doctor took it all good naturedly as he remarked: "charley has stolen more hounds for me than he has sold me, therefore, i still owe him." the mother, when the facts came out, forthwith sent alfred to the doctor with the five dollars. the doctor laughed and said: "alfred, go home and tell mary (his mother) that i gave you the five dollars for keeping the dogs. and say--if charley steals them again you just grab them, come and tell me and i'll give you five dollars more." alfred played spy on charley for some time but charley seemed to have lost interest in the hound business. after the old play-ground, jeffries commons was abandoned, sammy steele's tan-yard became the favorite practicing place of the athletically inclined boys of the town. the soft tan bark was even more suitable for tumbling, leaping and jumping than the old saw-dust ring on the commons. the owner of the tan-yard, sammy steele--no one ever called him samuel--was thought, by those who did not know him intimately, to be hard and severe. and so he was to those who fell under his displeasure. only a few of the boys of the town were permitted to enjoy the practicing place. alfred was one of them. to alfred, the dignified, hard working, honest tanner, was always kindly. alfred performed many errands and did many chores with quickness and willingness for the owner of the tan-yard. the willingness of the boy caught the fancy of the industrious man. one day he called alfred up to his office. the big, earnest man began by saying, (he always repeated his words)--: "little hatfield boy, little hatfield boy, you are not big enough to do much work, much work, but you are willing, you are willing, to do all you can. you are here a greater part of your time, the greater part of your time. the bark is thrown down, thrown down, from the loft to the mill, to the mill, where they grind it; i say grind it, little bits of bark fly off, fly off on the ground bark. i want the ground bark kept clear of the unground, of the unground bark. you are spry, i say you are spry. it will take you but a little while morning and afternoon to clear the ground bark pile of the unground pieces, of the unground pieces. for this i will pay you twenty-five cents a day, twenty-five cents a day." alfred wended his way home in high glee. the prospect of earning money was pleasing to the boy. long before the family arose in the morning he was up and waiting for his breakfast. although it was but a few moment's walk to his place of employment, he insisted that he had best carry his noonday lunch. this the mother would not permit. [illustration: the bark mill] active as a squirrel the boy scampered over the bark pile picking up the bits of unground bark. the work was but play. the noon hour found him on the tan bark pile practicing. as the bell rang calling the men to work he was at his place with the most industrious of them. during the many years that have begun and ended since he worked in sammy steele's tannery, alfred has received some pretty fair weeks' salaries, but no pay ever brought the happiness the one dollar and fifty cents he received for that week's work in the old bark mill when he presented it to his mother. not many days elapsed before his industry was rewarded by an increase of wages to three times the amount he had previously received. his work took wider range, upstairs to the big finishing room and the office where he came in constant contact with the owner of the tannery. he made himself more useful to the man higher up, and when his pay was increased to one dollar a day, it seemed a fortune was in sight. the illusion still clung. the present was but the means to an end and beyond lay his hopes. to become a great clown in the circus was the goal. nor were the little band of minstrels, whose rehearsals had been checked by the fire and the loss of the melodeon, lost sight of. the big finishing room found the little band of amateur minstrels rehearsing almost every night, strange to say, the straight laced old tanner did not object. when several of the nearby neighbors complained of the noise and din, he simply gave orders to limit the rehearsals to p. m. lin said: "huh! ef enybody but alfurd was at the head of it, sammy steele would a histed every one on 'em long ago." lin was peeved. she could not imagine how the singing could be anything without her voice and the melodeon. a tan-yard hand who played the violin by ear had supplanted lin. she declared he could only "fiddle fer dancin', he couldn't foller singin'. ye can't foller a fiddle an' sing, ye got to hev a melodeon or accordion. a fiddle wus never made to sing with, hit's all right fer dancin'. lor', ye never hear any real music less ye got a lead. that's the reason ye never hear any good singin' in baptus meetin'. they're agin manufactured music, they haven't got enythin' to go by." lin had joined the campbellite church for the reason that it was the furthest from the baptist belief, so she claimed. alfred always believed down deep in his heart that lin had allied herself with that particular denomination for the reason that her vocal abilities were appreciated in the little congregation and for the further reason that the church had an organ. lin felt her exclusion from the minstrel rehearsals more than she cared to reveal. alfred did all he could to comfort her. he assured her that charley wagner, the violin player, was not nearly so satisfactory as she. "but s'pose i had saved the melodeon"--(lin always attributed her rejection by the minstrel band to the loss of the melodeon)--"you couldn't a-used it in the tan-yard, it's too damp there and it would spoil the tune of it. why, it's most ruined my tambourine. beside," concluded alfred, "regular minstrels are all men, they don't have any women folks in 'em." his explanation was plausible but it did not satisfy lin. "huh! i wasn't good enuf fur yer ole tan-yard pack. i s'pose when ye got a lot of patchin' and sewin' to do, ye'll be callin' on me but ye won't fin' me in. good bye, mr. clown, minstrel. next time ye try to ak out afore folks i hope ye'll do better en ye did the nite uv the big party." this was a home thrust, it pierced to the quick. alfred was over sensitive. often, when the remembrance of the failure alluded to by lin troubled his mind, he had soothed himself with the hope that few had noticed his failure. but lin's remark forced the awful feeling upon him that, like cousin charley's potato deal, it was known and talked of by the whole town. unexpected happenings brought the rehearsals of the minstrels in the old tan-yard to an abrupt ending. it was during the dark days of the reconstruction period, immediately following the war. only those of the south can fully realize what those days meant to a people already impoverished by the _most gigantic war of christendom_. colonel charlotte, once wealthy, now reduced to almost want, (we will place his residence, oh anywhere, in virginia, georgia or alabama); his once productive plantation neglected for want of tenants and help to cultivate it, stock and products confiscated. many and earnest were the conferences held by the colonel and his unfortunate neighbors, to devise ways and means to recuperate their lost fortunes. after each conference with his friends the colonel would wend his way homeward to confer with his good wife, who was a most sensible and therefore a lovable woman. when the colonel was most despondent the wife was most buoyant, cheering him as best she could. after the colonel had given vent to his feelings, recounting for the hundredth time his helplessness in the face of the oppressive laws rigidly enforced by the carpet-bag officers; after he had delivered himself of a tirade against those who were responsible for the condition of affairs, the good wife said: "colonel, i know if the christian people of the north were aware of the sufferings of our people, we would get relief. i pity you in your troubles and do hope we may see a way to help ourselves. we are out of corn, the meal is almost gone and we have very little bacon left. our children should be in school but i cannot bear to send them with the toes out of their shoes and their shabby clothes." the colonel would compress his lips, cussing every yankee on earth. he would find his way to the country store to while away another day in useless conference with his neighbors. the same persons met daily and dispersed nightly to carry their woes to their homes. time and again colonel charlotte informed the patient little wife that he was without hope. "don't give up," encouraged the wife, "i know it looks dark but it is always darkest before dawn; let us look toward the east and pray for light. i know something will come to us, but for my part, i would not care. i can stand it, but the children, poor innocents, should not be made to suffer; no shoes or clothes fit to go to school or church in. the winter is coming on and our provisions are scant. i worry only on account of the children. colonel, do the best you can; that is all mortal can do, the lord will do the rest." the colonel left his fireside early the next morning resolved to find something to relieve the wants of his family. returning home later than usual he was in a towering rage. the good wife was alarmed. "why, colonel, what has disturbed you so?" "wife, i'm mad clar through and if captain barbour warn't an old friend of the family, i declar' to god i'd assaulted him today." "heaven forbid," pleaded the wife, "i know captain barbour surely would not wound your feelings intentionally." the colonel explained that they were talking over their troubles, bewailing their helplessness, when captain barbour said: "why colonel charlotte, you're better off than any of us, you have the means at your command to not only make a living but to lay a little money by." "and wife, when i asked him how, what do you think he said? that i had a carriage and horses and i could open a livery stable. open a livery stable!" and the hot blood of the charlottes' reddened his temples again as he clinched his fists and walked up and down in his anger. "me, a charlotte, engage in the livery business. why, wife, i could scarcely keep my hands off him. me, a charlotte, in the livery business. pollute that old family carriage that bears on its panels the crest of the charlotte family, whose blood runs back to the men of cromwell." the facts are the old family carriage was about the only relic of the charlotte family's former greatness; imported from england years before, held as almost sacred by succeeding generations of the charlotte family. to have one intimate that the sacred old vehicle should be used to convey the common herd was a heavy blow to the pride of the colonel. "well, colonel," soothingly spoke the wife, "i know your pride has been hurt, i know just how badly you feel. i know you are proud and i really fear that captain barbour in his zeal to assist you was indiscreet. he should not have spoken so abruptly but should have given you time to consider the motive that prompted him. i know--he--he--meant--well--and--and--perhaps--you--should--consider his advice. can't we talk it over?" as she approached him, looking up into his face with a half smile and a half cry, she pleaded: "i would hate to say one word that would humble your pride, but--but those children--you know they ought to have schooling. and i declare, colonel--i do not know--what we're going to do for something to--to--eat." and here the wife broke down. the colonel folded her in his arms as he soothed her, stroking her hair. he declared he would sacrifice all the pride of the charlottes that she and his did not suffer. the negroes were sent to the corn patch to fetch the old horses, pluck the burrs out of manes and tails, smooth them up by currying the long hair off their shaggy coats. the old family carriage was hauled out of the shed, washed, the brass mountings brightened, the coat of arms, the panels scoured until they shone again. the sting was somewhat removed from the colonel's feelings by the painter making the sign read "liberty stable." the word "livery" was not in the painter's vocabulary. when he assured the colonel that the sign was proper the colonel was more satisfied. four or five days wore away. the colonel, from his seat in front of the store, like enoch arden patiently watching for a sail, grew more despondent each day. one november evening, the rain gently falling from the weeping clouds seemingly in sympathy with the colonel's dismal feelings, a young negro was seen coming towards him. colonel charlotte recognized sam, a former slave, the son of an old house servant. the colonel returning the salutation in a manner none the less cheery said: "why, sam, how you all has growed up. i declare i wouldn't knowed you only your voice is so much like your father's. how's all? whar you livin' and what you a-doin' for yourself? come on boy, tell me about you eh?" sam explained to the colonel that "he was working on de new railroad buildin' down raleigh way an' wus doin' tolerable well. a dollar a day, not countin' sundays an' i gits my fodder." "well, sam, if you can stow vittles away like you all done when i fed you, you're gettin' well paid." the colonel laughed at his own joke, the first laugh he had indulged in for days. sam was encouraged by the colonel's good humor. doffing his hat, he addressed the colonel in a sort of patronizing manner: "cunnel, i dun heard you all gone into the liberty business." this flattered the colonel slightly and he straightened up, replying: "yes, sam, i just got tired of seeing my horses and vehicles around doing nothing and i wanted something to occupy my time. i don't count much on what i'll make but it will keep me from rusting out." "well, cunnel, i'se jus come all de way down yar to see you. dar's gwine to be a dance down to townsley's tonight an' me an' my company an' my friend an' his gal wants to go, an' i kum to ask you all how much you gwine fur to ax us to carry us all to de dance an'----" like a flash the colonel jumped to his feet, the old rickety, split-bottom chair was hurled after sam with the words: "you dam black scoundrel, i'll break every bone in your black body if i get hold of you." this speech was hurled after the thoroughly frightened sam as the colonel pursued him. giving up the chase the colonel stalked home. his wife observed his anger as he entered. "wife, i've never in my life sustained a worse shock than today. to think of it after all these days of waitin', after i have been in the liberty business all these days, the first human being to come to me"--and the colonel choked with rage--"the first human being to come to me to hire that old family carriage, was a dam nigger." then the colonel in more moderate language described the scene between himself and sam. the good wife listened to the colonel until he concluded. then in a conciliatory tone, she said: "well, colonel, it does seem as though fate is cruel to you. i do hope you will bear up bravely. i think it just awful that the first customer should have been a nigger. i do hope we will have others soon." then after a pause, she resumed, "insofar as i am concerned i would willingly die before i'd ask you, a charlotte, to sacrifice your pride further. but when i think of our children i don't know what to say. colonel," and she trembled as she spoke, "do you--do--you think--sam had money to pay for the hire of the carriage?" "i done heard the money jingle in his pocket when he run." "well, colonel, i wouldn't even suggest that--that--you carry those niggers to the ball, but if--if we only had the money--it would do us so much good. those children--." the colonel waited to hear no more. out into the chilly autumn evening, more briskly than he had moved in weeks, stalked the colonel. reaching the liberty stable, he ordered one of the boys to locate sam. "make haste," was his parting order. the boy soon returned escorting sam who seemed somewhat afraid to get too near the livery stable proprietor. the colonel assured sam that he desired to talk with him. leading the way he walked until well out of hearing of his stable boy. he began inquiringly, "so there's a big ball at townsley's tonight. it's the fust i've heard of it, an' you an' your company wants to go. well sam, you work hard fur your money an' you ought not to spend it too freely because winter's coming on and these reconstruction laws the yankees have put on us will make it hard on all of us." "about how much do you reckon it will cost you all to go to the ball in a first class livery turn out?" "i dunno sah," meekly answered sam. "how much you got?" was the colonel's next question. "five dollars," and sam jingled the coin in his pocket, showing a set of ivories that would have been the envy of any society belle in the land. "give it to me," and the colonel reached his long arm out towards sam, the palm of his hand up. sam placed the five dollars in it. "sam, i want to see you have your pleasure. five dollars is less than i ever charged for a carriage to a ball before. being's it's you i'll let it go fer that figure providin' you never mention to any person on earth that you hired a conveyance from colonel charlotte." "yes, sah. i'll promise an' i'll neber tell airy livin' soul 'bout it," answered sam, showing signs of fright. the colonel looked about to assure himself that there were no witnesses and commanded sam to raise his right hand and kneel on the ground. sam hesitated, the ground was wet and he had on his new store pants, but down he knelt. "now swear by all the laws of reconstruction that if you ever tell you rid in colonel charlotte's kerrige, you will be whipped by the ku-klux, haunted by ghosts and burned by witches until you are dead and buried in a grave as deep as hell." the thoroughly frightened boy assented to the oath. the colonel ordered him to arise, get his company together, "mosey" down to where the big road crossed the branch and wait until the carriage arrived. the colonel never entered the livery stable, content to leave the conducting of the same to his help. however, he was not content to trust the old family carriage to them. ordering the horses hitched to the sacred vehicle, the colonel hastened to the house, "to plant the tin, afore some dam yankee carpet-bagger grabbed it," as he expressed it. he returned to find the carriage ready for him. two tallow dips burning dimly in the big, old-fashioned lamps on either side of the driver's seat were the admiration of the boys who lighted them. the colonel ordered them to "blow them thar candles out," saying that they only blinded him. the real reason was that the colonel did not desire any light shed on the transaction that would disclose his part in it. once down the hill he halted the team under the big oak tree where four dusky figures, two males and two females, stood. in a voice he intended to sound other than his own, the colonel ordered the waiting group to "git in quick, pull down the curtains and don't airy dam niggers poke your heads out till we git to townsley's." the horses moved off, the colonel soliloquizing as they trotted along the sandy road: "s'pose i meet a white man an' he asks me where i'm goin', what will i tell him? was there ever a white man, was there ever a charlotte put to this test before. if ever a charlotte knew that i engaged in this business what would i say to him? did i ever think i'd come to this? me, colonel charlotte, hauling niggers to a ball." and he again cussed the reconstruction laws. arriving at the country store the dance was already under full headway. the fiddles and scraping of feet could be plainly heard. the voice of the caller, "swing your partners; all hands around; first gent lead off to the right," floated out on the damp air. "git out," was the colonel's orders to his fares. "now, don't stay all night or you'll walk back," were his last words to sam and his company as they ran upstairs to the ball room. tying the horses to the fence, the colonel lighted his pipe, walking to and fro to warm his chilled blood, he gave way to his gloomy thoughts again. "what would captain barbour, colonel woodburn and major hinkle say if they found out that he, colonel charlotte, was engaged in carrying niggers to a ball. ef i was to be ketched yar by a white man, what explanation could i make that would protect the honor of my family?" for himself the colonel felt that he was eternally disgraced and had reached the point where he was willing to be ostracized but hoped to protect the family name. sam returned to the carriage to find a wrap or other article the women had forgotten. the air was very chilly. "sam, have you all got any fire upstairs," asked the colonel. "yes, sah, dars a roarin' fire up yander colonel. jus walk up sah an' warm yoself." pulling his hat down over his eyes, turning his coat collar up to disguise himself, the colonel climbed the narrow stairs. peeping through the door at the whisking dancers he skulked along the side of the room until he reached the big, open wood fireplace. the warmth was very grateful to his benumbed frame. he had not the assurance to look around at the dancers; while his front side was thoroughly warmed, the rear of his anatomy was still numb. about the time he had determined to about face, the dance ceased. he heard several remarks not intended for his ears: "who is dat ole white man 'trudin' yar? whar did dat ole white man kum frum? who fetched him up yar?" the colonel couldn't bear it longer. stalking out, he descended the stairs, asking himself if he could sink lower. in the depths of degradation, what could happen that would sink him lower. a charlotte ordered out of a nigger ballroom. the cold air pierced him more quickly since leaving the ballroom. the big wood fire influenced him to return to its comforting warmth. by this time the fire had heated up the room. the heat from the over-heated revellers, the aroma permeating the atmosphere, was not unfamiliar to the colonel's sense of smell yet none the less unpleasant. it impelled the colonel to seek fresh air more quickly than the side remarks had previously. out in the chilly air he gave way to his thoughts as before, thoughts tinged with even more bitterness. the fire had made him more and more susceptible to the cold and it was not long ere the colonel started on his way to warm himself again. sam met him at the foot of the stairs. bowing and scraping, he began by apologizing profusely: "cunnel, i declars i hates to tell you all but the gemmen dat runs de frolik jus tol' me i has to. i'se been pinted a committee to tell you dey hes made a good hot fire in de back room down stairs fer you. you kin go in an' warm yerself. dey all doan wants you to kum in de big room up stairs eny more. de fak is, de ladies up dar objecks to de oder ob de stable on yer clothes." the facts are that a tannery is not as pleasant to the olfactory senses as pinaud's perfumes, but alfred, unlike col. charlotte, had exposed himself to objectionable odors by working over the vats and leather by day, and thumping the tambourine by night in the big finishing room. but no complaints ever came to his ears of the unpleasant odor of the tannery he carried home with him until lin was discarded by the minstrel band. therefore, when the mother, backed by lin, informed him that he would have to give up his tan-yard affiliations, the boy felt in his heart that as in the colonel's case, it was not the odor but prejudice. he almost wished he had arranged that lin might have retained her place as leader of the singing. but there were other reasons why he was ordered to leave the tanning business. the workman hotel was but a few steps from the old tannery. the new landlord was giving the place a cleaning up. cal wyatt, the son of the hotel man, came over to the tannery and requested alfred, john caldman, vince carpenter and several others to go over during the noon hour to the cellar and give them a hand in stacking up sundry barrels and kegs. all complied. the barrels were quickly lifted on top of each other. a tin cup full of some sort of fluid was passed around several times. all sipped from the cup, much as folks do from a loving cup nowadays. as the barrels were piled higher, the tin cup went around again and again. alfred had sipped from a large spoon a little of the same sort of tasting stuff when grandpap irons made a little toddy before breakfast. but never had his lips sunk into a tin cup filled with the stuff previously. a feeling came over him such as he had never experienced, and it seemed as if all in the cellar were similarly affected. those of the tan-yard hands who had never been known to raise their voices in song, essayed to sing the minstrel songs. those so awkward that they could not walk naturally endeavored to dance. ordinarily alfred would have laughed himself weak at the hilarious attempts of the tan-yard hands, and their imitations. under the influence of the tin cup's magic fluid he held them in that contempt that only the professional can feel for the jay who endeavors to imitate him. [illustration: the tin cup went round again and again] alfred stood motionless, or as near motionless as he possibly could. john caldman, who was known and respected as the one quiet and unobtrusive person in the tannery, and from whose lips a loud word never escaped, stood erect and immovable as the singing, dancing tan-yard hands whirled about him. with compressed lips and haughty mien he seemed not to notice them. suddenly he spoke and in a voice so loud and unnatural that all were awed into silence. the quiet man had changed so completely he seemed another person. alfred gazed at him in astonishment. he hurled epithets and denunciations at those whose names he had never before mentioned aloud. he recalled insults and abuse heaped upon him by all connected with the tannery; he invited, he insisted that the biggest and strongest of those about him come out and fight. he dared the whole crowd to jump on him. none accepting his dare he declared his intention to go to the tan-yard and clean out the old shebang, following his threat with a movement towards the tannery followed by the wobbling crowd. entering the big finishing room alfred saw the infuriated john standing in the middle of the room, an iron hook in one hand, a lump of coal in the other, while the workmen were flying upstairs and down stairs. alfred endeavored to follow those who went down stairs. he remembered starting from the first step at the top. vince carpenter afterwards informed him he never hit another step in his descent. [illustration: sammy steele's mule kicked the boy] gathering himself up in time to hear vince shout: "here comes mr. steele," as badly scared as his dazed senses would permit him to be, alfred fumbled and scrambled about for a moment. he spied a large wheel-barrow overloaded with cows' ears and other by-products of green hides that go into the refuse and find their way to the glue factory. this slimy mess was just out of the lime vat. alfred grabbed the handles and started with the wheel-barrow he did not know where, his sole object being to stall and make the boss believe he was at work. along a narrow plank walk he pushed the gruesome load, weaving, wobbling at every step, threatening to go off one side or the other at any moment, headed for the dump where all the water-soaked, discarded tan bark was deposited. reaching the dumping ground, standing between the handles of the wheel-barrow, alfred attempted to overturn it. the handles overturned alfred. down the steep incline, rolled alfred, wheel-barrow and contents in one conglomerate mass, alfred under the avalanche of cows' ears, tails, etc. mrs. hampton witnessed from her back porch the race down the dump pile. calling a couple of boys the lady led the way to where alfred lay, digging him from under the slimy mess. the boys loaded the soaking figure into the wheel-barrow and carried him home. sammy steele used as motive power in his bark mill a fine white mare and an iron grey mule. when alfred could not get the use of the white mare he rode or drove the mule. alfred's parents and others continually cautioned him to beware of the mule, that it was vicious and would surely kick him. when the boys arrived at alfred's home and lin saw them assisting the almost senseless boy into the house, she began: "well, fur the luv of all thet's holy, what's the rumpus now? i'll bet a fip sammy steele's mewel's kicked thet boy." the boys did not reply, depositing their burden on the floor, hastily departed. to lin's persistent inquiries, alfred admitted that the mule had kicked him. in a maudlin way he stuttered: "l-o-o-k-o-u-t, lin, she'll k-k-i-c-k you." then he laughed a silly laugh. lin was convinced that the boy was out of his head, delirious from the mule's kick, sent for the doctor who came in haste. lin explained that she was "skeered nearly to death. i wus yar all alone an' they kum draggin' him in. i tried to talk with him but he's plum out of his head. his mother an' his pap an' me an' all of us hes warned him time an' 'gain that that mewel would be his death, but he jus kept a-devilin' aroun' hit; now ye see what kum of hit. he's jus like he had a stroke of palsy, hit's a wonder the mewel hedn't killed him stun dead. ef hits palsied him he mought jus es well be dead." thus lin ran on as the old doctor carefully looked the patient over. the doctor had long practiced in brownsville. tomato vine poisoning cases were rare. alfred's ailment on this occasion was common. he made no mistake in diagnosing the case although he did not inform the family of his conclusions. however, he assured them that "the boy would be all right in a day or two. his appetite might not come to him at once but he would be all right in the morning. just let him sleep, don't wake him, and when he gets out caution him to--keep away from the mule," added the doctor dryly. lin said: "be durned ef hit ain't the queerest case i ever seed. alfurd's jus es sick es he kin be an' the old doctur didn't gin him nothin'." a few days later it was whispered among the neighbors that alfred and a number of the tan-yard hands broke into bill wyatt's cellar and drank up all his liquor and alfred, "little as he wus, drinked more'n eny of em." george washington antonio frazier 'lowed that alfred "drinked so much he wouldn't want another drink fer a month. i wouldn't ef i'd hed his cargo," he concluded. lin threw her head up in disgust as she denied this rumor: "huh, all ole frazier is peeved 'bout is bekase he didn't git his ole hog belly filled up fur nuthin'." alfred slept he knew not how long. it was night when he awoke. half awake, he would doze and dream--now he was carrying gourds of water to uncle joe, hastening back to get a gourdful for his own parched lips. he would invariably drop the gourd or have some other mishap--he never got the water to his lips. he realized that there were others in the room, the lamp was too low to distinguish them. he listened endeavoring to hear what they were talking of. the old clock down-stairs struck two, then the little clock on the mantelpiece chimed twice. a figure arose, softly crossing the room and a hand was laid softly on the boy's forehead. his eyes were closed but he knew it was his mother's hand. "he is a little less feverish, pap, you had best go to bed. i'll call lin early and lie down. now go on, you have to work and you won't feel like it, if you don't get your sleep. go on now, if he gets worse, i'll call." "gets worse i'll call you." alfred repeated the words over and over in his mind. he imagined at first that he had been sick a long time. he gathered his thoughts--the old tavern cellar came into his mind, the antics of the tan-yard hands after they had quaffed from the tin cup. alfred got no further in his ramblings than the tin cup; only a ray of thought, yet it was of sufficient power to cause the boy to retch and strain as though he would heave his stomach up. the mother was holding a vessel in one hand and supporting the very sick boy with the other arm. "muz, muz, what's the matter with me--how long have i been sick--d-do you th-i-n-k i'm goin' to die?" the mother soothed him and persuaded him to go to sleep. alfred closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. he heard footsteps and, peering out of the corner of his eye, he perceived the form of his father bending over him. softly walking over to where the mother sat with bowed head, the father began: "i thought i heard him talking. was he awake?" "yes," answered the mother. "what did he say?" eagerly inquired the father. the mother informed him. the father, looking toward the bed, remarked half to himself: "i hope he will be sober enough to talk to me before i leave the house." "why, john," hastily began the mother, "you speak as if he were an old toper." "well, mary. i did not mean it that way. but i have been worried ever since that minstrel crowd has been gathering at the tan-yard. of course, i never knew alfred to drink whiskey but they all drink more or less and alfred is not the boy to pass anything by there's any fun in." "but they had no business to give a boy whiskey," argued the wife, "and i would see about it and i would make an example of them if i were you." "i will do all of that and more," warmly answered the father. after a pause, he resumed: "they tell me they were all in wyatt's cellar and cal wyatt drew a tin cup of high proof whiskey. alfred put the cup--" alfred was following the father's words. at the mention of the word "cup," his stomach rebelled again. his father was holding a vessel, his mother supporting the boy's head. turning his head, the father ejaculated: "phew! if that isn't rot-gut i never smelt it." alfred pretended to go to sleep and the father and mother talked long and earnestly. their solicitude for the erring boy, touched alfred to the heart. he had not realized until this moment the meanness of his actions. when alfred fully realized the misery and suffering he had caused his parents, he was impelled to crawl to them and kiss the hem of their garments, promising never to cause them pain from the same cause again. let it be recorded he did not realize immediately when he drank from the cup, that it was whiskey. after the first swallow or two he became oblivious to his danger. he felt that he was forever disgraced. he thought of getting out of bed and fleeing, he cared not whither, only to get far away from the scene of his disgrace. we do not know that the boy resolved that he would never touch, taste or handle whiskey again. we do not know what resolutions he made to himself, but we do know that whisky never passed his lips again until he was more than a man grown and then rarely and in very small quantities. alfred slept. when he awoke it was daylight. the sun was shining brightly. his first thought was that he would be late for work. then he heard the voice of a neighbor woman, one whom the mother disliked, one who was noted for her tatling propensities. as an excuse to call she had brought fruit for alfred. the boy overheard her inquiries as to his condition. she whispered long and earnestly with lin. the latter, looking down at the pale face of alfred began questioning him: "well, i see ye're alive yit, i gess ye'll kum out of hit. i s'pose the hull durn town'll be laffin' at me. i never dreamed ye wus jus corned. ef i'd knowed, i'd brot ye out uf it quicker; i'd jus made a hull tin cup uf hot mustard--" alfred heard no further than "tin cup." flopping over on his stomach, endeavoring to hold down the last remnants of his innards, he begged to be left alone. but lin kept on: "an' yere i sends fur the doctor es innercent es a baby an' up an' tole him sammy steele's mewel hed histed ye. an' when he was feelin' roun' ye i thot he was feelin' fur busted bones, an' durned ef i ever knowed even when ye begun throwin' up on the carpit thet ye wus jus drunk." lin continued: "ef i hadn't sent fur the doctor it wouldn't be so blamed green lookin' in me. i'll never hear the las' uf hit. i'll bet sammy steele's mewel's ears will burn, the hull town'll be talkin' 'bout thet mewel. they'll say he's a powerful kicker," and lin laughed despite herself. "why, fur weeks after joe sandford got into thet fix with his wall-paper show clothes folks would laff when i went into meetin'. i could tell what they wus thinkin' uf the minnit they'd smile. un the wust part uf hit is i went over to mrs. todd's an' we cried fur two hours. mrs. todd's brother got kicked in the spinel string (cord) with a mewel an' he died the same nite. he never moved after he wus kicked. he wus ossified from head to fut." alfred laughed. lin corrected herself by saying: "thet's what mrs. todd sed ailed him, but i knowed she meant 'palsified'." alfred again laughed. lin knew she had made a mistake; she was sensitive and it nettled her to notice the smile on alfred's face. in tones quite testy she advised him to "hold his laff 'til he could feel hit. ye needn't git so peart, ye hain't out of danger yit, ye're liable to have anuther collapse or sumthin' else. ye'll never look as white aroun' the gills when ye're laid out in them linen sheets ye stole fur yer show." lin "wondered what gran'muther would say when she heard of his 'sickness'." at the word "sickness" lin winked with both eyes. "i'll bet a fip uncle ned will say: 'well, he's another notch nearer hell.'" alfred did not consider the reference to uncle ned, but grandmother came up in his mind and he determined to go to the old lady and tell her the whole truth. and this he did and, instead of condemnation, he received advice that strengthened him in avoiding many of the same sort of pitfalls thereafter. the tin cup incident ended alfred's connection with the tan-yard but alfred never regretted his experience. the work was most health-giving and muscle developing. the examples of industry and integrity learned from sammy steele have been a guiding post in the life of the boy. alfred had not been in his employ long until he was permitted to conduct small trades with the customers who visited the tannery. one day a highly respected farmer brought in a hide. alfred weighed the hide and figured up the amount due the farmer when mr. steele entered the room, passing the compliments of the day with the farmer. the hide was spread out on the table. the tanner folded it over as if to ascertain if it had been damaged in the skinning process. at the first touch of the hide he looked into the farmer's face, and in a careless tone, asked: "been killing a beef?" "yes," drawled the farmer. "eh, huh, eh, huh," nodded the tanner, "what did you do with the carcass?" "oh, we found a market at home for it. we got a big family," replied the farmer. "eh, huh" assented the tanner. reaching over, he took up the slate, rubbed out alfred's figures, figured the hide at about two-thirds the amount alfred was about to pay the farmer. to alfred's surprise the farmer accepted the cut in price and hastily took his leave. the tanner looked after him in a contemptuous manner, turned to alfred and inquired if he knew the farmer. alfred answered: "yes, he's a neighbor of my uncle. he belongs to the baptus church and i heard the preacher say if god ever made an upright man, he was one." "yes, yes," answered the tanner, "god made all men upright but a murn hide will warp most of them." a murn hide is one taken from an animal that dies of a disease. the sensitive touch of the old tanner detected the diseased hide immediately. alfred has applied this incident to many deals in his life and a murn hide became one of his pet references to a crooked transaction. the tie of friendship between alfred and sammy steele lasted while the tanner lived. sammy steele had not acquired a fortune in all the years of his hard labor. a skilled workman, he respected labor. no employe of his was ever tricked out of his wages. he was as fair to the poor as to the rich and both trusted him. in an uncouth world he was a gentleman; he bowed as courteously to a wash-woman as to an heiress. an honest man, he was alfred's boyhood friend, his friend in manhood. alfred loved him while he lived and respected his memory after he was gone. if there were more like sammy steele in this world there would be better boys and better men. chapter ten if every man's eternal care were written on his brow, how many would our pity share who raise our envy now? lest those who read these pages through feelings of sympathy for the author, or influenced by curiosity, may gain the impression that the people of brownsville were not as staid as the exacting proprieties of society demanded, it must be pointed out that there was not a bar-room in the town. the two bakeries, william chatland and josie lawton, sold ale by the glass. every tavern sold whisky by the drink from a demi-john, jug or bottle that was kept locked up. the landlord carried the key and served his customers from a glass or tin-cup. he poured out the drink, limiting the amount to the condition of the one served. alfred would never admit pittsburg in advance of brownsville except in one thing--the mirrored palaces where only cut glass was used in serving the thirsty. [illustration: bill brown] it is peculiar how one's environments will influence his actions in after years. bill brown continues to send cut glass goblets to his friends. he boasts that _his_ friends drink only out of cut glass. this boast does not arouse alfred's envy as he has friends in brownsville who can drink out of the bung hole of a barrel. with going to school five days in a week and hunting saturday, alfred was kept within bounds. kate abrams--everybody who knew him addressed him as "kate" (none ever called him decatur)--captain kate abrams was the beau ideal of a man in alfred's estimation. brave, gay and companionable, a man who loved boys and hated hypocrites, a riverman, one who had plyed the southern rivers from mouth to headwaters, as well known in st. louis or natchez as in his home town, high strung and generous, he was just the kind of man that boys love and respect. to go hunting with kate was a pleasure alfred esteemed above all others. he was the first wing shot alfred ever hunted with. it was the custom of the hunters of that section to kill all their game sitting. when alfred was permitted to handle and shoot the double-barreled gun captain abrams had purchased in st. louis, he experienced thrills known only to an ardent hunter when a gun, the like of which he had never seen before, comes into his hands. "you can't miss shootin' that gun", was alfred's comment. captain abrams generally killed all the game, furnished all the ammunition and divided even with the boys. the captain, daniel livingston and alfred had been out one saturday but bagged only two rabbits; the boys were figuring in their minds how two rabbits could be divided among three persons. when they arrived at the parting point, the captain remarked, "i know you boys would rather have a half dollar each than a rabbit." with this he handed each a bright half dollar. alfred had gone but a few steps toward home when a stranger halted him, inquiring as to the location of the office of the _clipper_, the weekly newspaper. alfred obligingly directed the man to the office. the stranger had alfred greatly interested. he was a journeyman printer. harrison was his name. harrison was only one of the many who roamed over the country in those days. they roamed from one spree to another, sometimes looking for work and never keeping it long if found. harrison was an editorial writer. there were many of them in those days; their enunciation of their political faith was abuse of all who dared dispute them. they wrote for many years and not one line of their output serves as a true mark of the times or people of the days in which they lived. [illustration: harrison and alfred] harrison had walked from uniontown. he had been working on the _genius of liberty_, had left the paper before it ceased publication, as he put it. he borrowed alfred's half dollar. he promised he would meet alfred at the _clipper_ office early next morning. alfred was there early but harrison did not arrive until noon. alfred learned afterwards that high noon was early for harrison, he always did his work between twelve o'clock midnight and bed-time. alfred never liked the man from the time he failed to keep his appointment and repay the half dollar, although for the next year he was in closer touch with harry harrison than any human being on earth. but he soon discovered that harrison had knowledge of many things that he wished to learn. of course, he got a great deal of chaff with the grain, but it was all enlightening. harrison had no difficulty in arranging with mr. hurd as editor, foreman, pressman, reporter and general manager of the _clipper_, issued every thursday. he had come from the _genius of liberty_ published in uniontown, a paper savagely opposed to the _clipper_. alfred's father was a reader and an admirer of the _genius of liberty_, a democratic paper, a hater of the principles of the _clipper_ and not very friendly toward the owner thereof. when harrison called at alfred's home to induce the parents to permit alfred to ally himself with the office force of the newspaper of which harrison was the head, the father bluntly told him that he did not have any faith in a democrat who espoused the principles continuously enunciated by that abolitionist sheet, the _brownsville clipper_, and he would not permit a child of his to work for the paper. harrison advised the family that although he was a democrat he was above all a newspaper man, and newspaper men were compelled often times to sacrifice principles to exigencies. that it was not a matter of the present but of the future. alfred should be fitted for a career that would bring him honor and renown. harrison declared the boy was precocious beyond his years, all he required was training, and he, harrison, was in a position to offer the boy opportunities that might never knock at his door again. notwithstanding the fact that the _brownsville clipper_ had on many occasions praised the business competitor of alfred's father and, while uncle billy was a candidate for county judge, not only assailed his loyalty but referred to all his family in uncomplimentary terms, alfred became an attache of the paper. according to harrison's statement alfred was to be one of the business staff, although there was no written agreement to that effect. however, harrison made mention of this fact several times in conversation with the family. as harrison was editor, reporter, foreman of the composing room, and also the compositor, pressman, etc., the only opening for alfred was in the business department. lin said that harrison was the "most nicest man that ever kum from uniontown, thet they was nearly all 'mountin hoosiers' but she would bet harrison kum from a good family and she hoped hurd's would feed him right." in those days it was the custom for the employer to board his hands. the first three days alfred was in the business department he carried two tons of coal in two big pails from the cellar to the third story--the press room. harrison declared it was not possible to publish a clean sheet unless the room was kept at an even temperature. harrison had reference to the mechanical part of the paper, not the literary. on press day, baggy allison, the town drayman, helped out. he worked the lever of the hand-press. it required heft and strength to pull the lever as it was necessary to press the form heavily to give the type the proper impression on the paper. alfred was the roller. two gluey, molassy, sticky rollers about four inches in diameter with handles on them, not unlike a small lawn mower without wheels, was first run over the ink smeared on a large flat stone, then over the form lying on the press after each impression. press day was a big day in the little printing office. harrison had inaugurated reforms and improvements in the paper. he had a catchy style in writing up the news. for instance: when polly rider and jacob rail were united in marriage, the groom requested a nice mention of the wedding, it was promised him. the following appeared in the _clipper's_ next issue: "on wednesday evening in the presence of a large and respectable gathering of the quality of bull skin township, jacob rail and polly rider were married by a duly qualified squire. the affair was held at tom rush's tavern. all following the bride and groom a-horseback made a crowd as long as any that ever attended an infair or any other public outpouring in this neighborhood. rush sets the best table on the old pike twixt brownsville and cumberland. at this infair he outshone all others; many claimed it was the best meal they ever sat down to. mine host is not a candidate for any office we know of but he can get anything he wants in this county insofar as the support of this paper goes. and we know whereof we write. two baskets filled with dainties and a demi-john came to this office. the whole office wishes the happy landlord 'bon vivant' until we can do better by him. the bride wore red roses and other posies; the groom wore a new black suit which he bought at skinner's round corner clothing store. everybody wishes them a pleasant voyage through life, as does the clipper." the two baskets of dainties had not been received when the article was written but a copy of the paper found its way into the hands of the landlord before the ink was dry and the baskets and demi-john were in the office soon thereafter. folks were just as susceptible to favorable mention then as now. in the same column of the _clipper_ appeared this voluntary tribute: "t. b. murphy, the handsome and polite ladies' man, the artistic grocer, has just gotten in a large supply of everything in his line. murphy is just a little cheaper and a great deal better than other grocers. among the toothsome goodies which the boys of the clipper dote on are the fresh scotch herring all ready for eating and the sugar crackers. they go together and make a snack fit for a king to gorge on." harrison never tired of sugar crackers and scotch herring. the herring kept him continually thirsty, hence jose lawton came in for favorable mention: "jose lawton, the oldest and best baker in the town this day received a dray load of spencer & mckay's cream ale. spicy and brown, it is a nectar fit for the gods and spurs on ye editor in his untiring labors for that great moral inspiration, the public." all that day the business department of the paper was very busy with a large coffee pot carrying inspiration from lawton's to the press room. harrison carried his reforms and innovations to the editorial pages of the paper. in his first editorial he attacked those who held the offices and those who aspired to them, that is, those to whom the paper was opposed. uncle billy hatfield was a candidate for county judge. the _clipper_ said: "the office holding habit is so strongly imbedded in the family," (uncle billy had been a justice of the peace, another uncle a constable and alfred's father burgess for one term), "that if the voters of this county defeat them, as they surely will do as the clipper is in the fight to stay, and they were sent to the island of ceylon, where the natives have no clothes on, they wouldn't be there long before they would hold all the offices. and thus, like here, have their hands in the pockets of the naked voters." press day harrison would fly fold and what not until a dozen copies had been run off that looked right to him. with these he left the office, the drayman and business department struggled along with the printing of the paper. the circulation was nine hundred and it generally took the day and far into the night to work off the edition. harrison carried the copies containing complimentary write-ups of various enterprises and persons in town to the persons themselves and frequently returned with articles contributed by the recipient of the write-up. he would bestow them on the office force, a pair of suspenders to alfred, a pair of gloves to baggy allison, cigars, cheese, scotch herring, sugar crackers and tobacco, were distributed and kept on hand at all times, that is all times near press day. harrison generally celebrated for three days. press day was thursday; he kept it up until sunday when he was generally very sick. on this, alfred's first press day, baggy allison, the pressman, grew very tired when three hundred of the edition had been worked off. the pressman proceeded to take a nap. that the great preserver of public morals might not be delayed in delivery, alfred essayed to work the press. the foot rest was too far away for him to reach the lever. the first time he pulled it towards him while on a tension, the lever slipped from his slender grasp, and flying back, snapped one of the small springs in the press. harrison was sought and finally found but was too effulgent to realize the calamity. he recommended the press be shipped to philadelphia and the office closed for two weeks. he was evidently feeling so good that he could not entertain the idea of getting back to the regular life in less time. mr. hurd, the owner, insisted that davy chalfant, "the best blacksmith in the country," could repair the spring. alfred was dispatched with the broken bits to davy's shop. davy was not only noted for his mechanical skill but for his likes and dislikes. he had a great admiration for mechanics who labored with heavy tools or machinery and greater contempt for all who were engaged in lighter labor. davy could shoe horses, weld tires or axles as no other blacksmith in those parts. [illustration: "what does hurd take me fur, a damned jeweler?"] kaiser, the town jeweler, a german of delicate physique and features, a skilled workman, was held in special contempt by the big blacksmith who never passed the jeweler's shop that he did not hurl, under his breath, contemptuous words at the delicate little jeweler sitting in his window with a magnifying glass on his eye, plying his trade. when alfred handed the blacksmith the broken bits of the spring he took them in the hollow of his big palm and said: "what's these?" alfred explained that the press was broken and it would be impossible to print the paper until the spring was repaired and mr. hurd said he knew that he, mr. chalfant, could fix it. davy turned the bits of broken steel over in his palm with the forefinger of his other hand as he musingly said: "so hurd said i could fix this thing, did he?" and here he handed alfred the broken bits. "well, you take it back to hurd an' ax him what he takes me fur, a damned jeweler?" someone suggested that gus lyons, the machinist and piano tuner, could repair the spring, which he did after several hours work. harrison celebrated longer, with the result that the remainder of the edition was not worked off until after the regular edition of the following week. the edition of the week before went out with the regular edition with an added note at the top of the page explaining the terrible accident to the press which caused the delay. it was one of the onerous duties of the business department to deliver the paper in three towns, brownsville, bridgeport and west brownsville. to the houses on the hill above workman's tavern he generally sent the paper by a boy; the subscribers along water street, down toward the coal tipple, were served by somebody alfred met going that way. [illustration] when alfred took charge of the business department he was furnished a list of the subscribers in the three towns. it was not long until he lost the list; in fact, he never was guided by the list. none of the democrats of any prominence in the town took the paper, but every week, those holding office would be touched up in the paper. the business department always took pains to deliver a copy of the paper to one thus mentioned. if the article were pretty severe alfred saw to it that all the family of the one roasted received a copy of the paper. this kept things stirred up around the office and the town. alfred generally distributed the papers to every family whether they subscribed to it or not. from the outlying districts there came many complaints of the non-delivery of the paper. the owner of the paper hired a horse and buggy to trace the business department in its work. bob and mrs. hubbard owned a malt house and made excellent ale, so it was said. they were subscribers to the paper. the owner of the paper visited the hubbards. the mrs. was the business end of the firm. after visiting a little while and sampling a goblet of the ale, the owner of the paper announced the object of his visit: "we have a new boy, complaints have come to the office that our readers are not receiving their papers regularly. how about yours?" mrs. hubbard looked at the owner rather surprised, as she informed him that she "'adn't noticed the paper around the 'ouse in several weeks." she said: "i thought you 'ad stopped printing it." this nettled the owner, who was proud of his paper. "no ma'am! we have never stopped it but you won't lose nothing, we will run you five weeks over on the next year's subscription." and he took another glass of ale. the owner expressed his disappointment that the paper had not been delivered regularly. he remarked as he sipped at the fresh goblet of ale the lady had insisted on him taking, "you shall have your paper regularly hereafter, i shall bring it down myself every thursday evening." "oh lor', no, mr. urd," the good woman began, "oh lor', 'urd, we wouldn't 'ave you trouble yourself for hennything. never mind the paper, we never reads hit enyhow." alfred did not fancy harrison but was constantly associated with him. there was a charm about the man for alfred that was stronger than his dislike. harrison knew, or pretended he did, all the showmen of the day, he would discuss them for hours while alfred sat in open-mouthed wonder. there was one feature alfred studied over greatly--harrison's acquaintance with all noted showmen was brought about in nearly every instance by harrison having assisted them financially at some time. alfred had never thought of a clown or a minstrel except as one rolling in wealth. when harrison related how he had assisted dan rice out of louisville when in distress and sam sharpley out of maysville when creditors oppressed him, alfred's respect for the man was still more lessened. but it influenced him to look upon actors with a feeling less exalted than previously. [illustration] alfred learned in after years that the hallucinations of harrison as to assisting actors financially were common in the minds of those who lived a roving life. harrison gave alfred the first copy of the _new york clipper_ he ever read, probably the only amusement paper in the united states at that time. alfred was all of one rainy sunday reading that copy of the _clipper_. he kept it hid in the cow stable fearing his father would object to the paper. alfred became an authority on sports and amusements. the town people marveled at his knowledge. frank mckernan, the sporting shoemaker, referred every argument that came up in his shop as to actors or prize fighters to him. harrison presented alfred a book on stage management. it contained just such information as he had been seeking. the band of minstrels were busily rehearsing in the back room of frank mckernan's shoe-shop. harrison elated alfred with the information that after the troupe became perfectly rehearsed they could give performances every saturday night in jeffres hall and money would roll in on them. john and charley acklin, splendid singers from the methodist church choir, joined the troupe when the minstrels serenaded alfred's family. lin acknowledged, "the singin' wus purty an' ye git along right good although hit mought be better." harrison pronounced the troupe perfectly rehearsed and ordered alfred to secure jeffres hall for the following saturday night. then came trouble. harrison assumed to be manager and treasurer. win scott, alfred's dearest pal, had always been the door-keeper. win was intensely jealous of harrison. alfred required harrison's aid with the newspaper and to have a few handbills printed. he loved old win and he was greatly disturbed as to how to appease win and satisfy harrison. harrison had become very much interested in lin. the lady had not given him any encouragement. lin had a beau to whom she was loyal. harrison continually quizzed alfred as to lin's attitude toward him. alfred truthfully advised harrison that lin had never referred to him. harrison, in addition to his impecuniosity, had other peculiarities of which vanity was not the least. alfred persuaded lin to accompany harrison to the proposed show. as lin's "steady" was employed in a distant town and she was very anxious to witness the first minstrels performance, she sort of half way promised to permit the itinerant printer to escort her to the show. but she decidedly declared, "ef he kums near me with the smell of licker on him i'll sack him quick." alfred felt that he was playing a desperate game but he had a great deal at stake. the fact is, in all his other shows he had never enjoyed the luxury of a treasurer. he did not fully comprehend the meaning of the term; a door-keeper was all he required and when harrison continually talked of the treasurer as the one who held the destinies of the troupe in the hollow of his hand, it was displeasing to alfred. in fact, alfred had inwardly resolved that harrison should not handle the funds. win scott, his boyhood friend, should keep door and take in the money as heretofore. alfred resolved, though lin even refused to accept the invitation of harrison, that he would declare himself at the last moment as to the treasurership. alfred called on mr. jeffres, the owner of the hall, the only one in town, stated his business, inquired as to the rental for a single night, intimating to the fidgety little englishman that the hall would be rented many subsequent nights if the price was satisfactory. alfred has experienced many rebuffs but none so overwhelming as the refusal of mr. jeffres to consider his proposition. he was smothered with astonishment, chagrin and several other emotions that no appropriate names have been found for. the parting words of mr. jeffres kept ringing in his ears as he sorrowfully walked homewards, his heart so heavy he could scarcely lift his feet from the ground: "hi do not care to rent my 'all to hirresponsible persons. hi 'av no desire to 'ave you an' your scalawags ha-running about my 'all naked as some of you did the day you 'ad your grandfather's coolin' sheets tacked hon the hold rag tent hin front of my 'ouse." jeffres bowed alfred out of his house as he concluded his speech. lin was up in arms. "huh! let ole tilty go to blazes with his ole 'all (mimicking jeffres). i'll git ye the campbellite meetin' house, see ef i don't." the true inwardness of the refusal of the hall was that jeffres was the business competitor of alfred's father. captain decatur abrams was building the steamboat "talequah." jeffres greatly desired the contract and felt sure that he would get it. captain abrams was the father's friend through all the vicissitudes of those troublesome days and the contract went to alfred's father. in after years, when the old gentleman, whose feelings had softened with age, invited alfred to appear in his hall, alfred met the astounded man with a courtesy and consideration that made the two men friends ever afterwards. spurred to greater activity in furthering his scheme to produce his first minstrel enterprise, alfred, without consulting anyone, walked out the old pike to the redstone school-house. he waited outside until the noon hour. with the sound of the children's voices in their happiness at play disturbing his interview he made his errand known to the teacher. miss lenhart, the teacher, was the sweetheart of his cousin will, although alfred was not aware of it nor did he know of the influence this had in securing him the school-house until long after the couple were wedded. washington brashears, the president of the school directors, gave his permission and thus was the school-house secured. all the scholars, the teacher and the school directors were to receive free tickets for the performance. the mother, remembering the boy's mishaps in similar attempts, was very earnest in her efforts to dissuade him from giving the exhibition, particularly when she was informed by the enthusiastic showman that the price of admission would be twenty-five cents for grown folks and a levy (twelve and a half cents) for children. harrison wrote up jeffres in the _clipper_ as "one who would impede the progress of civilization. the discourager of genius and talent." hurd toned down the article somewhat. however, it had the effect of advertising not only alfred but his great moral exhibition. lin loaned alfred the last cent she had in the world and accompanied him to the dry goods store that he might not be imposed upon in the purchase of red calico to be used as a curtain. "i'll be thar from the time hit opens 'til it's over an' thar'll be no wall-paper show clo's in it nuther, ye see ef thur is. mary, ye needn't be skeered, jes res' easy, i'll see hit's all es proper es eny meetin' or sunday school an' ef they don't like it, be dog-goned ef i don't make alfurd gin the money back." this last declaration did more to allay the worry of the mother than anything that had been said before. the mother actually so forgot her fears that she assisted lin in sewing the curtains. old man risbeck, a neighboring farmer, not only loaned alfred the lumber to build the platform, or stage, but assisted in building it. park mcdonald, another farmer, a little the worse for hard cider, also assisted, with a great deal of advice which was not followed. the teacher dismissed school at noon friday that all might be in readiness for the big show saturday night. alfred was not altogether pleased with the idea of lin bossing the whole job, fearing that many members of his troupe would be disgruntled over her domineering manner. however, she was so enthusiastic and inventive he refrained from doing or saying anything that would impair her usefulness. lin was very sensitive and somehow alfred felt that the success of the great undertaking required lin's help. alfred had worked all night setting type and working off a small, square bill, printed in black ink on pink paper. he would have used red, blue or any other highly colored ink if it had been in the office. the bill read: hatfield and storey's alabama minstrels redstone school-house early candle light come one--come all admission price cents for men and women twelve and a half cents for children. [illustration: alfred as a bill poster] alfred not only set up and printed the bills announcing his first minstrel show but distributed them, tacking them up in conspicuous places. the first bill was tacked on mart claybaugh's blacksmith shop near the old brubaker tavern. alfred then continued out the pike to searight's tavern. at uncle billy hatfield's a great display was made on barn, blacksmith and harness shop. when uncle billy returned home and read the bill headed "hatfield and storey's alabama minstrels," he first imagined that his political enemies were working something off on him. cousin will's explanation did not satisfy him and he ordered the bills removed, fearing they might jeopardize his political chances. alfred visited plumsock, cook's mill, joshua wagner's cider press. even at that early day alfred had the advertising idea pretty well developed. press day the paper was worked off more promptly than usual and alfred had the entire edition delivered by dark. harrison had a longer list of complimentary mentions than usual, hence he celebrated more copiously than ever. lin learned of this through alfred. she remarked: "durn him an' his drinkin'. i'll jes fool him; i'll go out with you all." this was another jolt for alfred as charley wagner, the violinist of the company, was one of those obstinate dutchmen who had to be treated "just so," otherwise he would "pack up his wiolin und scoot," as he expressed it. wagner was fully informed as to the insinuations lin had indulged in reflecting upon his ability and more than once he had advised alfred, "if dor beeg wirginia gal gets anyting to do mid dis troupe, yust count me out." george washington antonio frazier, the town teamster, had been engaged by alfred to transport the troupe and properties to and from the little red school-house. a good sleighing snow covering the ground, the teamster had provided a big bob-sled well filled with straw to keep the feet warm. the start was to be made at o'clock. alfred finally prevailed upon lin to walk to the top of town hill and get in the sled there. he argued to her that she being the only woman in the party it would not look well for her to ride through town. lin finally agreed to do as alfred desired. then came another embarrassment. alfred's brother joe insisted on going. he followed his elder brother up and down stairs crying all the while. finally it was decided to take the little fellow along. customs cling to a family the same as other entanglements. alfred's little brother was handicapped with a crop of curls exact imitations of those that had so embittered the early days of alfred's life. when the sled was loaded and all the troupe comfortably seated therein, it was discovered that the driver was not in sight. alfred knew where to find him and was at his side in a moment. the old fellow was in the act of raising a large glass of whiskey to his lips as alfred touched him on the arm and politely announced that the sled was loaded and all were waiting for the driver. lowering his arm, with the liquor untouched in his hand, the driver began: "look yer, young man. you agreed to give me four dollars to carry you out to redstone school-house an' back. my team'll hev to be fed thur an' i'll hev to eat supper somewhar. ye'll hev to pay up the money afore i move a dam foot." with this he raised the liquor to his lips and swallowed it with one gulp. the bar-room was crowded, as it usually was at that hour of the day. for a moment alfred was confused; he did not possess one cent of money and it flashed through his mind that no one in the troupe would be likely to have any. for just one moment his heart started downwards; the eyes of all were upon him. pulling himself together and straightening himself up to his full height, he said: "mr. frazier, i hired you to haul us to the school-house and return and insofar as your horse feed is concerned, that was not mentioned. i always intended you to eat supper with us at eliza eagle's. when you get back to town and complete your part of the bargain i will pay you, and not before." this speech caught the crowd and took the old teamster somewhat by surprise. "wall, ef you'll put up the money with the landlord, i'll take ye out an' ef ye don't ye can hoof it," was the teamster's reply. turning to the bar-tender, he said: "give me a little more licker." the last demand of the teamster was not an unreasonable one and it would not look well to refuse it. alfred hotly replied: "you'll get your money when you do your work; i would not put up five cents for you while you are drinking whiskey." this angered the old fellow. he sneeringly replied: "i pay fur my licker an' it's nun uf yer dam business how much i drink uf it." through the window alfred discerned a team and sled driving by. rushing out he discovered that it was his uncle jack craft. the two families were not on speaking terms and had not been for a long time. alfred shouted: "ho, uncle! ho, uncle! hold on; pull up, i want to see you." the uncle seemed more than glad to have alfred approach him. he did not even wait to hear the whole of the story alfred had to tell of frazier's meanness. driving his much larger and more stylish conveyance alongside frazier's rig, the passengers and baggage were transferred before frazier realized what had transpired. as he emerged from the hotel he was met with jeers from the troupe as they started off up the old pike, not so rapidly as alfred and uncle joe once traversed it on black fan, but at a pace that put all in good humor. alfred sat on the front seat holding his little brother and charley wagner's violin. it was not solicitude for the safety of the instrument that prompted him to persuade wagner to permit him to hold it. he figured that if wagner balked when lin got in the sled at the top of the hill he would be better entrenched to argue with the obstinate leader with the violin in _his_ hands. when lin hailed them by shouting: "how-dye, how's the minstrels?" all greeted her cordially. alfred had his eye on the leader. while he was not as cordial in his greetings as the others, he smiled and returned lin's salutations. alfred explained jokingly that lin came along to take care of little joe and to help lize eagle out with the supper. the party was a merry one and everyone they met was the butt of their mirth. old man bedler at the toll gate passed the party free and wished alfred all kinds of good luck. the old german's voice trembled and a tear rolled down his bronzed cheek as he shook hands with alfred and said: "good luck! ef my poor billy was only here he'd be with you." he referred to his only son who was drowned a few months previously. alfred had assisted in recovering the body and the old toll-gate keeper had the kindliest feelings for him. it did not require long to arrange the stage and place the few properties. lin was everywhere busy at all times. the widow eagle's humble home was only a short distance from the school-house. supper was called and lin and charley wagner were seen coming from the school-house together joking and laughing. lin had captivated the leader. lin refused to sit at the first table, she declared she would wait and eat with mrs. eagle and mary emily, the daughter. meanwhile, she busied herself waiting on the table. she was markedly attentive to the leader, filling his plate even when he protested that he had more than enough. the leader was an old bachelor. when he got the wishbone of the chicken all insisted that lin and he pull it. when the leader got the short piece all laughed and joked him; all the party was jolly. no. there was one who was not, although he endeavored to conceal it by laughs and remarks. lin knew that alfred was nervous and worried. he was in doubt as to the receipts covering expenses; he was in doubt as to the show pleasing. in fact, he was suffering the tortures all have endured--who have a conscience--who ever produced a public entertainment. the curtain went up, or rather was pulled aside, on alfred's first minstrel show. seated in the semi-circle were billy storey, bones and stump speech; amity getter, interlocutor or middleman, vocalist and guitar player; the acklin brothers, vocalists; billy woods, flute and piccolo, guitar and vocalist; charles wagner, violin; billy hyatt, clog and jig dancer; tommy white, clog and jig dancer, and alfred, singer, dancer, comedian, stage manager, property man and superintendent of wardrobe. the little school-house was packed--sitting, standing and leaning room was all taken, even the window-sills were occupied. lin, seated near the stage, was lost in amazement at the improvement in the troupe. her head nodded and foot patted in time with the tunes with which she was familiar. when storey and alfred concluded their double song and dance, (this was a new number to lin), she led the applause and hustled uncle jack back of the scenes requesting the boys repeat the number. alfred had profited by reading the book harrison had presented him. the song and music made a very great impression on lin. late and early you could hear her voice as she went about her work singing: "i feel just as happy as a big sunflower, that bows and bends in the breezes, and my heart is as light as the winds that blow the leaves from off the treeses" there was but one mishap that marred the evening's performance. the front curtain was run on rings, on a small, tight wire stretched across the entire width of the school house. the curtain that formed a background of the stage, and behind which the performers dressed, was much too heavy for the small nails with which it was secured. someone pulled on the curtain and down it came. alfred and one or two others were changing their costumes. alfred with surprising nimbleness jumped into a large trunk, concealing himself so quickly that the audience caught sight of only his feet as he plunged head first into the trunk. the other two members were completely confused and ran into a corner turning their backs to the audience. [illustration: hatfield and storey] dr. john davidson and othey brashears were seated in the front row, grabbed the curtain and held it head high until all were costumed. it was then replaced and the show went on. lin, in commenting on what alfred considered the most unfortunate accident that ever befell his show, said: "well, ye jus couldn't call hit a back-set to the show, kase peepul laffed more about hit then anythin' else in the hull thing." when the last note of the walk around had died out, the audience remained seated, waiting for more, (printed programs were unknown in those days). getty went before the curtain and announced that the show was over. the crowd began to disperse; the boys from town and some of the country folks forced their way behind the scenes to congratulate alfred, all declaring that it was the best entertainment they had ever witnessed. one over-enthusiastic young fellow offered the leader two dollars to have fiddlers play for a dance; in fact many of the young folks desired to turn it into a dance. this seemed like desecration to alfred and forever after he respected the dignified farmer, washington brashears, who, standing stately and tall, with the beard of a patriarch, in a voice mild but firm, said: "we have been entertained by our young friend and his companions in a way that it falls to the lot of but few to enjoy; only those in filidelphy have the privilege of enjoying such exhibitions as we have enjoyed here tonight. as the chairman of the board of school directors, i can say that we permitted the use of this school-house for the entertainment. it is our only meeting house now, and there will be preaching here next sunday evening, therefore we cannot permit dancing tonight." the nearly ice cold, spring water influenced alfred to go home with the black on his face. the little party and belongings were soon loaded into the roomy sled. bidding goodnight to the few friends who remained to see them off, they headed homeward. it was a happy party that sped along the old pike. lin led in the singing of songs long since discarded by the minstrels. even uncle jack entered into the jollity of the occasion. he was greatly elated over the success of the show. the spirited team was traveling much faster than safety demanded. at a turn in the road there was a treacherous, slippery place, the sled swung around sideways--skidded would explain the motion--one runner slipped over the edge of the bank, the sleigh turned upside down throwing out the cargo of human freight. lin's scream could be heard half a mile. alfred's only solicitude was for his brother joe. uncle jack held on to the team which was released from the sled by the breaking of the pole. after the occupants extricated themselves it was found that the only serious damage suffered was the breaking of amity getty's fine guitar. [illustration] it required the combined strength of all to right the sled and get it up the steep bank to the roadway. the tongue or pole was made fast to the sled with rope and the journey resumed. up hill, all could ride; down hill all were compelled to walk and hold the sled off the heels of the horses, as the broken pole would not permit the team to hold back. it was two o'clock in the morning when the welcome lights of the town shone on the belated minstrels. alfred was too tired and sleepy and the water too cold to wash the black off his face. he crept upstairs to the big room rarely occupied. not answering the breakfast bell, sister lizzie was sent up to call him. one glance at the black face on the pillow sent her scampering down the stairs. "i believe brother alfred has brought a darkey home with him. there's one in the big bed any way." this sent the father upstairs by bounds. alfred was unceremoniously yanked out of bed and shoved down stairs. when he appeared in the kitchen such laughter as greeted him would have pleased him greatly the night before. alfred explaining all the while that it was too cold to wash the black off his face the night before and that he couldn't get it off with cold water "no how." the father insisted that he go to the back yard and scrub his face with cold water as punishment for going to bed blacked up. to lin's question as to how much he had made the night before alfred gave evasive replies. hastily eating his breakfast he was quickly on his way to win scott's home. before he had proceeded far on his way he met his pal scott on his way to alfred's home. alfred judged from the size of the audience that there was not only sufficient money in win's hands to pay all obligations but also a handsome surplus. he was simply crushed to learn that the receipts amounted to just $ . . alfred felt that he would be everlastingly disgraced when he announced that he was not able to pay the debts incurred. the boys conferred long and earnestly. win proposed that they pay lin and uncle jack and then run off; go to the newly discovered oil country and make their fortunes. this proposition was rejected by alfred. to go to the oil regions was a pet idea of the older boy and it was not long ere he left the old town to seek his fortune and alfred never saw him afterwards. alfred took the money. when he reached home he settled with lin in full. uncle jack was handed his four dollars by alfred with the air of a millionaire. after paying lin and uncle jack, alfred had $ . left, with debts to the amount of $ . pressing him, or they would be the next day. he retired to his room. he could plainly hear lin describing and praising the performance. she dwelt at length on the high quality of the gathering, saying that all the best people in red stone section were there. when lin wondered what alfred would do next, now that he had money, alfred felt like rushing from the house to seek his pal and flee to the oil regions. he opened the front door and walked out without any idea of where he was going. he walked aimlessly and found himself on church street where sammy steele overtook him on his way to church. the reverend kerr was pastor, the father of e. m. kerr, afterwards noted in the minstrel profession as e. m. kayne. when mr. steele asked alfred if he were on his way to church, alfred answered: "yes." the two walked to the church together and home after the sermon was over. on the way the tanner described in detail the improvements he was making in his plant and invited alfred to accompany him to the tannery to look over the work under way. in those days everybody ate dinner at high noon. alfred was impatient at the seeming delay of lin in serving the meal. lin remarked: "ye're jus like every man thet gits to makin' money, figity." alfred arrived at the tannery long before the owner. the suction pumps and other labor saving devices were examined and explained to alfred who pretended to be deeply interested. after all had been explained, they found themselves in the big finishing room where alfred had passed so many pleasant days and evenings. the boy wished that he was back in the tannery free from the cares hanging over him. finally, he looked his former employer full in the face and, in a voice full of earnestness, asked the big, dignified man for the loan of thirty dollars, promising to work it out night and day until it was paid in full. he dwelt at length on the shame that would come to him if he could not meet his obligations. "if you will help me out of this i will never forget you and you will never regret it," concluded alfred. the straightforward man of business complimented alfred for his anxiety to pay his debts, at the same time pointing out to him the danger of contracting debts he could not meet; that an honest man never had peace of mind when in debt; that a man was never as brave or useful to himself or family as when free of the haunting fear of losing his standing through debt. he told alfred to meet him at o'clock the next morning and he would give him his answer. after a sleepless night alfred was at the tannery on time. mr. steele was there when he arrived and greeted him kindly. noting alfred's worried expression, he said: "there is no use worrying over affairs of this kind; the proper course is to steer clear of them, which i think you will do after this." alfred assured him that he would be sure to do so. the tanner handed alfred a paper, requesting him to read it carefully. alfred could scarcely believe his eyes as he read: "in consideration of $ to me in hand paid, the receipt of which is hereby acknowledged, i hereby agree to bind myself to work for samuel steele for a period of two months, performing such duties as he may direct...." alfred studied a moment and said: "i do not mind any work you may put on me and i will work all day and part of the night, but if you would only let me have the money i can pay you back much sooner out of what i make at hurd's. i want to get out of debt and you are the only person in the world i can go to. i don't want my folks to know of this." "then you will not sign the paper?" questioned the tanner. "i don't like to and it don't seem hardly fair after the wages you paid me before. give me a dollar a day and i'll sign it." mr. steele took the paper from alfred's hand, tore it up and threw it into the open grate as he said: "my boy, i was only trying you. i wanted to show you how those in debt are in the power of anyone who is unscrupulous. if you had signed the paper i would not have had confidence in you. in fact, i did not intend to permit you to sign it if you had shown a willingness to do so. i will loan you the money and you can pay it back to me as you earn it, without interest. settle with your creditors and keep out of debt. and furthermore, tell no one that i loaned you this money, and never borrow another dollar unless you see a way to pay it." the advice given alfred by the old tanner has saved him heart aches and much money. all the outstanding bills were met. when the members of the troupe gathered at their room and the final statement laid before them there was deep silence for a moment. it was a commonwealth arrangement insofar as the profits were concerned, a one man concern as to the losses. however, none ever expected a deficiency, each expecting to get quite a little money for his share. the members of the troupe sympathized with alfred. charley wagner, who was the only salaried member, consoled him thusly: "yah, und ef you ever go to dot redstone school-house mit your troupe again you'll git him all back." how many times alfred has heard like statements since! win scott explained the small receipts and the large crowd. all the school directors and their families were to be admitted free. no tickets were used, the money was taken in at the door. when anyone appeared and said "school director" or "school director's family," win passed them in. it was afterward learned that some of the directors had as many as thirty in their families the night of the show. harry harrison came forward at this critical period of the minstrel enterprise and took upon himself the management. although alfred had his misgivings, he was glad to be relieved of the responsibility and to have the concern continued. not a line appeared in the _clipper_ as to the first show but glowing accounts of what was to follow were printed weekly. harrison prevailed upon the shoemaker to build a small stage in the room the troupe had rented for rehearsing purposes. also to move a partition, giving the minstrels quite a large room which was provided with heat and light. the announcement was sent forth that the evening star minstrels would give entertainments every saturday night at mckernan's hall, at barefoot square. harrison gave no explanation as to why he changed the title of the company. story was angry. alfred was pleased, inwardly congratulating himself that future deficiencies would have to be made up by harrison. the next saturday night and the following saturday night saw the little hall packed. and thus another pang of jealousy will be added to the heart of bill brown, that brownsville enjoyed the distinction of a permanent minstrel hall while pittsburg never had such an institution, traveling minstrel shows appearing there for only one or two nights in masonic hall. after several nights of big business several members of the troupe made inquiries as to the funds and their disposition. at first harrison was very courteous and explained that the establishing and opening of the hall was expensive; that later on when well established, jeffres hall would be secured and nightly dividends would be paid. charley wagner, true to the traditions of history handed down from the days of babylon, namely, that musicians are the first to stir discord, laid down his fiddle and bow and declared: "no more music until we get our money." it then developed that nothing had been paid in the way of salaries or other expenses since harrison had assumed the management. at this juncture harrison became insolvent. the landlord locked up the hall with all the belongings of the troupe nor would he release the goods until the rent was paid in full. harrison was appealed to. he sneered at the impecunious minstrels and taunted them by saying: "now go get your stuff out. if you all hadn't been so peart i'd seen you through." each minstrel was compelled to pay his proportionate share of the amount due for rent and lights. his private property was then delivered to him by the sporting shoemaker. when he had collected the rent due him he sent for harrison, escorted him into the deserted hall and demanded that he (harrison) have the partition replaced in its original location. when harrison angrily refused, the shoemaker proceeded to give him a drubbing. harrison did not collect anything that week from those to whom he gave favorable mention in the paper as two black eyes compelled him to keep close to the office. chapter eleven and i would learn to better show my gratitude for favors had, to see more of the good below and less of what i think is bad. to live not always in the day to come, and count the joys to be, but to remember, as i stray, the past and what is brought to me. lured by that feeling which impels the criminal to visit the scene of his crime, alfred began a pilgrimage to the little red school-house. walking along the old pike the sound of a horse's hoofs beating a tattoo on the road reached his ears. he recognized in the rider, joe thornton. the white pacing mare which thornton bestrode had one of those peculiar high-lifting gaits, that, from the sound of the hoofs on the roadbed, caused one to imagine that she was going at a very rapid gait, while in fact she was not doing much more than pounding the road. uncle joe said of her: "she'd pace all day in the shade of a tree." when opposite alfred, mr. thornton slowed up and made numerous inquiries as to the minstrel show, expressing regret that he was not able to attend; he intended going, having received an invitation from one of the school directors. he requested alfred to advise him of the next performance; he would be there sure. then, as if to make up for the few moments lost conversing with alfred, he gave the mare the word and she pounded the pike more heavily than before. alfred admired the big, handsome rider and the white mare; he longed to bestride her and kept his eyes on horse and rider as they traveled on before him. alfred noticed a black looking object fall to the dusty pike. at the distance it seemed a large sized shoe. alfred kept his eyes on the object as he neared the spot where it lay. bending over he discovered a very large, black book. picking it up he saw bills, money, more money than the boy had ever held in his hands before. he trembled as he turned over bill after bill. he had dreamed that he would be rich--some day in the far future--day dreams. his riches were always to come. they had come suddenly, unexpectedly. mother would have a new cooking stove; lin declared daily that the old stove would not bake on the bottom. brother joe would have toys and a sled, sister lizzie anything she wanted, brother will anything he needed, a melodeon for lin. sammy steele would be paid with the same flourish with which uncle jack was paid. harrison would be deposed, the minstrel troupe would go out, travel to distant parts and make money, more money than alfred wanted; he would divide it with all his best friends, he would make all happy. with these thoughts flying through his mind he walked on in the direction the rider had gone. suddenly realizing that the money was not his he cast a glance ahead, expecting every moment to see the rider returning post haste to claim the treasure. when he reached the lane leading off the pike to the thornton house, he hesitated, opened the book again and looked at the money, turning over the neat layers of bills, fives in one section, tens in another, twenties in a third, legal looking papers in a fourth, tied about with a thin, red ribbon. he thought of concealing the book. no, he would hasten home and conceal the money in the cow stable. he was opposite the gate of the yard in which stood the big thornton house. should he enter? alfred looked long and anxiously for the man on horseback; instead he noticed a proud looking, elderly lady walking about the flower beds. he nodded respectfully but the lady did not make a sign of recognition. however, in quite a loud voice he inquired if mr. thornton were at home. "which mr. thornton? there are two mr. thorntons, russell and joseph." "joseph thornton," answered alfred, "is the gentleman i am looking for." alfred felt his importance. from down the lane toward the barn there came the sound of horse's hoofs clattering on the road. alfred's ears told him that it was the white pacer. as the rider caught sight of alfred he dismounted. running toward the boy, his long beard flowing on either side of his neck, he began: "mr. hatfield, did you see--." here alfred held up the book to his view. as he fairly bounded forward, he grasped the book in one hand and threw an arm around alfred. he exclaimed: "where the h--ll did you find it? it's a good thing for me that you came out the pike; if almost anybody else had found it i'd never have gotten it back, that is the money; i never could have traced that. the papers could have been traced. no one who loses money ever gets it back." as the man turned the book over in his hand he inquired: "did you open it?" then a little ashamed of the question continued: "of course you had to open it, otherwise you wouldn't have known to whom it belonged. now see here alfred, i want to do the right thing by you. i will call at your house tonight. i want to meet your mother; your father i am well acquainted with. your uncle will has told me that he is too hard on you and you're a dam nice boy and you ought to be treated right." at this insinuation alfred fired up. "my father always treats me right, but i've been a pretty bad boy. he has his notions and i've got mine. he never hits a lick amiss. he never hurts me when he does whip me. it's always a big laugh to me. he's the kindest pap in brownsville." "oh, you did not understand me. i did not mean to say that your father whipped you. i heard that he did not give you credit for your--your, that he--he--er hampered you in your--your--er--." "oh, i understand pap," interrupted alfred, "he's all right, we get along all right." then mr. thornton made inquiries as to where alfred was going. when the boy informed him, he said: "that's too far to walk; come on out to the stable, i'll loan you a horse. you can ride him home and i will get him tonight." they walked toward the white mare. alfred asked what kind of a saddler she was. "good," answered the man, "would you like to try her?" "why, yes, if it's all the same to you." by this time alfred was shortening the stirrup straps to the length of his limbs as measured by his arms. alfred's thinking gear was working faster than the white mare's hoofs ever pounded the earth. as he was about to mount he said: "mr. thornton, i'll bring this mare home. i don't want to trouble you to call at our house." [illustration: joe thornton and alfred] "why? i want to see your parents and i want to reward you." alfred, sitting on the horse's back, leaned far over toward the man and detailed the sad results of his first venture in minstrelsy. "whatever you give me will be applied on the payment of my debts. if our folks know that you gave me money they'll want to know what i did with it." the man grasped the situation, but informed alfred the money in the book belonged to his mother. he had withdrawn it from the bank to pay a note. he would help alfred out but must go to town before he could do so. "from whom did you borrow money," asked mr. thornton. alfred hesitated and said: "well, there's where i made another promise not to tell, but i'm going to tell you, i borrowed it from sammy steele." "well, i'll be damned if you ain't a good one. why, sammy steele is the tightest man in brownsville. how did you come to go to him?" alfred explained all. mr. thornton insisted that he ride the white mare home, adding that he would get her that night. alfred rode off, visiting not only the school-house but many old friends. he arrived home as it was growing dark. entering the house he found mr. thornton there; he had told the family all. he informed alfred that he had left an order on jake walters, the town tailor, for a suit of clothes, the material to be selected by the bearer. while the clothes were more than acceptable, alfred was disappointed. he feared he would not be in a position to pay the sammy steele note, although he was bending every energy, even dunning harrison for the fifty cents loaned him at their first meeting. the next week's issue of the _brownsville clipper_ contained a lengthy article, as follows: "one of fayette county's most prominent citizens lost a pocket-book containing a large amount of money and valuable papers. the book was lost on the old pike somewhere between the borough line and thornton's lane. fortunately for the loser, one of the clipper's most trusted employes traveling on the pike, found the valuable book. the finder is one who has been trained under the vigilant eye of the editor of this valuable paper. through the influence of the editor of this paper the money was returned to the owner in less than one hour after its loss was discovered. the finder was suitably rewarded and will soon be advanced to a more lucrative position on this paper." harrison, in addition to his promised reforms in the editorial columns of the paper, introduced innovations in the advertising department. the _pittsburg gazette_ was the only daily paper on the _clipper's_ exchange list--this fact compels the admission that pittsburg was a little ahead of brownsville in the newspaper field, boasting two papers at the time, the _gazette_ and _post_. both papers carried display advertisements of hostetter's stomach bitters and dr. jayne's liver pills for grown people and vermifuge for children. those were the only patent medicines that advertised at that time. harrison, in his illuminating way, wrote to the concerns soliciting advertising. dr. jayne's representative wrote, requesting the weekly circulation of the _clipper_ and the localities wherein it was circulated. harrison answered giving advertising rates, with unlimited reading notices and concluded his letter by advising that "the _brownsville clipper_ goes to greene, washington, westmoreland and bedford counties; it goes to pittsburg, cumberland and washington, and before i took hold of it the owner had all he could do to keep it from going to h--ll." something in harrison's letters appealed to the medicine men as advertisements were secured from both the concerns. in conformity with the custom of the times, part payment for advertising was to be taken in trade. big boxes containing bottles of the stomach bitters, smaller boxes containing pills and vermifuge were received. small quantities of both medicines were, with a great deal of persuasion, exchanged with country stores for farm products. after the first effort none of the bitters were offered for sale or trade insofar as the _clipper's_ supply was concerned. like the farmer who endeavored to sell the tanner the murn hide, harrison had found a market for the bitters at home. they contained about % alcohol, therefore it was a panacea for all ills that harrison was afflicted with, and he had many. the bitters were a pill for every ill. that was a hard winter. sugar crackers, scotch herring and cheese were harrison's principal food and a few of the liver pills were used, but the vermifuge stood on the shelves in the press room covered with dust. mr. hurd ordered alfred to get rid of it even if he had to give it away; not to destroy it; if he could not sell it to give it to the subscribers to the paper with the compliments of the editor. alfred covered his route with renewed vigor, a bundle of papers under his arm and both coat pockets filled with pills. alfred was personally acquainted with nearly every family in the town; he was familiar with the habits and health of all the boys. red haws, green apples, may apples, green chestnuts, in fact, everything that grows which boys devour more greedily before than after maturity, were plentiful in the country around brownsville. alfred did a fine business for a time. the paper was published only weekly and alfred was ordered by mr. hurd to dispense the medicine only when the paper was delivered. alfred was doing so well that he intimated to harrison that the paper should be semi-weekly, at least. alfred was receiving a commission on all pills he sold. alfred looked over the medicine stock; about the only thing in stock was liver pills. there were large quantities of liver pills lying on the shelves. alfred figured that the pills would do johnny's cow no harm and possibly might help her, as the cow was very sick. alfred did not wait until the paper was printed as the case was an urgent one. he made a special call, carrying nearly a pint of the liver pills in a paper collar box. (harrison always wore paper collars and a dicky.) alfred assured johnny that the pills were specially prepared for just such disorders as his cow was afflicted with. there was some question as to the number of pills that constituted a dose for a cow. as the printed directions gave no information on the matter, alfred thought a teacupful of the pellets would be about right. it required a great deal of hard labor on the part of both alfred and the owner to compel the cow to swallow the pills. however, a goodly part of the cupful of pills was administered to her. at first the cow appeared a great deal worse and her owner feared she would die. squire rowley, the best cow doctor in the neighborhood, was sent for. he administered blackberry tea and other astringents and the cow recovered. [illustration: "a cow's dose is a teacupful"] when lin heard that the boys were addressing alfred as "doctor," usually prefixing the title with the word "cow," she said: "they needn't try to plague alfurd, caus' it wus a durn good joke an' besides it cured the cow and it wus about time hurd's paper done somethin' good." alfred had saved sufficient money to cancel the note of sammy steele. with a light step he ran up the stairs leading from the street into the large finishing room. greeting all cheerily he inquired for the boss. mr. steele entered. looking curiously at alfred, with a twinkle in his eye, the old tanner remarked dryly: "hurd--mr. hurd--mr. hurd--must be gettin' mightily pushed when he starts his hands to peddling pills." mr. steele's remark made the boy redden and he mumbled something about the pills being received in trade and had to be sold by somebody. the tanner laughingly continued: "i expected to see johnny mccan coming in with a murn hide. how many of hurd's pills constitute a dose for a cow?" cooney brashear added to the jollity by suggesting that alfred "give sammy's mewel a dose the next time he kicks you." this reference to the "mewel" was only a reverberation of the town talk as lin had predicted. in fact, the reference to the "mewel" kicking alfred became, and is still, a by-word in the old town. mr. steele, to the surprise of alfred, refused to count the dollars and dimes he poured from the old leather purse on the desk. instead the man bid the boy "keep the money until the note was due, then bring it here, not a day before nor a day after. if you think you are going to die, leave directions to pay the debt. the man who pays beforehand shows himself a weakling, he is afraid of himself, he is afraid he cannot hold the money. he usually spends his money before he earns it." it was a great day for brownsville and the leading journal of the town, the _brownsville clipper_. two circuses were headed for the town; rosston, springer & henderson's and thayer & noyse great american circus. the agent of the first named show was first in, andy springer, "old rough head." the agent was aware of the coming opposition although he never mentioned it. his contract for advertising space in the _clipper_ had a clause to the effect that no other circus advertising or reading matter should appear in the columns of the great family paper prior to the date of the exhibition of the r. s. & h. aggregation. harrison made this "slick contract" as he termed it. he charged the circus man double the usual advertising rates, working the agent for unlimited free tickets. the genteel word "complimentary" had not become associated with show tickets as yet. in making up the free list harrison was as liberal to the families of the force as the school directors had been on the occasion of alfred's exhibition. the editor and owner's family received sixteen free tickets; there were five in his family all told. the managing-editor, harrison, and his family received fifteen free tickets. he distributed all of his tickets within two hours after they were counted out to him. (in those days the agent distributed the tickets, not by an order on the show as now.) harrison sought the circus agent at the hotel explaining that since he received the tickets he had consulted his family and they desired to go to the show twice, afternoon and night. the agent, knowing that there was opposition in sight, stood for the hold-up and harrison celebrated most gloriously the next few days, with free tickets to the circus. the foreman of the composing room was to have ten tickets. he was a poor man, harrison advised, and had a lot of children. the circus wouldn't lose anything as they would not pay to go nohow. the pressman and his family were to receive ten free tickets. the devil, alfred, was to receive six free tickets. he managed to get two that harrison carelessly dropped while changing his clothes. scarcely had the first agent cleared the town before charley stowe, agent for thayer & noyse arrived, brisk, bright and beaming. entering the _clipper_ office he found alfred the only person in. mr. stowe was very gracious. he won the boy to his side ere he had conversed with him five minutes. the agent was in a great hurry, he desired to get to pittsburgh at once--most agents are in a great hurry to get into a big city from a small town. alfred informed the agent that he did not know where harrison could be found. "please sit down and look over our paper," said alfred, and he left to seek harrison, who was diligently distributing circus tickets and judging from his condition, getting value received. alfred was almost overcome with the thought of two circuses coming to town. he imparted the information to everyone whom he met who was interested enough to listen. another circus coming, bigger and better than the first one, was alfred's guarantee. he was prompted to this through the fact that the newly arrived agent had been courteous to him. probably the twenty-five cents and two free tickets had something to do with alfred's leaning towards the second show. harrison was finally located at bill wyatt's, a place he had not frequented in a long time as the slate bore figures that had been written on it about the date harrison struck the town. harrison had partially squared the score with circus tickets. harrison was just able to walk with alfred's assistance. as they wobbled down wide market street alfred imagined the man in a mood to be approached. he reminded harrison of the half dollar long over due, and obligingly offered to take it out in circus tickets. harrison scorned the proposition. straightening himself up he endeavored to push alfred aside as he proudly exclaimed: "i don't want you to take anything out in circus tickets. i'll pay cash after the circus." it required all of alfred's powers to make harrison understand that there was another circus agent in town, another circus coming. harrison persisted in the belief that it was the same agent with whom he had done business. stowe meanwhile, as all intelligent agents do, had gone to headquarters. as alfred, with his tow, entered the office, the owner of the paper turned on the managing editor, foreman of the composing room, etc., and let loose a tirade of abuse such as alfred had never heard the like of before: [illustration: "put up your things and git!"] "you damned little shriveled up, whiskey soaked, tobacco smoked, copperhead. what in hell do you mean by making a contract like this for my paper? i'll cram it down your jaundiced jaws, you whelp of hell, you!" and the rage of hurd, who was a very large, fat man, caused his face to turn purple. "pack up your things and git, or i'll slap you into the bowels of the jail. i know enough about you and your record on that traitor sheet, (he referred to the opposition paper, the _genius of liberty_), to have you and all connected with it sent to johnson's island. git out of yere!" yelled hurd. harrison pulled away from alfred and in the effort fell partially over a settee as he sputtered out: "i'm a gemptman, what-smatter with hanner." he intended to use the cant phrase, "that's what's the matter with hannah." hurd shook a purplish looking bit of paper in harrison's face: "what do you mean, you shrimp, by entering into a contract to the effect that no other circus can use my paper?" harrison attempted to look indignant but he was a bad actor, he could only look drunk. on this occasion he could not dissemble. his effort to do so only made him appear more drunken. "i'm--a--man--of--h-honor--i'll stan'--by--anythin' i do." here harrison fell down, full length on the settee, muttering and shaking his fist at hurd. "get him out of this house!" was hurd's order to alfred. alfred pulled and pushed harrison to the bottom of the stairs leading up to his room. harrison fell on all fours and began a slow ascent of the stairs, alfred pushing him as he had seen deck hands shove refractory cattle when loading them on a boat. he returned to the room. hurd was very crusty. he hinted that alfred should not have permitted the first circus agent to induce harrison to sign the shut-out contract. stowe, the circus agent, further endeared himself to alfred when he informed mr. hurd that alfred should not be blamed. alfred, in the brief interview between the second agent and himself, had informed him as to the contract made by the first agent, the price charged for advertising, the free tickets extorted and other information that was valuable. the agent was very diplomatic. he began by calming hurd: "now, mr. hurd, i know the value of your paper to us, i know you to be a man of honor, and i would not offend you by even insinuating that you could find a way to carry our advertising and reading matter as i know you would not violate the contract made with the other concern, although it is evident that contract was obtained by fraud. there is only one way around this;" here the circus agent placed his hand on the shoulder of the big editor, "we will have to get out an extra edition, their advertising and reading matter to go in the regular edition, mine in the extra." the editor beamed on the agent, the beam expressing more strongly than any words: "you're a daisy--but, but," stammered hurd, "we haven't got matter enough for our regular edition. i've been working all morning; harrison's been drunk all week an'--" "never mind," interrupted the agent, "don't you worry, let me do the work and the worrying also. where can we get a little something to clear the cobwebs out of our tonsils?" and they left the office arm in arm, but not until the circus agent had asked alfred if he knew where all the office force could be found. alfred answered "no, sir." and he was truthful; as he was not certain whether he was on the stairs, on the landing, at the top of the stairs or had rolled back to the bottom. when the agent ordered alfred to get the office force together and inform them that they would have to work all night but would be paid double time, alfred ran upstairs, as was his custom, four steps at each bound. harrison was not on the stairs nor at the top landing. running into the press room, alfred found harrison sitting in the coal box, sleeping soundly. after vain efforts to arouse him, alfred hastened to the residence of bill smith who had once worked on the paper. cal wyatt had also served some time setting type, and baggy allison was notified to repair to the office instanter. all were on hand when the circus man returned. cal wyatt, advised alfred to fill harrison's mouth with salt, that it was a never failing remedy. it did bring harrison partly around, just enough to make him a pest, in the way of all with both person and talk. he slobbered over copy and case, hiccoughed, cursed alfred for trying to doctor him; informing alfred that he wanted no "dam cow doctor to fool with him." stowe, the circus agent, laughed until his sides ached. he was informed by the others that alfred was a great minstrel and he volunteered to find him a place with some first class minstrel organization the coming winter. stowe played the banjo and carried the instrument with him. all the local minstrel band were introduced to him. he played and sang with them and within twenty-four hours he owned the town, including the printing office. the type-setters did not have to wait for copy; stowe had quantities. the printers were not compelled to decipher the peculiarities of anyone's handwriting; stowe's copy was printed and punctuated. such copy had never been worked from in the office before. of course all the agent's copy treated of thayer & noyse great circus. harrison got to himself finally. he could make himself very agreeable when he so desired. hurd insisted that there should be other matter written up. in this stowe acquiesced. he scribbled off political, local and other matter at a rapid rate, nor did he stop there. he gave the contract to isaac vance of the marshall house to feed all people and stock with the circus. there were no stable tents in those days nor did anyone stop on the lot. canvassmen, hostlers and actors--all in the hotels. vance got a big contract; stowe secured a half column advertisement for the paper, as he did from several others. the extra appeared, at first glance, as fat as the regular edition. when baggy allison tired, stowe worked the press. he rolled, folded and fed until the extra edition was off the press and ready for distribution. among his printed matter was a quarter sheet, with the portraits of thayer and noyse, and a small amount of reading matter printed on one side only. he dug up a can of red ink from some unexplored recess where it had lain since the presidential campaign of . he had three or four funny mule cuts. he wrote a funny line or two, made a rude cut resembling hurd, informing the public that hurd would ride the trick mule circus day. this bill was printed without the knowledge of hurd. it was folded in the extra and thus distributed. this fact makes valid alfred's claim of another honor for brownsville, namely: that the _brownsville clipper_ was the first paper in this country to issue a colored supplement. of course the word "supplement" was not in a newspaper's vocabulary at that time. another merit this supplement possessed, it was really humorous, and the humor was apparent, even to the people of that day, and that is more than the colored supplements of today can lay claim to. charley stowe was not only the prime mover in all that pertained to the issuance of the extra but he hired a horse and buggy and a boy to assist alfred in its distribution. brownsville was advertised as it had never been before. charley stowe following a precedent established by the first agent that ever traveled ahead of a show, promised many persons to return to brownsville the day of the show. and, unlike the first agent and almost all agents in all times since, he kept his promise and came back. it was a great day for brownsville, it was a great day for thayer and noyse, it was a great day for alfred. charley stowe had another faculty, shy in most agents, memory. he remembered the editor and the office force, particularly the latter. he gave alfred his first sight of the inner sanctorum of the show world, namely, the dressing rooms. he introduced him to big, good-natured dr. thayer, to natty little charley noyse, to the elder stickney and his talented son bob, to j. m. kelly, the long distance single somersault leaper, to little jimmy reynolds, the clown, to mrs. thayer and her charming daughter. it was the unfolding of the scenes of another world to the lad. his recollection of that day is as of a night of enchantment. the circus had a very sick horse, a beautifully marked mare, sorrel and snow white with glass eyes, as they are termed. the beautiful creature was housed in the stable of the marshall house. the animal was evidently one of value to the circus folk as many of them visited the stable; all seemed anxious as to the mare's recovery. after the afternoon performance, dr. thayer, his wife and daughter were in the stable administering to the sick horse. the circus man was completing arrangements to have the tavern keeper care for the mare and send her on to the show, if she were able to travel by the time the company reached uniontown. isaac vance assured the circus people that everything possible would be done for the mare, and turning to alfred, laying both hands on the boy's shoulders, facing him toward mr. thayer, said: "and here's the lad who will take your mare to uniontown. he can ride any horse or mule you have. you should have this boy with your show, he is an actor right. our people swear by him, he can beat anything you have in the nigger minstrel line." then alfred, with a freshness born of ignorance, said: "yes, mr. thayer, you have a fine circus but your minstrels ain't much, not as good as those with van amberg's menagerie, and everybody says so." mr. thayer and his wife both seemed greatly amused at the frankness of the boy. the showman quizzed alfred as to what he could do in the concert. alfred, as all other "rube" amateurs have done and always will do, wanted to engage to give the entire concert. thayer had more patience then than alfred has now as he listened to the boastful assumptions of the boy. finally he said: "if you will get a letter from your father granting me permission to employ you, i will give you the opportunity of your life, but do not come to me without the permission of your parents, as our show does not employ minors. it's against the law." it was further arranged that alfred should take the lilly mare to uniontown the day the show exhibited there. mrs. thayer led alfred to one side and, pressing two dollars into his hand, charged him to visit the sick horse several times daily, and no matter if those in charge asserted that they had given her sufficient water, alfred was to offer the animal drink. she so charged the stable man, stuttering hughey boggs. after the night show alfred called at the stable. the mare seemed very sick. he offered her water which she refused; he felt of her ears, they were cold; he stroked her satin-like coat; she opened her eyes and appeared almost human to alfred as he petted her. arriving at home he went to his mother's room and gave her a detailed account of the day's doings, not forgetting the sick horse or the arrangements made by mr. vance for him to deliver the mare to the show folk in uniontown. alfred had been careful not to reveal any of that part of the conversation touching on the offer of the big showman to employ him providing he could obtain the father's written consent. somehow the mother's fears were aroused, she felt that there was more behind the delivery of the mare than was revealed and she strongly objected to the arrangement. the mother communicated her fears to lin and that worthy was quite ingenious in quizzing the boy. she questioned alfred as to his intentions. "i tole yer mother ye wouldn't run off with thet ole show while yer pap wus away from hum. mary sed 'they mout coax ye off.' did they coax ye? did they offer to gin ye a job?" and she looked at alfred very hard and earnestly. alfred had been revolving in his mind a plan that included having daniel livingstone forge a letter signing alfred's father's name to it, granting the boy permission to join the show. alfred felt very guilty and hung his head when lin's questions grew pointed. alfred was giving the sick show horse all the attention promised and even more. the second day following the mare died. notwithstanding, all seemed to sympathize with alfred, who had become greatly attached to the beautiful horse, it was apparent that all were greatly relieved that alfred had been released from the agreement to deliver the mare to the circus folk. alfred wrote mrs. thayer a long letter, giving the particulars concerning the death of her pet, to which he received a prompt reply, ending with a standing invitation to visit them at any time, either while they were traveling or at their home. the boy was very proud of this letter and read it to all his friends. lin, in commenting on the death of the mare quoted scripture, after her own interpretation: "the lord gins us an' the lord takes hosses es well es peepul. uv cos ye kin buy hosses ef ye got money but ye can't buy peepul. ef ye'd run off with a show an' dide, w--, ye--" here lin stuck. she could not find words to complete the sentence; but after a moment's pause, she continued: "the'd not miss ye es much es the' will thet hoss. bet we'd miss ye every--time--we sot--up to--a--meal." in the vernacular of the show profession of today, rosston, springer & henderson took up the stand and did not appear in brownsville. they were advertised to play in pittsburg. mr. hurd sent alfred to pittsburg to collect the newspaper advertising bill. harrison was having his troubles with those to whom he had sold tickets. the holders of tickets held harrison personally responsible for the non-appearance of the circus. since the day frank mckernan had pummelled harrison, various and divers persons had been threatening him with similar treatment. harrison staved off hostilities by promising to have the tickets redeemed when alfred collected the paper's indebtedness from the circus. the circus had no band wagon. the musicians were mounted on horses. this was all there was of the parade. alfred has since learned that this feature was introduced into the circus as an expediency. g. g. grady, an impecunious circus proprietor, found his colossal aggregation without a band wagon and no funds to purchase one. he hit upon the idea of mounting his band on horses. the innovation was heralded as a feature and to this day circuses advertise the mounted band as a novelty of the "highway, holiday parade." john robinson's circus boasted a steam calliope, which dispensed "biled music." grady, not strong enough financially to annex a calliope, altered an old animal cage that resembled the exterior of a calliope. he installed a very large and loud hand organ inside the imitation calliope wagon, with a stovepipe poking out of the top, plenty of damp straw inside, a man to feed and burn it. in a stove inside, the volumes of smoke issuing from the stovepipe, a strong man turning the hand organ, the greatly improved steam calliope was calculated to astonish the public. if the music were not so vociferous as that his rival's instrument sent forth, it must be admitted that grady's was more tuneful and therefore less objectionable. grady's steam piano came to an untimely end almost before its career began. the man inside the calliope, the fireman, was too industrious. he filled the stove with damp straw, poured kerosene oil over it and applied a match. the parade was in the midst of the public square, in canton, ohio. thousands had congregated to witness it. the whole interior of the calliope was ablaze, smoke issuing from every crack and crevice. the show people grasping the situation, broke open the back door. the damp straw, the old stove, the two men and the hand organ were dragged from the smoking wagon. grady's attempt to rival john robinson was the joke of the circus world. alfred had quite a little difficulty in collecting the printing bill, which was grudgingly paid him. the circus people tore up harrison's order for payment for the tickets given. the treasurer said something about the paper being a "wolf." when alfred returned harrison endeavored to spread the impression by insinuations that he had collected for the tickets and not made returns to him as yet. he was cornered, it was his only way to square himself with those who were pressing him for a settlement. although alfred knew full well that harrison did not intend to injure him, the reports became so annoying and the insinuations so galling that alfred took harrison to account. harrison flew into a rage and threw a small shovel at alfred. things got lively for harrison in a moment. no telling where it would have ended had not the entire hurd family rushed into the room and separated the combatants. harrison was much the worse for the encounter. to drown his grief he started the rounds but jim bench, the town watchman, locked him up. when he sobered up he shook the dust of brownsville from his feet forever more. years afterward alfred met harrison in a far western city, leading the same life. the mother entreated alfred to forever give up the idea of becoming a newspaper man. she had cherished the hope that the boy would yet turn to the study of medicine. old doctor playford, bob's father, informed alfred's uncle that if the boy were so inclined he would take him into his office and see what there was _in him_. the doctor had three good horses, his son bob had a large pack of hounds. alfred's duties did not keep him in the office very steadily. he was on horseback a greater part of the time, by day delivering medicine, by night fox or coon hunting. it was a part of alfred's work to compound medicines in the small laboratory in the doctor's residence. a copy of materia-medica and a latin dictionary were the only guides to the beginner of a medical career in those days. there were no prescriptions sent to the drug store, every doctor filled his own prescriptions. alfred became very quick at compounding prescriptions. a dose of medicine was prepared for mr. hare. this particular dose of medicine did not have the effect the doctor desired, or rather, it had more effect than the doctor or hare desired. the old doctor was a very resolute man, fiery and game, nearly everyone feared him. bob, his son, was one of the few who dared brave the old doctor's wrath. the young doctor espoused alfred's cause when his father charged alfred with carelessness. bob swore that old hare was a notorious liar and that it was not the medicine that made him so sick. the old doctor was very practical, therefore a successful practitioner. alfred protested that he had prepared the medicine for hare as per the formula furnished him. some time after the above argument alfred was summoned to the doctor's room. holding in one hand a glass of water, the doctor handed alfred a lump of darkish color, ordering the boy to swallow it. alfred mechanically swallowed the lump, the doctor handing him the water to take the taste out of his mouth. as alfred drank, the doctor, with a humorous glance, ordered him to hang around until he could determine the effects of the medicine. "it's the same dose you fixed for hare. i'll see whether hare lied or not." alfred had a keen sense of the ridiculous. he had swallowed the pill ere he realized what he was doing and knew full well he would be dreadfully ill, yet he laughed immoderately. "ef hare suffered more than alfurd, he sure wus sick," was lin's comment. "no, alfurd wus not sacked by the ole doctur, he jus naturally did not like doctorin'." mr. todd replied: "i dunno nuthin' 'bout it, only what i've heard. they do say thet since alfred nearly pizened mr. hare, most of doctor playford's patients has gone to doctor jackson. folks is jus naturally afeared to doctor with playford since they found out alfred mixes the medicine. john mccune's two children, ole lige custer an' dave phillips wus all took sick jus like ole hare an' nobody but alfred ever mixed the medicine they took. you know it takes a man thet's hed practus to mix medicines an' alfred ain't hed no chance to learn." lin contended that alfred hed plenty of practice. "he mixed paint in his pap's shop an' he mixed ink in the printin' offis an' lord, he could certinly mix a few squills an' a little castor ile an' sich, that's all playford ever gives. alfurd cud a kep on doctorin' ef he'd wanted to, but the ole doctor sed when he took him thet he would see what wus _in him_, an' i s'pose he did." chapter twelve a man may be defeated half a score of times or more, his prospects may be darkened and his heart be bruised and sore; but let him smile triumphantly-- and call misfortune's bluff. for no man's ever conquered till he says: "i've got enough?" hans christian andersen, the famous danish poet, says: "the life of every man is a fairy tale written by god's finger." carlyle says: "no life of a man faithfully recorded but is a heroic poem." with all the advice and experience one can acquire or have thrust upon him it is passing strange how easy it is to go wrong in this world. it forces one almost to the belief of him who wrote: "the aim is the man's, the end is none of his own." someone has said that the only guide a man requires in this world is to side-step wrong doing. but like many prize fighters, some of us are deficient in foot work. if life is a mission and any other definition of it is false and misleading, fate has certainly picked out some men as the hammer and others as the anvil, some men for door-mats and others for those who walk thereon. alfred claimed to have an aim in life but his entire family and a township of relatives differed with him. alfred's most ardent apologist was compelled to admit that even though he was exerting himself greatly to hold his course he was drifting. the minstrels were back in the old quarters, frank mckernan's shoe-shop, rehearsing nightly. at this time there came a proposition from a man of the town who had recently failed in business. it is a peculiarity of human nature or the fore ordination of fate that when a man fails in a commercial business he engages in show business or life insurance. if he be not mentally equipped to carry to success the business in which he failed, he generally engages in a business that requires ability of a higher order than that in which he was unsuccessful. and so it was of the man who entered into an agreement to finance the minstrels. he possessed a little money and a mother who was well supplied with it. he spent money liberally in equipping the minstrels for their first road venture. all preparations were quietly consummated by order of mr. eli, as that gentleman had numerous creditors whose feelings would have been terribly lacerated had they known that he was soon to take himself away from them. alfred soon had every arrangement completed. he was very happy he was to realize the ambitions of his life's dream. he had been relieved of all financial responsibility. there would be wood cuts, printed bills, an agent and all that goes to make for a real show. the three-sheet bill depicting alfred as a plantation negro dancing "the essence of ole virginia," was his especial pride. many times daily he unrolled this bill and secretly admired it. alfred learned to dance "the essence of ole virginia." although billy hyatt or tom white danced "the essence" much more cleverly, alfred argued that, owing to the bill bearing his name, consistency demanded he execute the dance. the stock bill was from the jordan printing company of boston, wood cuts in two colors, red and yellow. the imprint "boston" on the bills, it was argued, would give the company prestige, that is, after they reached greene county and other far away points on their proposed itinerary. all were instructed to spread the impression that the troupe was from boston. it was rumored that the minstrels were to travel afar, visiting baltimore, washington and other cities. the mother was very greatly disturbed, she questioned alfred frequently as to the rumors. lin, in some way known only to herself, had fathomed alfred's plans; she even knew the backer's name. alfred begged her to keep it secret, that it would ruin everything to have it known. to alfred's surprise she advised that he leave home surreptitiously if he must, with the consent of the mother if he could obtain it. lin argued that he would never do any good at home with "them yar show notions flyin' through yer head. durned ef i wouldn't go an' show 'em i cud be sumthin'." this was the first time lin had ever advised alfred to disobey his mother and, while her advice was pleasing to him insofar as furthering his ambitions was concerned, it was displeasing in other ways, and lowered lin in his estimation. the mother objected strongly to the boy's connection with the minstrels, arguing that the father was absent; that alfred should not leave home until the return of the father. alfred argued with the mother that he had accepted money from eli and was in honor bound to work it out. uncle thomas was called into conference. uncle ned came in without being called. grandpap threatened legal proceedings to restrain the boy if he attempted to leave the town. consternation reigned in the minstrel camp. eli was frantic. without alfred the show could not hope to succeed; so declared all. alfred grew desperate, declaring, since his mother so strongly opposed his going, that he would remain until his father arrived, explain the matter; then, come weal or woe, he would join the show. thus matters stood. eli endeavored to drown his disappointment; he was not visible for a day or two. meanwhile uncle ned was a frequent visitor "to keep an eye on mr. alfred that he did not run away," as he expressed it. alfred boldly declared that uncle ned was interfering and further that they could not hold him; even if they did estop him from going with the minstrels, he would run off to the oil regions. another visit from uncle ned precipitated a war of words. as the meetings between alfred and the uncle became more frequent alfred "grew more tantalizing and impudent," so the uncle asserted. finally, alfred informed the uncle that he was meddling and that his meddling was not appreciated. a quarrel followed. alfred's powers of vituperation were a surprise to the mother and uncle and a delight to lin, who informed mrs. todd: "lor! i expektid tu see alfurd mount him enny minnit; he shook his fingur under ned's nose an' mos' spit in his face. i hed the rollin' pin redy, i'd bin in h'it ef h'tit hed kum to a klinch. i tell ye alfurd's lurned somethin' since they shaved his kurls off. he combed ned es he'd nevur been combed afore, an' mary jes stood an' luked 'til ned got her riled up then twixt her an' alfurd's bumburdment, he mighty nur forgot his religion an' his hat." the uncle in reply to one of alfred's keenest thrusts permitted his anger to get the better of his judgment. he reflected strongly upon alfred's father and the manner in which he had reared alfred and concluded by declaring that he, alfred, had been a disgrace to the entire family and that if his parents were powerless to control him "we'll take a hand in it." the entrance of the mother into the verbal battle at this juncture was so sudden, so earnest, so swift, that uncle ned left the house, almost forgetting his hat. the mother ended the scene by turning on alfred: "you have almost broken my heart, you are a constant source of trouble and worry to me and as if that were not sufficient, your father's people must force themselves into our affairs as they always have done since i married into the family. now if you have promised this man to go with him, if you have accepted money from him, you keep your word, you go and i will stand between your father and you insofar as any of his family are concerned. you go with this man until the money you owe him is paid; then you come straight home. if you do not it will only be the worse for you, i will send rease lynch, the constable, and have him bring you home." alfred's elation by the victory over the uncle was not lowered in the least by the fact that the mother's consent was given only to emphasize her displeasure at the interference of the father's folks. eli was positively informed that alfred would be compelled to return home if the mother sent for him; that he was only permitted to leave home that he might discharge the debt. eli suddenly recalled the fact that he had advanced alfred one dollar and seventy-five cents. he realized that it would not require many days of labor ere the debt would be cancelled. he therefore suddenly decided to make a further advance of money on behalf of alfred's services and, to make it more binding, pay the money to the mother. cousin charley interfered with this plan by calling alfred aside and whispering: "if eli goes over to your house and gives aunt mary any money, and she sees he's been drunk, she'll hist him higher then gilroy's kite. you better let him gin it tu lin." and so it was arranged. eli went to lin, saying: "mrs. linn, i owe alfred thirty dollars. he's a minor. i do not want to pay him the money as i know it is not legal, so i told him i'd give it to his mother, she can do as she likes about it. but if i wus her, i'd keep it; he will git enough to do him, he's a good boy, he don't drink, smoke or chew. i wouldn't have a drinkin' man in my troupe. i didn't know his mother was out. when will she be back? well, mrs. linn, you jus sign this receipt, it will be all the same. now there's thirty dollars and here's a dollar for you to buy yourself some sugar kisses. no, no, sign his mother's name, not yours. now, good-bye, mrs. linn. i forgot to ask, are you any relation to the linns out on redstone. well, i thought not, you're too good lookin'. if i wern't married i'd be after you." lin opened the door, she jerked her head toward the opening, as she said: "now, say, does yer muther know yere' out? run along sonny. don't git mushy." lin reckoned: "the reason eli wouldn't tulerate drinkin' peepul in his trupe is bekus he is afeared the supply will run out." alfred calling on mr. steele to pay the note, produced a roll of bills. mr. steele smiled approvingly. counting out three ten dollar greenbacks, the boy requested the tanner to figure up the interest on the note. "there's no interest to pay and there's no note to pay; here is the cancelled note paid in full." as the man pushed the note toward the boy he was written in red ink across the face, "paid", and also the date. alfred demurred. "no, mr. steele, i never paid the note, i won't have it that way." "well," replied the tanner, "i am not in the habit of taking that which is not coming to me. a friend of yours called sometime ago and informed me that he owed you money and that you was desirous of paying off the note." "joe thornton!" guessed alfred, without a moment's hesitation. "yes, he was the man. how did mr. thornton know that i held your note?" "well, that's where i broke my word with you, but i couldn't very well get around it. i did mr. thornton a favor, he told me he wanted to reward me. i told him i was in trouble, i owed money and i had no way to pay it and i would apply whatever he gave me on the note. he gave me an order for a suit of clothes but he never mentioned the note. i am as much surprised as you; i never dreamed he would pay the note for me." "then you did not borrow the money from thornton?" "no sir, i did not." "well, i would not contract the borrowing habit. the borrower is always a servant to the lender." the mother was troubled. "how did it come that eli paid for services in advance? others never paid their employes until they performed their labor." alfred airily informed her that it was the custom in the show business to pay in advance, that is, the good actors always drew their pay in advance. in fact, he assured the mother that it was the only way to keep good actors, keep them in debt to you; even then, sometimes, they'll run off with another troupe. "well, what do you purpose doing with this money mr. eli left here for you?" enquired the mother. "oh, i want you to keep it for me. i'm going to send you all my money; you use whatever you please, use it all if you want to." "i will keep this money for you," she said, "something seems to tell me you will need it later on." lin allowed that alfred would never need money thereafter. "ef ye git a good start ye'll jes hev cords of greenbacks, an' i believe yere on the right road. i jes tol' yer muther, i ses, 'mary,' ses i, 'alfurd ain't fit fer nuthin' only minstrel showin', he's gittin' more un more like a nigger every day.'" the mother did not relish the compliment. lin advised that alfred keep up his clownish pranks, "then ye kin nigger hit in winter an' clown hit in summer." alfred declared that if he attained his hopes and ambitions, inside of ten years he would be the possessor of a farm and live on it the remainder of his days. in his boyish buoyancy he grew enthusiastic; he pictured how mother and pap would enjoy country life. alfred knew the mother had confidence in him, no matter how strongly she opposed his ways. he knew she had faith in him and it has been the saddest regret of his life that she was not permitted to remain on earth until his boyish dreams were fully realized. a few days later alfred was seated on all his earthly possessions, a hair trunk with big brass tack heads as ornaments, in a big heavy wagon, waving a last good-bye to mother, lizzie, joe, the baby and lin. lin shouted as the wagon moved off: "good luck! good-bye! i know ye'll bring the koon skin hum." it was twelve miles to bealsville on the pike. the big wagon, the small trunks and big boys were too much of a load for the two ordinary horses. the minstrels walked up the hills to lighten the load. "handy andy," alfred's favorite farce, in which he impersonated the character of the awkward negro who breaks the dishes, was the closing number on the program. alfred, always a stickler for natural effects, prevailed upon one of the boys to borrow his mother's china tea set. for safety these dishes were carried in a large carpet-sack. [illustration: "and ask fer licker," added the old stage driver] when the edge of town was reached the team was urged into a smart trot that the advent of the troupe might appear business-like. the minstrels were instructed as to the proper manner in which to conduct themselves that they might appear experienced in traveling--jump out of the wagon, carry their belongings, entering the tavern briskly, "and ask fer licker," added the old stage driver who had been an attentive listener to the instructions. at the edge of town the team was halted to freshen them up for the finish. the minstrels perched themselves picturesquely on the trunks, posing as if for a photograph. the old horses were urged into a trot by jerking and slapping the lines and wielding the whip. the pace was kept up until the tavern was reached. charley guttery, the landlord, was there to greet the minstrels. mrs. guttery was a davis before marriage, the sister of uncle bill's wife. therefore, alfred was welcomed by the entire family. all jumped out of the wagon except tom white; he began unloading the parcels, tossing them on the sidewalk. out came the carpet-sack loaded with chinaware. it struck the ground with a crash. "there goes mother's china teapot smashed all to h--ll," piteously whimpered the boy who furnished the dishes. he began to climb into the wagon, vowing he would throw tom white out quicker than he threw his mother's teapot out. tom was ready for fight and eli had all he could do to keep the boys apart. all this was great amusement for the natives. "let 'em go," one shouted, "let 'em fight; we'd ruther see the fight then yer show." the large room of the tavern was filled with minstrels and town folks. "purty long ride ye hed fur such a big load," remarked one towner. ere alfred could reply, a big gawk chimed in with: "by the dust on their britches laigs i callerate they didn't ride much." then all the crowd laughed. the pike was very dusty and the minstrels showed the effects of their contact with it. "well, ef they haint got a good show we'll gin 'em a ride they won't furgit. yes, an' the rail'll be three cornered. how many monkeys has they?" yelled another. then came quickly, "i dunno, i haint counted 'em yit." this sally brought the biggest laugh yet heard. alfred's blood was boiling; he could stand it no longer. his fist shot out and immediately there were legs and arms sprawling all over the floor; the crowd trampled each other as they stampeded, all endeavoring to exit through the one door at the same time. once outside, several of them, more bold than the others, began making threats and movements to re-enter and bring alfred out. at this juncture the old stage driver and eli waded into them and soon there was not one of the rowdies to be seen. alfred was hustled upstairs and into a room and ordered to remain quiet until further developments. the constable was soon on the scene with warrants for eli and the old driver. they were taken before a justice of the peace and, by the advice of mr. guttery, they requested a continuance of the case until the following morning. this was granted. a few moments later, three or four of the minstrels were arrested. not one of them had engaged in the disturbance; they demanded an immediate trial, feeling certain of acquittal. no evidence was offered as to their participation in the fight. several residents of the town swore positively that none of the accused had engaged in the row in any way. one witness testified that they had just stood around doing nothing. this he emphasized by repeating at intervals in his testimony, "they just stood around doing nothing." the evidence all in, the justice of the peace addressed them somewhat as follows: "you have been arrested charged with disturbing the peace. the evidence goes to show that you are not guilty of that crime; therefore, on that count i will discharge you, the borough to pay the costs. but it appears by the testimony of one of your own witnesses, one of our most reliable citizens that you were standing around doing nothing. therefore, i will fine you two dollars each and costs for loitering." by the advice of the landlord the costs were paid by mr. eli and the fines were to be paid the next morning when the other cases were called. the minstrels that night were slimly attended. in the middle of the night alfred was rudely disturbed by someone awakening him. "git up, git up, quick! we've got to git out of this town or it'll take all the money i've got to square the fight you started yesterday. git up quick!" it was eli's voice and he was very thick tongued; he had been up all night. the team was harnessed and hitched to the wagon. the landlord was there to see the sleepy minstrels off. the last good-byes were scarcely spoken ere the door of the big room was closed by the landlord and the lights put out. it was inky dark to alfred as he sat on the high seat by the driver and heartily wished himself home. it came out later that the landlord and one or two others advised eli to get the minstrels into greene county ere the eyes of the law opened the next morning. hence the a. m. exodus. arriving at carmichael's town after a long and tiresome ride, the minstrels found tom kerr, the jolly landlord of the tavern, with a dinner ready that changed their minds from gloom to gayety. the minstrels were well advertised. winn kerr, lias and dee flannigan had witnessed their entertainment previously, hence the town turned out to welcome them. wealth flowed in upon eli and all went merry as a dinner bell. but eli had great difficulty in tearing himself away from old and new found friends. the regular minstrel wagon was not large enough to carry eli the next morning, consequently jim kerr carried alfred and eli to waynesburg in a private rig. again the crowd was too large for the courthouse; again eli made friends who detained him after the departure of the troupe. alfred refused to remain behind with eli but left with the minstrel boys. eli failed to arrive in the next town in time to open the doors. the crowd was more than ample to fill the hall. alfred took the door and made settlement of bills. eli arrived during the night. the next morning alfred and two others advised mr. eli that they had received word from home that their engagement with the minstrels must end. when eli came to his senses he appealed to alfred to explain why they had decided to quit. alfred said: "because you have been drunk ever since the show left brownsville and the boys are afraid you will not pay them." that night eli invited all the company to meet him in his room at the tavern. by the time the boys arrived eli was so saturated he forgot that which he desired to say to them. instead he insisted on drinking with each one individually, he scorned to drink with the company as a whole. "i want you all to know me. if you want money, i've got slathers of it." all wanted money and they got it. and they spent it. gaudy bows and ties, striped shirts, congress shoes and other dependables never possessed by the wearers previously, began to make their appearance. eli was voted the best ever. those who had threatened to leave because eli imbibed too freely were termed methodists and back-biters. fairmount reached, the old stage driver and his team left for home. from this point the baltimore & ohio railroad was to be the mode of travel, a change hailed with delight. some began figuring on how many days it would be until the minstrels invaded baltimore. two nights were played at fairmount; the first night a large, well pleased audience attended. more invitations to eli's room, more liquor ladled out and more money handed around to the company. on the second night there was a very light attendance; a long hunt to find eli ere bills could be paid and the company could move on to grafton. eli had decided to remain in fairmount until the next train. morgan, the advance agent, accompanied the minstrels to grafton. morgan took the night's receipts. the next morning he could not be located nor did eli make his appearance. the minstrels watched and waited; the day wore along. finally, it was decided that the performance would be repeated that night. a man walked over the town, ringing a bell as he went. halting at short intervals he loudly announced the second exhibition of the minstrels at early candle light. the landlord of the tavern volunteered to look after the financial end of the enterprise. after the exhibition he called the boys together and advised that after his bill and other expenses were deducted, there would be enough left to pay their railroad fare to fairmount and that they would probably find eli there. arriving at fairmount it was learned that eli had left for baltimore the night before. it came to light that morgan had left on the same train, boarding it as it passed through grafton. some members of the company contended that eli had gone on to baltimore to arrange for their coming and that they would hear from him or see him soon. others, that he had left for good. the four musicians, men who had seen more of the world than the ambitious amateurs, boarded a train for wheeling. alfred decided that he and his followers would make their way to new geneva and there board the boat for home. loading their few belongings, including alfred's hair trunk with the brass tack ornaments, into a farm wagon drawn by two big bay mules, the homeward journey was begun. not in dejection, as one might imagine, the boys were too full of spirit to be cast down greatly. one or two began to fret but the jibes of the others soon had all in good humor. the roads through the hilly, muddy country were not as firm as those previously traversed, a contingency the boys had not taken into consideration. at times the mules were unable to move the wagon, even though all the minstrels were pushing or prying to the extent of their muscular power. instead of dust, as on the first day out, the minstrels were covered with mud, from shoes to hats. arriving at new geneva, mud bespattered, tired and hungry, they congregated on the old wharf boat until the steamer was heard coming below the bend. when the boat hove in sight, her prow cutting the water, it was the most welcome sight alfred ever remembered witnessing. safely aboard, it was found that not in the whole party was there enough money to pay the fares to brownsville. therefore deck passage had to be taken and without meals. george warner, the colored steward, knew every one of the boys. one by one they were smuggled into the pantry and a meal that was never excelled given each one. it was two o'clock in the morning when the boat touched at brownsville. alfred determined to carry his trunk home with him. hoisting it on his broad shoulders he began the walk up the hill homewards; every little ways lowering the burden to the ground, he would seat himself upon it pondering as to the tale to tell of the ignominious ending of his dream of prosperity. he thought of lin's parting words: "i hope ye bring the koon skin hum," and he could not suppress his laughter. he brought the big iron knocker down rather lightly, hoping only lin would hear it. he did not care to face his father or mother until he got a little more courage. again the knocker was raised and lowered, a little louder than before. the window sash above was raised and the father's voice, gruffer than alfred had heard it in a long time, demanded, "who's there?" alfred hesitated to give his name. "who's there?" louder and more gruffly than before, impelled the boy to answer: "it's me." "who's me?" came from the window quickly. "oh, come on down, pap, let me in. it's me, pap, don't you know me?" alfred was so crestfallen and ashamed that he could not bear to speak his own name. "in a minute, alfred," came in a more kindly tone as the father's head was withdrawn from the window. then the father's voice was heard informing the mother, "the boy's back." it flashed through the boy's mind that the conditions that brought him home so unexpectedly were known only to himself and he could stave off unpleasant explanations for a time at least. the door opened, the father shook his hand heartily. "how are you? how have you been? we've been expecting you. how did you get out of the trouble in bealsville? the _clipper_ says you were all jerked up and slid out between two days." the mother and all the children were up. lin insisted on setting out a pie and making a hot cup of coffee. alfred was highly complimented that he had kept his promise to return. alfred accepted the praises with a conscience stricken feeling that kept him miserable under his assumed gaiety. the first time lin and alfred were alone in the kitchen, she turned full on him as she asked in a deeply interested way: "how much did ye make outen yere trip?" the question was so direct and without warning that alfred dropped his gaze and began stammering. lin continued: "there's somethin' ded about yer; i smelled a mice the minnit i seen yer face. jes let hit out, ye'll feel better. i'll help ye. where's eli? where's the other boys?" alfred gave lin the whole miserable story, neither adding to it nor concealing anything. lin summed up the matter thus: "ef ye're out enything ye kin sue eli. his muther'll settle." they figured it up, alfred was a little in eli's debt. "then what ye palaverin' 'bout, ye've done all right?" "but it's the disappointment of the thing, the way it wound up and it looked so promising," whined alfred. "well, ef ye never git hit harder then eli hit ye, ye'll need no poultices," consoled lin. "why don't ye gin redstone skule-house another try? charley wagner an' everybody else sed ef ye'd go back that ye'd make all back ye wus shy afore." alfred was on his way in less time than it takes to record it, notifying the boys that they would go to redstone school-house next saturday night. the school-house secured, the music was the next important matter. charley wagner had a sore throat, so he informed alfred. all others approached were affected in the same way. it looked very much as if the exhibition would have to be given up. cousin charley suggested that alfred go to merrittstown and hire the blind hostetler family. all were blind excepting john, who had one eye. there were three brothers and a sister--two violins, a double bass violin, the girl sang and in time with the music manipulated two large corn-cobs, much in the manner of a minstrel's cracking the bones. a contract was entered into with the family whereby they were to receive ten dollars for the night, and their suppers. the school-house was packed, there was some thirty-seven dollars in all. when the performance was nearing the end, cousin charley made his way behind the curtain and in a whisper informed alfred that the constable had seized all the money and properties of the minstrels and that he, alfred, was to be arrested and put in jail. alfred's acting was not so spirited as in the opening. those who were aware of the load that oppressed him, sympathized and condoned with him until he was nearly unmanned. the suit came up before a justice of the peace. eli's creditors had an attorney, alfred and the minstrels had none. the plea that eli was not interested in the venture, that it was alfred's show, was offset by the fact that alfred, in his dealings, informed every one that the show belonged to eli. and there was the advertising matter. did not all bear the words, "eli, owner and manager." alfred had designedly and against his pride ordered eli's name placed on the bills to relieve himself of all responsibility and worry. the evidence was conclusive. at least that's what the lawyer, isaac bailey, said. lin said: "it was boun' to go agin alfurd. limpy bailey cud make black white an' squire wilkinson's agin' evurythin' but the methudis' church." there were numerous little bills unpaid, including five dollars to the blind family. chapters of truths and unfounded rumors, were in the mouths of the gossips as to how the troupe stranded in west virginia, compelled to walk home, traveling as deck passengers on the steamboat. it even went the rounds that they would have starved if george warner had not fed them surreptitiously on their way home. alfred was crestfallen. he was ashamed to visit his old haunts in the town. he evolved plan after plan only to be persuaded by lin to abandon them as soon as they were broached to her. the father rubbed salt into his wounded feelings at every reference he made to the minstrel business and the lowness of those connected with it, holding eli up as a terrible example of what minstrel life would bring a man to. berated, brow-beaten, driven to the wall, alfred answered his father in kind following one of his most bitter arraignments of show people: "father, what are you talking about? something you know nothing of. eli was not a showman, not a minstrel man. he was only with an amateur minstrel show eight days. nothing in his associations made him lower than he was before he left." "then why did you go with him?" sternly demanded the parent. "i wanted to make money." "yes, you wanted to make trouble and disgrace for your poor mother and myself," was the father's rejoinder. "how sorry i am i did not do differently. how sorry i am that this ever happened and i planned it all so differently. i felt i was protecting myself and i'm into it deeper than before." thus would alfred reason with himself. but the judgment of regret is a silent witness of the heart to the conviction that some things are inevitable. with alfred it was a confession hard to make--another battle lost that seemed won. the words, "disgrace to the family, to your mother and myself," kept ringing in his ears and he resolved to leave the town, go to the oil regions, go west, go anywhere, get rich, come back and make his people retract all their cruel reflections. lin adjured him to "furgit the sore spot; es long es ye pick hit, it'll never heal. why, ye cud go to capt. abrams, sammy steele ur joe thornton an' borry enuf to pay every durn cent ye owe; though ye don't owe nuthin', everybody ses so thet knows enythin' bout hit. thet eli's in fur hit all. he ought to pay hit. thur's thet blin' family, he'll nefer hev no luck ef he don't pay 'em." this allusion to the blind family was the last stone. alfred felt that he and he alone was responsible for the amount due the blind family. this obligation brought him more regrets than all his troubles. he crept upstairs, he fell on his knees and prayed, yes, prayed fervently, earnestly. no penitent, no prisoner, no saint, no sinner ever beseeched guidance and assistance with a more contrite heart. it was announced that uncle thomas was to preach to the young people of his congregation. alfred went early. he was ill at ease. he imagined all the congregation gazing at him and when two or more bent their heads and whispered, he imagined that it was he who was under discussion. the song services ended, the minister arose, opened the bible and very slowly read the text selected--"honor thy father and thy mother." raising his eyes from the book, looking over the congregation as if to select some one to whom to direct his words, he repeated, "honor thy father and mother, which is the first commandment with promise. honor thy father and mother, that it may be well with thee, and that thou mayest live long on earth." then followed a lengthy discourse as to the duties of children to their parents. as the sermon progressed, the preacher said: "rebuke not an elder but entreat him as a father. rebuke not an elder but treat all your elders with that respect you would others should exhibit toward your parents. show me the young man who is disrespectful to his parents or elders, disregards their admonitions and i will show you a boy who is without the pale of content." uncle tom seemed to look straight at alfred as he let fall the words. alfred felt sure that he referred to the quarrel between himself and uncle ned. in the next quotation alfred was slightly reassured: "an angry man stirreth up strife and aboundeth in transgressions, for he that is slow to anger is better than the mighty and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city." alfred said to himself, he is touching up uncle ned. he wanted to turn his head around to see how the uncle took his medicine, but the preacher had his attention. alfred was sitting erect, looking straight at the speaker. his attitude seemed to say: "if you are going to hit them all i can stand it but don't hold me up as a lone example of all that's sinful in this congregation." then the speaker waded into the popular frivolities of the times; cards, dice, gambling, drinking, dancing and other pastimes. as alfred was immune from all of the above sins he sat up still more straight and even ventured to look around at some of the society young folks of the congregation. he began to feel that uncle tom was a very good preacher. after a moment's pause as if to pull himself together for the final onslaught upon all that was sinful, the preacher resumed: "i do not hesitate for a moment to condemn show life and all who are aware of its iniquity that engage in it. the circus, the theatre, the actors therein, the proprietors, those who, for sordid gain, place these terrible temptations before our young people." alfred felt himself sinking in the pew. "i do not hesitate to condemn the theatre as one of the broadest roads that leads to destruction. fascinating no doubt to the young of susceptible and impressionable feelings, on that account all the more dangerous. show life is a delusion. it holds out hopes never realized; it poisons the mind and diseases the soul; it takes innocence and happiness and repays with suffering and misery. it separates families; it desolates homes; it makes wanderers on the face of the earth of those who are allured to it. once let a young man acquire a taste for show life and yield himself up to its wicked gratifications; that young man is in great danger of losing his reputation. he is rushing headlong to certain ruin." alfred was sitting straight up. his cheeks burned like fire but there was no shame in his face, he even looked about him; he met the gaze of those who stared and held it until the eyes of the others dropped. the preacher continued: "all the evils that can blight a young life, waste his property, corrupt his morals, blast his hopes, impair his health and wreck his soul, lurk in the purlieus of this abominated show life that is threatening some of the best beloved and most talented of our young people. folly consists in drawing false conclusions from just principles; and that is what the theatre does. men may live fools but fools they cannot die. the instruction of fools is folly; therefore, the actor cannot teach wisdom or morality. he that refuseth instruction despiseth his own soul; but he that heareth reproof getteth understanding." the parting admonition, delivered to the young people in general and, alfred felt, to himself in particular, was: "choose a good name; a good name is rather to be chosen than great riches and loving favor rather than silver and gold." alfred felt that the latter part of the sermon was directed at his ambitions to become a clown, get rich and buy a farm. he wondered who had informed the preacher of his ambitions. when the congregation stood up and sang, alfred's voice could be heard above those around him. when the plate was passed he placed his last dollar on the coppers and dimes on it. when the minister requested that all the young people who desired the prayers of the congregation for their future guidance, stand up, alfred remained seated. there was no contriteness in his heart; no impression had been made upon him. he forgot his surroundings; he felt no embarrassment that all stared at him, their looks seeming to say: "well, how did you like it? hit you pretty hard, did it not?" alfred forgot the sermon, forgot the surroundings; other thoughts swayed his mind. "i'll make uncle tom, i'll make this congregation, i'll make this whole town acknowledge my worth. i've not done anything i'm ashamed of." then the five dollars he owed the blind family flashed upon his mind. "i'll pay them, i'll pay every cent i owe." he passed out of the church unconscious of the gaze of a half hundred young men lined up on either side of the door waiting for the girls to run the gauntlet, each one offering an arm to the girl he fancied; if rejected he was termed "sacked" and the rejected one felt the ridicule of his fellows for many days thereafter. lucy fowler "sacked" john albright that night. lin was so full of this affair that she seemed to forget the sermon in her eagerness to recount the other incident. alfred interrupted her by sneakingly inquiring as to how she liked the sermon. lin forthwith straightened up: "well, ef i wanted tu tell jes what i thot, i'd say he gin ye particular fits, but preachin' is preachin', nobody takes hit to tharselves, they jes think hit's fur everybody. now i reckon ye think the hull blast wus fer ye. s'posen he'd preached on dram drinkin'. i reckon the fellur thet guzzles wud take hit all tu hisself. no, sonny, religun's fur everybody an' ye kan't thro preachin' bricks ye don't hit somebody. so don't take a foolish powder kase a preacher workin' at his trade handed ye a few. hit done ye good, ye never looked so purty in yer life, yer cheeks wus red es cherries an' ye sung like a exorter." alfred asked: "didn't you think he took a shot at uncle ned?" "well, ef he did he never teched him fur ned never winced. ye know them church members never take nuthin' to tharselves; no, they jes believe when the preacher ladles out spiritual feed hits fur sinners on the outside uf the church. they think they're above suspishun. ye know the pharisee thanked gawd he wus not like other peepul, 'an he was _jes awful_. of course a great many say thet the sermon fit yer kase. hit's the best praise ye ever got, hit's better'n a piece in the newspapers. thur's a heap uf peepul in this town never knowed ye amounted to enuf to be preached about. es long es ye hain't stole nuthin' er caused anybody misery er shame, yer on the safe side. yer troubles hain't nuthin', ye jes think they are. uncle tom's got more trouble on his min' now en ye ever had." "i'll bet if i ever get out of this trouble, i'll steer clear of it hereafter," mused alfred. "yes ye will. let me tell ye, sonny, the minnet ye begin to feel yer troubles at a end ye'll begin to look fer more en ye wouldn't be wuth cracklins ef ye didn't. i wouldn't gin four cents fer a man thet didn't git into truble; hit trys 'em out an' ye ken tell what they're made uf. look at all the men ye know who don't know enuf to make truble. what do they amount to? why they ain't got enuf grit in 'em to suck alum." she continued: "onct thur wus a new preacher kum to a place to take charge of a church. a member uf the church called tu pay his respeks an' afore he left he said, confidential like: 'parson, ye preach yer first sermon sunday. now i want to tell ye this fer yer own good: we hev a good many members thet plays ole sledge, ten cents a corner. thar our best payin' members an' i wouldn't, ef i wus ye, say anythin' 'bout card playin' in my fust sermon, they mought think ye wus pussenal.' another member called. after talkin' 'bout the weather an' crops a bit, he sed: 'several uf our best payin' members sell whiskey wholesale, they're agin dram drinkin' but ef ye preach agin whiskey right away it mought make 'em mad, so i wouldn't say anythin' agin whiskey in yer fust sermun nex' sunday.' the preacher began to git a little shaky but he thanked the man. a little later anuther member called. when 'bout tu leave he sed: 'parson, ye preach yer fust sermon sunday; i want ye to start right. we hed a good many dances through the winter, and our peepul is very fond uf dancin'. thur's two ur three big dances to kum off soon. these members thet dance is all willun workers an' liberal givers; ef ye pitch into dancin' en frolikin' in yer fust sermon hit's sure to raise a click in the church thet'll be agin ye. therefore i wouldn't mention anythin' 'bout dancin' in my fust sermon ef i wus ye.' soon another called. after he'd talked a spell, he kum to the pint: 'parson, we got some mighty fine hosses an' most uf 'em belongs to the leadin' members uf yer church an' we has hoss races an' we bets on 'em, an' ef ye preach 'bout anythin' uf thet kind in yer fust sermon it'll hurt the hoss bizness an' put some uf the best members uf the congregashun agin ye.' the preacher raised his hans in holy horror, as he said: 'i can't preach agin the frivolities of fashun, dancin' an' sich; i can't preach agin drunkenness; i can't preach agin gamblin'. fur heavin's sake, what kin i preach about?' 'i'll tell ye,' volunteered the caller quickly, 'preach about the jews, jes gin 'em hell, thar's only one in town.'" lin concluded, "maybe uncle tom figgered the same way on yer kase," and she roared with laughter as she gave alfred a playful push. after the boasting alfred had indulged in previous to going on tour with eli, he could not face his friends. he borrowed five dollars from lin and in a careless way, informed the family that the next day he would go up to uncle jake's for a couple of weeks' visit. he packed up his belongings, bade the family an affectionate good-bye and ran away, like many another coward has done before and since. he was not in debt to any extent, it was simply his vanity, a false pride that would not permit him to face the little world in which he lived. those who should have advised him censured; those who had influence for good held aloof. he went to a big city, to pittsburg, to seek his fortune among strangers, return rich, reward all who were kind to him and humble all who had lost faith in him. he went aboard the boat bound for pittsburg. he slept soundly and was only awakened by the clanging of bells and the blowing of whistles. peering out of the stateroom ventilator, his eyes met a sight such as he had never witnessed before. fire in long-tongued flashes blazed up a hundred feet out of blackened chimneys, shadowy demons working over fiery furnaces, boiling, white hot lava flowed in streams, the air was filled with smoke and sparks. alfred imagined he had died in his sins and was now nearing the place of eternal torment. he could liken the scene before him to nothing on earth. it must be hell, and he felt that the lid had been lifted for his especial benefit. there was a rap on his stateroom door and a voice called: "all out for pittsburg." alfred hustled into his clothes and walked out in the cabin, not desiring to leave the boat until after daylight. he inquired of the clerk as to how long the boat would remain there. "we leave at eight o'clock," replied the clerk. "eight o'clock what? morning or night?" asked alfred. "eight o'clock morning," replied the man. "why, when does it get daylight in pittsburg?" inquired the bewildered boy. the clerk laughed as he answered, "tomorrow, if the sun shines." alfred hastened ashore. the old national hotel, water and smithfield streets, had sheltered him before. therein he entered. changing his clothing he wandered forth aimlessly. he entered the red lion hotel, looked over the circus grounds and then to ben trimble's theatre; from there to the old drury theater, wood and fifth avenue. he took in all the sights of the big city. then he began to make plans as to the future. the hotel rate was one dollar and a half a day. when alfred settled, which he did at the end of the first day, he had but thirty-five cents left. he left his baggage with the hotel people and began a search for work. were you ever in a strange city, broke and without a friend, without the price of a bed, without the price of a full meal? did you ever feel the loneliness, the forsakedness of this condition? you may say, "well, i'd get a job; i'd do anything; i'd dig ditches; i'd--" well, they do not dig ditches in winter, and when they do dig them you must have a vote before you can get a job even at that labor and you cannot get a job at any kind of laboring work unless your physique and clothes look the part. you say there's no excuse for any man being broke or out of a job these times? well, there may be no excuse that will satisfy you but there are men in this condition all over this land--and good honest, willing men, willing to do any kind of work to earn a living. when they apply to you encourage them even though you do not hire them. alfred applied to a large concern that employed many men. he was told there was nothing open. the wholesale drug stores were all supplied with help. another place had a sign out--"no help wanted." alfred failed to notice it as he entered. when he made his errand known the oily haired youngster in the place impudently asked him if he could read, and pointed to the sign. at another place he felt sure he had landed when the boss told him they wanted a married man and that he was too young looking. at the headquarters of a great fraternal society, the principles and teachings of which are mercy and charity toward all mankind, the officer or secretary in charge was particularly unkind and actually spoke and behaved towards the boy as though he had been guilty of some offense, instead of seeking honest employment. after walking more than four miles to a large factory, the head of which stood high in the councils of one of the great political parties of the day, one who had lately issued a statement to the country that the only difficulty his firm was having was to secure men to do their work, he met the great man coming from his office and appealed to him in person, and was informed that they required no more men at that time, but intimated that a factory in a city several hundred miles distant required help. he did not mention that it required several dollars to pay railroad fare to the town referred to. his experience in seeking employment caused alfred to resolve that no man or woman, no weary soul, no matter what the conditions, applying to him for employment or aid should be turned away without a word of encouragement and advice. some philosopher has likened kindness as lighting a neighbor's candle by our own by which we impart something and lose nothing. try a little kindness upon the next applicant who calls upon you. walking down fifth avenue alfred read a sign hung on a door: "wanted. two boys over fifteen years of age." it was the white house saloon. alfred walked in and asked for the position. he learned it was setting up ten pins in a bowling alley. the proprietor, john o'brien, was very kindly spoken and, looking curiously at alfred, he inquired: "how did you come to ask for this job? you look too well groomed for such work?" "well, i'm broke and i've got to do something." alfred was given the job and started to work at once setting up the pins. it was pay day in pittsburg; the big, husky iron workers hurled the balls down the alleys with such tremendous force that the pins were scattered in every direction. at times the bowlers, in their haste and excitement, would not wait for the pins to be set up before hurling the balls and it required quick action on the part of alfred to keep out of harm's way. closing up time came and as the dollar and a half was passed to alfred he noticed that the game keeper was a brother of eli's. pulling his hat over his eyes that he might not be recognized, the star of eli's minstrels fled the place. the barkeeper at the national hotel, dick cannon, had befriended alfred before. when he learned that alfred was living on doughnuts and coffee at the little stand in the market house, cannon took him in and fed him until he secured a position. it was through cannon that alfred finally secured the position of night clerk in the hotel. that a saloonkeeper and a bar-tender, the very people whom alfred had been so constantly warned against, should be the only ones who took an interest in him when in distress, was most surprising to the boy. surely it was not from the fact that he patronized their establishments, as he never entered the place of one and was in the house of the other for only a few hours. john w. pittock, the founder of the _pittsburg leader_, was also proprietor of a book store at the corner of fifth avenue and smithfield street. the _leader_ was the first paper, that the writer has knowledge of, to print a sporting page. pittsburgh, then as now, was strong for athletic sports. aquatic sports were the most popular; jimmy hamill, the champion single sculler of the world, was at the zenith of his career. the day following alfred's experience in the ten pin alley the city was all excitement over a sporting event. alfred was sent to the _leader_ office to procure a number of copies of the paper for numerous guests of the hotel. the following sunday morning alfred sold over two hundred copies of the paper. the superintendent of the smithfield street bridge was a friend of alfred's father. he permitted the boy to establish a news-stand at the end of the bridge. from a. m. until noon hundreds of copies of the _leader_ were sold. with his wages from the hotel the minstrel was making and saving money. alfred was homesick often but determined in his mind not to return to brownsville until he had a stated amount of money. the father wrote him to return at once. alfred replied that he had a good position but would return by a certain date. it was a holiday in the smokey city. alfred cleaned up over forty dollars on papers alone. that night he visited brimstone corner, a methodist church. no man or boy who ever lived in pittsburgh but remembers its location. it was a revival; the church was packed, the sermon eloquent and it made a deep impression upon alfred. the minister read the text as follows: "and he said, a certain man had two sons; and the younger of them said to the father: 'father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me.' and he divided unto him his living. and not many days after the younger son gathered all together and took his journey into a far country and there wasted his substance with riotous living. and when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land and he began to be in want. and he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. and he would feign have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat, and no man gave unto him. and when he came to himself, he said: 'how many hired servants of my father have bread enough and to spare, and i perish with hunger.' i will arise and go to my father and will say unto him, 'father, i have sinned against heaven and before thee and am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants.' and he arose and came to his father. but when he was yet a great way off his father saw him and had compassion and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him. and the son said unto him, 'father, i have sinned against heaven and in thy sight and am no more worthy to be called thy son.' but the father said to his servants, 'bring forth the best robe and put it on him and put a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet; and bring hither the fatted calf and kill it and let us eat and be merry. for this, my son, was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.' and they began to be merry." the preacher continued: "who can say what the causes that led to the young man's leaving the luxurious home of his father to wander, an outcast, over the earth? the vagaries of the human mind are beyond our understanding. the prodigal son may have had illusions; he may have had ambitions. he may have been induced by illusions born of ambitions to make something of himself other than a plain farmer's boy. the dangers that lay along his pathway were not known to him. that he fell in with evil associates and did not have the will power to free himself from them is obvious. "we cannot all live in one city; we cannot all live in one country or on one farm. it is but natural that boys will stray away from the old fireside. read the history of this country; it was settled by hardy yeomen, possessed of that desire for changed conditions. look at the great and growing west, settled by the descendants of those first settlers of new england and virginia. "that boys leave home, as did the prodigal son; that boys fall from grace, as did he who ate husks with the swine, should not shake our faith in the future of a young man who has fallen by the wayside. he is to be reclaimed, not by the mighty hand of the law, not by the chastisement of the father, but by the love and pity that man should exhibit not only for the good but for the lowest of god's creatures. we should extend to them the helping hand; we should prove by our actions that they have our love and pity. "pity is a mode, or a particular development, of benevolence. it is sympathy for those who are weak and suffering. hence, our compassion for the erring one. we have affections for men who are good and noble, men who are prosperous, strong and happy. but for those who have been beaten down by the storms of life, for such we should feel that pity the father displayed for the prodigal son. "if those who have strayed and forgotten the father's advice and the mother's prayers come to us, we should not receive them with reproaches and rebuffs but with open arms; always remembering that the father of all has gladness for those who are glad and pity for those who are sad. "when the erring one returned, envy filled the heart of one of the family and he said to a brother of the prodigal: 'thy brother is come and thy father hath killed the fatted calf because he hath received him safe and sound.' and the brother was angry and would not go in to the feast. therefore came his father out and entreated him to enter. and he answering, said to his father: 'lo, these many years do i serve thee, neither transgressing at any time thy commandments and yet thou never gavest me at any time a fatted kid that i might make merry with my friends. but as soon as this, thy son, came, which has devoured thy living, thou hast killed for him the fatted calf.' and the father answered, 'wealth killeth the foolish man and envy slayeth the silly one. there is not a just man upon earth that doeth good and sinneth not. it is good for a man he beareth the yoke in youth.' "it is sympathy in this world that must reclaim the fallen. it is sympathy in the return of the erring that must reunite families and heal the mother's sorrow for him who has wandered from the fireside and, like the prodigal, returns to be elevated to a life that might been have wasted had not the father's love prevailed to welcome his return. "if this world is to be bettered, if the children of men are to be uplifted, it must be by a love that is as strong as that of the father for the son, the mother for her children. "young man, if you have wandered from home, if you have felt you were abused, return to your family, start life over, reconcile yourself to what you may have imagined were wrongs. if they have wronged you, their love, won by your obedience, will atone for all. if you have wronged anyone, make amends. "fathers, mothers, friends, stretch out your right hands for the salvation and preservation of our young men, for in their hands lies the greatness of the future." the river was low, the boats were not running. the next morning a train bore alfred to layton station on the youghiogheny. a stage coach landed him at the door of his father's home in the middle of the afternoon. there never before was the happiness in alfred's heart that filled it on his home coming. the father was proud of his boy, the mother overwhelmed with her emotions. the children clung to him as though they feared he would fly away from them. lin baked and cooked as she never had before. when it became known that alfred had laid one hundred dollars in his mother's hand and that he "hed plenty more," as lin informed all, the boy could feel a difference in the atmosphere when he mingled with the people of the town. cousin charley and alfred hired a horse and buggy and drove out to merrittstown, passing the thornton home, the old mill, the dam and the home of the youngs. the blind musicians were paid the five dollars yet due with five dollars added for interest. there was only one incident that marred the happy home-coming. alfred licked morgan, eli's agent. eli was a very ill man; his excesses had brought him near death's door. alfred forgot the past and no more attentive friend had eli in his last illness. the fight with morgan was regrettable but, as lin expressed it: "hit let the kat outen the bag an' klarified matters in general an' some mighty big peepul tried to krawl into some mighty little holes, but they stuck out wuss then ef they hed stood up an' sed, 'well, we tuk alfred's money but we thought we wur right but we find we were wrong.'" of those who levied on the money at redstone school-house, but one returned the amount he had illegally received. fred chalfant, the liveryman, was that man. chapter thirteen forgot is the time when the clouds hid the sun. and cold blasts the earth forced to shiver. for such is the power of one warm spring day from winter's whole spell to deliver. alfred was unconsciously broadening in his knowledge; life in its various phases was unfolding to him, and he was profiting by his experiences. his faults appeared very great to others, were only an incentive to him. he had learned thus early that it was not the being exempt from faults so much as to have the will power to overcome them. in early life he had it very strongly impressed upon his mind that some men were perfect, others hopelessly vile. experience and observation forced alfred to the conclusion that none were so good but that some thought them bad, and none so vile but that some thought them good. we generally judge others as to their attitude towards us, agreeable or otherwise. our estimate of another depends greatly upon the manner in which that person affects our interests. it is difficult to think well or speak well of those by whom we are crossed or thwarted. but we are ever ready to find excuses for the vices of those who are useful and agreeable to us. therefore, he is a mighty poor mortal who is not something on his own account. alfred had graduated in that dear old school of experience, wherein education costs more but lasts longer than that acquired in colleges, that it is with the follies of the mind as with the weeds of a field--those destroyed and consumed upon the place of their growth, enrich and improve that place more than if none had ever grown there. the boy had been so continually advised against evil associates that he began taking a mental inventory of every stranger at first meeting. harrison was his estimate of the bad; mr. steele of the good. alfred had arrived at that stage where he not only stood aside and watched himself go by, but he was also watching the other fellow go by. he was out of newspaper business, out of the tannery, had abandoned the practice of medicine. charley's father, who was very strict with his boys, advised the parent to "give alfred more tether, not to stake him down too close. give him a little more rope, there's something in that boy." all of which was communicated to alfred by cousin charley, and uncle bill was thus greatly elevated in alfred's estimation. alfred's father was little short of a genius in a mechanical way; he had a peculiar temperament, mild and easily influenced. he was a creditable artist; many meritorious paintings from his brush in both oil and water adorn the walls of the residences of his friends. he was greatly interested in mechanical pursuits, particularly if of an artistic character. when uncle joe prepared to build a house, "pap" made the plans; when sells brothers built a tableau car or an animal van of an elaborate character, "daddy" made the drawings; when aunt betsy desired patterns to make a quilt to take the premium at the fair, "pap" made the drawings or figures. he became acquainted with an artist from philadelphia and was completely taken with the man's talents. the artist informed him in confidence that he had expended the greater portion of his man life on a work of art that would astonish the world, the father became even more interested in him. the father was the only person who had ever been permitted to look upon the wonderful creation of his genius; yard after yard of art was unwound for the admiration of the father. when he returned from his second visit to the art gallery of the philadelphia artist, he interested the family greatly by his description of the wonderful scenes the painter had wrought on the canvas. the sufferings and privations endured by the man while creating his work seemed to make as profound an impression upon the father as the painting itself. the father predicted that the talented painter would come into his own; the painting would be exhibited all over the world, admiring throngs would rush to see it to praise its incomparable beauties. the father made weekly visits to the home of the great painter, he desired frequent conferences with the father as he required his advice, at least, he so stated. after one of his frequent visits to the art studio the parent inadvertently let fall the remark that the great painting was about ready for exhibition but that the artist did not have money to complete it. he also hinted that if alfred were a boy of proper ambitions he might become attached to the exhibition of the picture, but no, "alfred's ambition did not rise above saw-dust and burnt-cork." these few words aroused alfred's curiosity. by adroit questioning he ascertained that the great work of art was a panorama illustrative of "the pilgrim's progress," to be exhibited in churches, schools and such places, at twenty-five cents for adults; children, half price. the mother wondered that the artist did not exhibit his wonderful painting in the art centers, philadelphia, boston, new york city, instead of butler, pittsburg, perryopolis and muttontown. the father explained that after the professor got the rollers to working smoothly and the lecture down pat, he intended visiting philadelphia, boston and new york. alfred began to realize that the picture was some sort of a show and he marvelled that his father favored it. lin said: "so fur es i kin kalkerlate it es some sort of meetin' house show, nuthin' but picturs. hit may be good, but durned ef i ever got much satisfaction out uf a cirkus lookin' at the picturs. but i s'pose peepul will want to look at the feller thet made hit. they say thet he nurly starved to death to git hit done. ye know, they'll run to see him. mor en they will his pictur--i reckon he has long curley hair an black eyes, they all has, them sufferin' fellers that due wunderful things." lin glancing mischievously at the mother in a tone she pretended to be only for the mother's hearing but really delivered for alfred's annoyance. "well, i hope he kums to red stun' skule-house. it's whur all the big shows gits thur start; they allus git a crowd, the skule direkturs sees to thet an' ef they don't make muny, sammy steele'll hulp 'em out." how did she know about sammy steele and his loan? it was long afterwards that alfred learned that joe thornton had confidentially imparted to bill wyatt, the tavern keeper, the part that he and steele had played in alfred's show life wyatt, in turn, confidentially imparted the story, with a few additions, to uncle bill. the uncle confided the story to the family and cousin charley gave it to the town--but what's the use. professor palmer, the artist, was to visit the family the following sunday. when there appeared a smallish, yankee looking individual, wrinkled face, a tuft of beard on his chin, similar to that bestowed upon the comic cartoons of the face of uncle sam, a beaked nose, very dirty hands and iron grey hair, sparsely sprinkled over his acorn-shaped head, alfred thought a farmer or stock breeder had called on his father. when introduced by the father as "my son, alfred, professor palmer," alfred was taken off his feet and his idea of art dropped away down. the only attraction of the professor was his eloquence, his ability to talk entertainingly. this he did continuously with a pronunciation so correct and studied that it sounded pedantic. the professor kept up his talk, as affected at times as the hand-cuff king's stage announcements or those of the middleman in a minstrel show. after dinner the professor expressed a desire to take a walk with alfred. they walked far, the professor talked long, and became annoyingly confidential. he said: "your father has told me a great deal about you and i must admit that you are a mighty smart young man. you don't belong in this one-horse town, you should get out in the world where there are opportunities waiting for all such as you. you could live in this town a thousand years and you'd be just what you are now. you have had some experience in the show line but in a line that is beneath you; your place in the show business is higher up. i want your advice," he continued insinuatingly. "now, i offered john (he referred to alfred's father), the best thing of his life. he has worked hard all of his days; he is deserving of something better. i have offered him a half interest in my show. ("holy mother of moses!" thought alfred). i have borrowed a little money from him but i need nine hundred dollars more to put me out right. now jack is considering the matter. i wish you, who know more about the show business than both of us put together, (alfred knew he was being flattered), would talk to him, use your influence with him." notwithstanding alfred's life's ambition to become a showman, the idea as presented by the professor filled him with disgust. his father going into the show business! he had pictured show life in his illusions as one long, summer day's dream, but now it seemed the meanest of careers. the idea of his father associating himself with such a calling was repugnant in the extreme. alfred could scarcely restrain his thoughts from taking expression in wrathful words. the man continued, not noticing alfred's changed expression: "you could sing and dance in this entertainment, do just what you pleased, it would make it all the better. i'll deliver the lecture and your daddy, (he was becoming insultingly familiar), could sit at the door and rake in the money. hasn't the old man talked to you about it? i've been talking to him for six months." "talking to my father about going into the show business and he did not knock you down. if he didn't he is a hypocrite." this is only what alfred thought; his reply was: "no, sir." he did not realize whether "no, sir" was the answer to the professor's question or the announcement of the decision he had come to in his mind as to the show business in so far as his father was concerned. the professor rattled on: "now, you get your old man away from the women folks and talk it over with him. it's the best thing ever offered him; he'll get his nine hundred dollars back before a month is out. i'm going to do business with churches and preachers wherever i can. i preached four years in missouri and had to give it up on account of my health; i got stomach trouble from eating rich food. i know just how to work this thing, and if you and your daddy go in with me we will not only make money but have a hell of a good time." they had arrived at the door of alfred's home. the professor, as they passed in, admonished alfred to "think it over and let me hear from you." the professor was soon in the midst of a description of a scene he intended introducing in his church entertainment wherein he used living figures. alfred did not follow his conversation; he was trying to think, but could not think connectedly. he could not talk to the professor, he answered him by nods or shakes of his head. the more reticent alfred became the more voluble the professor grew. at leave-taking time, the professor admonished alfred: "do not forget what i told you." alfred promised that he would not and he was sincere; he could not have forgotten had he tried. the professor gone, alfred hurried to his room. was it possible that his father had even partially entertained an idea of joining the man palmer in a show scheme, the father, who had berated, abused and condemned all and everything pertaining to shows, now favorably considering engaging in the show business himself. alfred endeavored to find excuses for his father--"he was generous, sympathetic, he was listening to the professor only to encourage him." alfred had never been subjected to the influence of a promoter; this was a leaf of life yet unturned by him. alfred felt certain that his father had entered into some sort of an arrangement with the professor. he felt certain the panorama man was endeavoring to induce his father to invest money in the panorama and he finally resolved that it should not be. the more he thought the matter over, the more distasteful show life appeared to him. then the illusion came back to him. he had dreamed by night and prayed by day; he had lived for years with the wish, the hope that he might, after a few years of show life, earn enough to gratify his life's desires, to possess a farm, to own fine horses, to plant fields, to reap harvests, to live near nature. he figured over several sheets of white paper. he would be compelled to labor forty years in the tannery to acquire sufficient money to buy a farm and nearly one hundred years in the newspaper office. jimmy reynolds, the clown with thayer & noyse circus, received one hundred dollars a week, board and lodging, so alfred had been informed. alfred felt in the innermost depths of his soul that he was a much better clown than jimmy. he would secure the position now held by reynolds--one hundred dollars each week for thirty weeks, three thousand dollars a year; ten years, thirty thousand dollars. ten years a clown, then a farm. show business was improper for the father but the means to attain the end for the son, as he reasoned. when lin found the figures and writing on the many sheets of scribbling paper in his room, she pondered long and confusedly over them. "what in the world hes thet consarned boy got intu his punkin' agin? thirty years a clown, ninety-nine years in a nusepaper, furty years in the tan-yard, and a farmer all the rest uf my life." then she laughed. "he must think he'll be as ole as methusulus got." she carried the paper to the mother. they confronted alfred with the sheets on which were scribbled the hieroglyphics. alfred laughingly said it was a new way to tell fortunes. alfred decided to talk to the father the first opportunity that offered. father and son were seated in the front room. "father"--alfred rarely addressed the parent as "father;" "pap" was the every-day appellation but the present matter was of greater importance--"father, i would like to talk to you privately and want you to answer me truthfully." the father had his feet on a stool reclining in the big, easy chair. at the words "answer me truthfully," the father's feet fell to the floor, his cigar dropped until it lay on his chinbeard; the man looked at the boy to convince himself he had heard aright. "why, what the h--ll tarnation do you mean?" alfred was frightened, his voice trembled and sounded unlike his own, but he was determined. "father, i want to talk to you, come upstairs to my room." if alfred had not been so earnest, the scene would have been a laughable one, as it was like burlesquing many similar scenes when the parent addressed the boy in the same words. alfred walked up the steps very slowly, hoping thereby to cause the parent to follow. it was a long time (to alfred) ere the father entered the room. "what's the trouble now?" began the man, as he gazed inquiringly at the boy. "who is this man palmer whom you are so greatly taken up with?" inquired alfred. "why, what's that to you? he's a friend of mine." "has he a show?" was the boy's next query. "a show? not a show like you know anything of. he has a painting, a work of art, that will be exhibited soon." "father, you have always berated, abused and condemned shows and show people. did this man palmer borrow money from you?" the father was confused. he reddened as he stammered: "no--no--not much. you see he is a poor devil of an artist, he would rather paint than eat; he has spent years of his life on a painting. he has a fortune almost in his hands and i loaned him a little money to buy glue and colors to finish his painting. i tell you, he is a genius; why, the roller the pictures work on is one of the most ingenious contrivances you ever saw and it's simple, it can be applied to other uses. no man but a genius like palmer would have thought of it." this and much more information he gave alfred. by his manner alfred could readily see that the parent was greatly interested in palmer and his scheme--for alfred felt such it was. "well, then, father, you have changed your mind as to shows?" "who said i had? no, i have not changed my mind as to shows! who told you i had? but your uncle will, who thinks more of you than you think he does, has persuaded me to give you your own way a little more and if you want to go with palmer i will consent to it after i see palmer and put you under his charge. he must control you just as i want you controlled. he is a man who knows how to manage boys; he is a man you can depend upon and i don't mind you going with him if it can be arranged to suit me and your mother. i am glad you asked my consent and did not run off, like you threatened to do with the nigger minstrels." and he emphasized "nigger minstrels" to strongly convince alfred of his disgust with that branch of show business. the father was so completely wrapped up in palmer, so totally captivated by the eloquence of the man that he had altogether mistaken the questions of the boy. "father, has palmer tried to get nine hundred dollars out of you? did he want you to buy a half interest in the show?" "well," hesitatingly he answered, "palmer has got to raise some money and he asked me to help him out. i haven't said whether i would or not. if you go with him you could look after money matters for----." here alfred interrupted the parent: "have you said anything to mother about this? you know when you went into the patent wash-board concern with niblo and grandpap, you never told mother and when you got took in with uncle thomas on the patent shoe blacking, you said you would never enter into anything outside your business without asking mother's advice. and now you're dickering with this man palmer about a show, something you know nothing about. now pap--." the wash-board and blacking were two of the father's investments that were losses, so he became very much irritated at mention of them and checked the son. "now you hold on, young man! if you tell your mother anything of this, you and i will have trouble. you're meddling with matters that don't concern you. i thought you called me in to ask my permission to go with palmer. now you set yourself up to pry into my business. i'm your father, i've always taken care of you and i am able to take care of myself. i don't want a green boy to look after me." "well, pap; i'm not trying to nose into your business. you told palmer that i knowed a heap about the show business, and you recommended me highly as a showman." the father was sizzling. "who told you so?" "why, palmer himself. now, i don't want to brag on myself," continued alfred who had gained confidence as the interview progressed, "but i've seen a great deal of this show business and you've got to know what you're doing when you get into it. why, look how many men have lost all their money." and here alfred mentioned the names of several men, the details of whose losses in show schemes he had read in the _new york clipper_. "why," he continued, in an outburst of confidence, "i"--and he emphasized the "i"--"i lost money on my last show." he should have added, "my first and last show." but the boy felt that he had pap going. "i had to borrow money from sammy steele to pay my debts." the father gasped. "so you've been borrowing money to get into the show business?" "no, i had to borrow money to get out of it and that's why i don't want you to loan palmer money without you ask mother." alfred knew full well that this reference to the mother would bring the father to terms. "now look here, my boy; i warned you once before not to blab my business to your mother to make trouble in the family--" "well, i'm going to tell her," broke in the boy. "you're going to tell her what?" threateningly asked the father. "i'm not going to tell her anything about you," replied alfred somewhat subdued, "i'm just going to tell her that palmer is trying to borrow money from you." the mother was no different from other women. the father knew full well that her first remark would be: "so palmer wants to borrow money! so that's what brought him here! he is a slick one, you could tell that by his talk. john, i hope you are not fool enough to loan that man money." "no, mary, don't worry yourself, he'll get no money out of me, i could see through him the first time i met him." this line of conversation had been heard so often in the family that it was stereotyped on the memory of all. the father therefore capitulated, and in a tone intended to pacify the boy he said: "now there's no use in stirring up anything over this matter. if you want to go with palmer i will gain your mother's consent. i'll tell her you have asked my permission. i will permit you to remain there as long as you do right. you know more about this business than i do and i'll leave it all in your hands and i'll tell palmer so," the father resignedly concluded. his father had outgeneraled him; he was not the diplomat he imagined himself. he was left in deeper doubt than before the interview. letters came from palmer. alfred knew by the postmark that they were from him. he was tempted to open them. the father read the letters and placed them in the desk, never mentioning palmer's name. this was very perplexing to alfred. it was reported that palmer's great panorama was coming. it was also reported that alfred's uncle thomas, the minister, uncle ned, uncle will, grandpap, and all of alfred's relatives who had opposed his show ambitions previously, sanctioned his going with professor palmer's panorama. uncle thomas explained that palmer was a retired minister, that the surroundings, instead of being degrading, would be uplifting; taking it all in all, john and mary had acted wisely in giving their consent to alfred's joining professor palmer's panorama of pilgrim's progress. somehow it got out that alfred was not anxious to go. lin, in referring to the latter phase of the matter, said: "i jes can't understan' hit. uncle thomas ses hit will satusfy alfurd's ambishun an' possibly settle his min'. but alfurd don't seem to want to go. maybe hit's his muther. alfurd is a great muther's boy, ye wouldn't think hit either, he's sech a tarnel devil ketcher, but he is. i guess he don't like the idee uf this prayur meetin' show an' the show fellur thet painted hit he jes disspises. i bet ye a fip ef hit wus a show with hosses an' gals ur singin' niggurs he'd bust a biler to go. be durned if he ain't the queerest cuss i ever seed. why, it tuk the hull kit uf us tu head him frum runnin' off with a show a while back. now, be dog-goned ef ye kin chase him off with a pack of bob playford's houn's." it was announced by the father that palmer would be the guest of the family for a day. alfred determined to have a heart-to-heart talk with palmer, pretend he was in full accord with his plans, engage to go with the panorama and thus protect the father in his dealings with the man. palmer arrived and with him an open faced, honest appearing pennsylvania dutchman, from bedford county, whom palmer introduced as jake. jake had a continuous smile. sometimes it expanded but never contracted. the smile was a fixture and it became jake greatly. he rarely spoke, the smile sort of atoned for his reticence as it assured those addressing him that jake was not deaf, even though dumb. it was not necessary to question palmer; he was a willing subject, volunteering all the testimony necessary to set alfred's mind at rest. in answer to the query as to whether father had concluded to take an interest in the panorama now that he, alfred, had decided to go with it, palmer rolled off his reply so rapidly that alfred could scarcely follow his words. "i hope john will not be angry with me, i offered him first chance and held off until i almost lost the other fellow. john's all right but he's too conservative. he's afraid of his wife and he'll never make money as long as he continues in business in this town. this dutchman, jake, had the money, he is anxious to travel, he has never been outside of bedford county. jake has a team, a fine team. we can't stick anywhere. he'd sell the team if i said the word. he will haul the whole outfit. i am going to buy another team and a good one, then i can take my wife and you and go ahead and have all the arrangements made before jake arrives with the panorama. of course if john talks his wife into it he will want to come in later. we can easily get rid of jake, he's a "gilly." this is the very business for john. he is a painter, he could paint the panoramas; all he requires is a little experience with water colors. why, look at those flags on the old fellow's barn out the pike; no one but an artist could shade and color like that.[a] those flags are painted so naturally they appear to be fluttering in the wind. john and me could go in together, and paint panoramas of bull run and other battles and sell them or send out a half a dozen. this war will make the panorama business good. your daddy is good on flags and eagles and sich; that's where i am weak. we could make all kinds of money." the exhibitions would be confined to churches and educational institutions; therefore, it was most fortunate for alfred that he should be privileged to become attached to an exhibition that possessed the elevating and refining influences of the great moral entertainment of professor palmer. the father, instead of requesting the minister to ask the blessing, as was his custom, nodded to palmer. all bowed their heads as palmer, in a loud voice, called down a blessing upon the food, the father, the mother, and the boy about to go out into the world to seek his fortune; he also prayed for lin. he called down a blessing upon the panorama and that it might attract thousands that the great moral lesson it was designed to teach might be carried to the furthermost corners of the earth. alfred could not resist the impulse to raise his eyes. the very beard on palmer's chin was quivering with the fervor of his beseechings. all were bowed in respectful reverence except jake--he was gazing nowhere, the smile a little more expansive. after the men had retired from the dining room, lin, the mother and alfred remained seated. lin turned a cup in the tea-grounds. she read that alfred would wander a long way off and "maybe kum back with a great bag of gold, at eny rate, he wus carryin' a heavy load." finally lin, turning to the mother, inquired: "what did ye think uf the blessin'?" "it was very fervent," absently answered the mother. lin sniffed. "well, i'd swore afore a volcany uf fire thet i smelled licker on both uf 'em." the mother communicated lin's suspicions to the father. he admitted that jake might be addicted to liquor. palmer, as an artist, used a great deal of alcohol to dissolve the shellac used for sizing the canvas preparatory to painting and the fumes of alcohol would pervade a man's clothing a long time after being subjected to its permeating influences. lin, with a twinkle in her eye, declared in a loud whisper as the father left the room: "well, durned ef i wus him ef i wouldn't change my clothes afore i asked a blessin' agin." the mother was very much worried. she communicated her fears to uncle thomas and aunt sarah. uncle william, the county judge, was called into conference. he advised that since alfred seemed inclined to a roving life it would be better for him to be connected with a religious show than with a worldly one for he would be free from the vicious surroundings of a circus or minstrel show, and suggested that a binding contract be made with palmer. grandfather secured a copy of the contract under which his brother, the judge, had been apprenticed, and had a copy made to fit alfred's engagement to palmer. the following is an exact copy of the indenture which bound uncle william to learn the trade of a blacksmith. it is now on record in the county courthouse at uniontown, pennsylvania: this indenture witnesseth: that william hatfield, of the township of union, in the county of fayette, state of pennsylvania, hath put himself by the approbation of his guardian, john withrow, and by these presents doth voluntarily put himself an apprentice to george wintermute, of the township of redstone, county and state aforesaid, blacksmith, to learn his art, trade or mystery he now occupieth or followeth, and after the manner of an apprentice to serve from the day of the date hereof, for and during the full end and term of five years, next ensuing, during all of which time he, the said apprentice, his said master shall faithfully serve, his secrets keep, his lawful commands everywhere gladly obey; he shall do no damage to his said master, nor suffer it to be done without giving notice to his said master; he shall not waste his master's goods, nor lend them unlawfully to others; he shall not absent himself day or night from his master's service without his leave; he shall not commit any unlawful deed whereby his said master shall sustain damage, nor contract matrimony within the said term; he shall not buy nor sell nor make any contract whatsoever, whereby his master receive damage, but in all things behave himself as a faithful apprentice ought to do during said term. and the said george wintermute shall use the utmost of his endeavors to teach, or cause to be taught and instructed, the said apprentice the trade or mystery he now occupieth or followeth, and procure and provide for him, the said apprentice, sufficient meat, drink, common wearing apparel, washing, lodging, fitting for an apprentice during the said term; and further he, the said master, doth agree to give unto the said apprentice, ten months' schooling within the said term, and also the master doth agree to give unto the said apprentice two weeks in harvest in each and every year that he, the said apprentice, shall stay with his said master; also the said george wintermute, doth agree to give unto the said apprentice one good freedom suit of clothes. and for the true performance of all and every the said covenants and agreements, either of the said parties binds themselves to each other by these presents. in witness whereof, they have interchangably put their hands and seals, the first day of april, one thousand, eight hundred and sixteen. george wintermute, (seal) william hatfield, (seal) john withrow, (seal) witness present: benjamin roberts. fayette county, ss.: may the th, one thousand eight hundred and sixteen, before me the subscriber, one of the justices of the peace, in and for the said county, came the parties to the within indenture and severally acknowledged it as their act and deed. given under my hand and seal the day and year above mentioned. benjamin roberts, (seal) a copy of the paper binding alfred to george washington palmer is on record in the county courthouse at leesburg, loudoun county, virginia. grandfather argued that if his brother, the judge, could accumulate farms and town property and raise himself to the dignity of a judge, alfred certainly should do equally as well. it was not many days before alfred's duties would take him away from home and he began a round of visits to bid all good-bye. [illustration: the taffy pulling] cousin mary craft gave a cotillion party in the country. cousins hester and martha gave a party in town. frank long gave a taffy pulling. the hot plates of taffy were placed outside the kitchen door on the brick walk to cool before the taffy was pulled. archibald long, frank's father, not knowing of the taffy's location, walked out of the house in his stocking feet, as was his custom ere he retired. in the darkness he planted one foot, then the other, in a plate of the hot taffy. this caused him to jump several feet in the air. he started to run. at each step his feet found another taffy plate. gobs of the hot stuff sticking to his feet, pressing up between his toes, the old man introduced a dance--a high kicking dance that would have won him fame and fortune on the stage. the hot gobs of taffy clinging to his expansive, woolen sock-encased feet caused him such intense pain, the old man endeavored to introduce a new stunt, namely, to throw both feet in the air at the same time. all the boys and girls ran from the dining room at the first sound of the yells of the old man. the lamps within enlightened the weird scene without. when both feet were flung in the air simultaneously the old man sat down suddenly. he sat on the largest plate, with the hottest gob of taffy in the collection. his seat had barely touched the plate, the taffy had scarcely squashed through his jeans pants, until he made an effort to rise again. failing in this he flopped on his stomach, clutching and tearing at his seat of latest misery, taffy stringing from his fingers. rearing his rear end high in the taffy laden air he planted his head in another plate of taffy which, was still tenderly clinging to the few straggling hairs on the old man's pate, as they carried him into the house, the taffy plate on his head like the crown of the old king. gradually dangling, it descended to the floor, only to be trampled in the dust by the rabble. the old man was put to bed. poultices of apple butter, sweet-oil and a whitish-bluish clay dug from the bottom of the spring were applied to his blistered parts. the taffy pulling party, the scene of gayety so suddenly transformed to one of suffering, lives in the memory of alfred by the recollection of long threads of amber colored taffy shimmering in the soft moonlight as they clung to the plum tree branches where the old man's vigorous kicks had landed them. it was maple sugar making time. uncle jacob irons, who lived near masontown fifteen miles away, had a large sugar grove. a visit to uncle jake's was always one continued round of pleasure. the staid uncle, jolly aunt bettie, kate and tillie, joe and george, john and wilson, were always delighted to have alfred visit them. it was a day that marked the passing of winter and the coming of spring, after a night of light freezing with a white frost, the morning sun shining all the brighter that he had been hazed so long by winter's shadows. the earth, the trees, appeared even more brown and barren by contrast with the splendors of the sky. here and there a patch of snow, left sheltered by tree or fence, seemingly endeavoring to hide from the sunbeams that came out of the south, to pour its flood of warmth on it until it melted and mouldered away. it was springtime, the boyhood of the year, when half the world is rhyme and music is the other. it was springtime in the country, far from the city and the ways of men. the mountains in the distance, brown colored in spots, the peaks, like winter kings with beards of snow, seemed to say: "'tis time for me to go northward o'er the icy rocks, northward o'er the sea. come the spring with all its splendor, all its buds and all its blossoms, all its flowers and all its grasses." it was a day that awakened feelings that seemed sacred. have you ever lived in the country? have you ever visited in the country in springtime? have you ever asked yourself: "i wonder if the sap in the sugar trees is stirring yet? is the sugar water dripping?" have you ever worked in a sugar camp, such as there were in old fayette county in those days? nearer the south than bleak new england, the trees more full of sap, the sap sweeter than it flows anywhere on earth. the trees in the camp tapped, the spiles driven, the sweet water dropping; the boys and girls, the men, yes, the women too, gathering the sap. the day is warm, the run a big one; to save it, all must hustle the big barrels loaded on the sleds as the horses move from one tree to another, turning over the mosses and dried leaves, exposing the johnny-jump-ups and violets as if they were just peeping up through the ground at the busy scene. the redbird is singing in the tree, his plumage all the brighter for the winter's bleaching. the day is not long enough, the night is consumed. the boys from all the country about gather at the camp. the moon was a book and every star a word that read fun and frolic to the jolly crowd at the camp at uncle jake's that night. alfred sang songs, and told jokes. they had sugared off, made a big kettle of sugar. some dipped big spoonfuls of the thickened syrup from the kettle, and poured it slowly into tin cups filled with ice cold water. as it cooled the large lump of wax was pulled out of the water with the fingers. some, with buttered hands, worked the wax until they had whitish taffy, others filled their mouths with the wax as it came from the water. the writer will engage to cure any case of stomach trouble that ever worried man or woman with this maple wax. the night wore on, the fun flagged. ben paul, a husky country boy, proposed that two or three go to nick yonse's still house and procure a little "licker." cousin wilson frowned upon this proposal but as the boys were his guests he did not further protest. it was impossible to awaken anyone to get the matured article from the distillery; therefore, with the aid of a clothesline fastened to a jug which ben lowered into a vat filled with corn juice distilled the day previous, a supply was secured. ben returned to the camp. he was truthful when he explained that the offering he brought was no old stale stuff such as they were accustomed to, but something new and fresh. its newness did not deter the boys from helping themselves to big swigs from the jug, smoothing out their wry faces with draughts of sugar water. cousin wilson refused to participate as he busied himself with his work. the sight of a tin cup made alfred fearful that he would spill his sugar. he also declined. after the custom that had prevailed in the tavern cellar, the tin cup went round and round, the result was the same or nearly so as at the tavern. some sang, others danced, one or two slept, some wanted to fight. alfred attempted to pour melody on the troubled revellers but the only effect of his song was to encourage ben paul to knock the bottom out of a new tin pail endeavoring to keep time to the song as he had seen alfred do with the tambourine. cousin john, unnoticed by cousin wilson, was chief among those who passed the tin cup around. john was of a friendly disposition and, not to be rude to his guests, sent the cup around often. several of the boys retired into the shadows of the trees just beyond the glare of the furnace fire to regret their mixing corn and sugar. [illustration: the night at the sugar camp] wilson plainly informed john that this thing had gone far enough. it was john's idea of courtesy, or rather his confused notion, that a host's guests should be permitted to conduct themselves as best suited their pleasure. several of them wanted to fight. john said, "all right, let them fight." wilson interfered. john stepped out of the circle and invited any one or all present to come out. "any of you excepting alfred, he's all right. i can lick any of you with one hand tied behind my back," and john spat on both hands. "come out yer," he pleadingly invited wilson, "or anyone excepting alfred." john, when he invited any or all of the others out, had evidently forgotten his courtesy to his guests or probably he desired to further increase their pleasure. perhaps that was the way he reasoned it, as several had declared they would rather fight than eat. john did not wish them to go home feeling they had missed anything. as a last request, john just pleaded with wilson to step out. he seemed more anxious to have wilson tackle him than any other. as a last declaration of what he wouldn't sacrifice to have wilson step out, he concluded as he slapped his hands together: "step out, ole feller, just step out yer. will you? i'll fight you anyway, i'll fight you now. come on; i don't care a dam if i have my sunday pants on, i'll fight you anyhow." the shouts of the boys could be heard re-echoing up and down the hollows as they wended their ways homeward. the moon had gone down, the night was darkened; it was nearly dawn. the fire had gone down in the furnace, the steam ceased to rise from the kettles, the hoot of the old night owl, after the scenes of the night, made it seem even more quiet. how to get john into the house that uncle jake and the family, might not be awakened, concerned both alfred and wilson. to alfred was delegated the task of conducting john home. john led quietly until a shout of laughter from those bringing up the rear was heard which he chose to construe as derision directed at him, and then he balked. alfred would get him quieted and thus they finally reached the house. here john balked again. alfred and wilson were both over sensitive. if the folks discovered john's condition it would reflect upon them. alfred greatly feared that mrs. young and uncle jake would blame him for john's downfall. they had about made up their minds to carry john to the barn and stow him away in the hay mow but it had turned uncomfortably cool and this plan was abandoned. alfred opened the door leading to the stairs, partly pulling and pushing him upstairs. he landed john in the room, where he fell over on the bed. john muttered and mumbled, flapping and flinging his arms wildly about his head--he arose to a sitting posture. alfred endeavored to lay him down. his face and head were covered with cold perspiration. alfred knew the symptoms of the distressing effects that follow the circulation of a tin cup. he hustled john out of bed. john floundered away from him in the darkness, and found his way into an unused room. alfred could hear him but could not locate him. groping his way in the darkness alfred kept calling in a muffled voice: "john, john, john, where are you? come to me." just then the house seemed to shake from roof to cellar as john and his two hundred pounds fell over uncle jake's home-made sausage stuffer. the stuffer was ten feet long. stuffer and john carried a big rocking chair, a tin boiler and several other reverberating pieces of household junk with them. ere alfred could rescue john from the mass of ruins under and on which he was piled, john began to realize how difficult it is to retain what you have no matter how strongly you desire to do so. alfred had to get out of hearing of john's sufferings to suppress his feeling. he felt very deeply for john from the very bottom of his stomach; in fact, the bottom of his stomach seemed disposed to come up. he endeavored to divert his thoughts but they went back to a tin cup, a wheel-barrow, cow's ears and other things. uncle jake came out of his room. "what's the matter, what's up? you boys trying to tear down the house? what's the trouble anyway?" "oh, john's drunk too much syrup and it's made him deathly sick," alfred began to explain. uncle jake interrupted him, saying, as he backed into the room and closed the door: "oh, i thought sammy steele's mule had kicked some of you." the wings of fame fly slowly, reputation travels faster. it is said that remorse is the echo of a lost virtue. alfred felt that remorse of conscience that can come only to one who has fallen and lived on in the happy illusions that no one heard him drop. governor tener, doctor van voorhis, mr. daly and others of john's friends will no doubt be surprised at this leaf in his life. in all the years that john and alfred have lived since, neither has ever forgotten his first experience with a tin cup that was loaded. footnotes: [a] the flags referred to were painted on the upper doors of james fouts's barn, situated on the old pike three miles east of brownsville. the flags were very brilliantly colored and naturally draped. they were the admiration of all travelers over the great thoroughfare. as the war progressed the confederates raided near that section several times. the owner feared that the flags might imperil the safety of the barn and other buildings on his farm. he therefore sent an order to alfred's father to paint the flags over, who desiring to cover their brilliant colors with one coat selected dark prussian blue. very soon after the flags were painted over, their colors began to appear through the blue. not many hot summer days had gone by until the flags were almost as distinct as when first painted on the big doors of the barn. the reappearance of the flags was regarded as a phenomenon or a miracle by the country folk. the "brownsville clipper," in commenting upon the miracle, declared: "it is an omen of victory for the federal armies; you cannot efface the star spangled banner, it still waves on fouts's barn." the paper criticized the owner for having the flags daubed over and intimated that fouts was lacking in loyalty. (fouts was a democrat. three weeks later the owner of the paper ordered danny stentz to pull in the big flag that hung out of the third story window of the "clipper" building; the confederates were reported as but fourteen miles away. the chemical properties of the coloring matter in the paints was the cause of the reappearance of the red bars of the flags through the blue paint that was spread over them.) chapter fourteen the man who borrows trouble is always on the rack, for there's no way, by night or day, that he can pay it back. mt. pleasant, pa. dear muz: we got here safe and sound. this is a pretty place. palmer lives on the edge of the town; it's an old house; one end of it is all taken up with his "art studio," he calls it. he biles glue and the smell goes through the whole house. you and lin thought i stunk when i worked in the tannery, you ought to smell palmer and his art studio. he has another preacher helping him. his wife is very quiet; she is making the clothes for the panorama; they have a pile of clothes to make. he asked me if i had read "pilgrim's progress." he knows the book backwards, so i have to read it and learn it too. the way he talks this is a regular show, but he won't let you call it a show. the painting looks awful to me but palmer says it looks all right under the lights. he is about done and wants pap to come over to see it. if he comes don't let him bring any money. tell lin to get my shotgun from under the feed trough in the cow stable. she'd better get it quick. turkey evans knows where it is and he'll steal it. answer and let me know if he has stole it yet. tom white is too short. if cousin charley was a few inches taller i could get him this job. it takes tall people to be characters in pilgrim's progress, especially "christian," "help" and the "evangelist." jake's goin' to be somethin' in the panorama. they don't live very well; maybe mrs. palmer didn't know we were coming and didn't fix for us. they have had no meat any meal yet, only flitch.[b] palmer works all night and sleeps all day. he talks the rest of the time. his wife don't say nothin'; just wears a sun bonnet. maybe she has the newralgy. give my love to all. your affectionate son, alfred griffith hatfield. p. n. b. don't forgit the gun. turner simpson promised me when queen had pups to give me one. if he brings it you'll keep it, won't you muz? mt. pleasant, pa. dear muz: the livin's no better, it's flitch every meal; they haven't had pie or cake since we came. palmer says when they get the thing going we'll live on the fat on the land. his wife don't say nothin', just sews and cooks and wears a sun-bonnet. they've got two children somewhere. i heard palmer say they'd have to stay, that they'd be too much trouble on the road. this seemed to make mrs. palmer more quiet, i reckon you'd call it sad. she ought to say somethin', then a body would know what ails her. i don't think it's newralgy. i told her mustard plasters always helped aunt susan and she just looked at me. i hope he gets her goin' soon, i'm hungry. if this show is good, as he says she is, he ought to make enough to buy something to eat besides flitch, corn meal and potatoes. he's got two more scenes to paint, then we're ready to show her up. tom tried to help mrs. palmer wash the dishes, he broke two plates. palmer says he's all thumbs and mouth. your affectionate son, alfred griffith hatfield. p. s. was the gun gone? the pup's a hound but it's bound to be pretty, the children will like it. you keep it till i get home. mt. pleasant, pa. my dear muz: palmer's the awfulest worker i ever saw. he knows his business but he ain't got any money. we're waitin' on jake to come. palmer owes everybody in town, they won't let him have anything until he pays. the flitch gave out last night, and we had nothin' but corn pone, buttermilk and potatoes. palmer said he ketched the gout once from high livin', and he did not want to see another human suffer like he did. i guess his wife's dietin' too, as she don't set down to eat with us. palmer is a wonderful man. he's got his lecture all wrote out and all the characters and all the costumes for them. he's going to begin the rehearsals tomorrow. practicin' we called it. i looked in the dictionary, rehearsing is to recite, to recount, to relate, to repeat what has already been said, to recite in private for experiment and improvement before a public representation. i have learned more from palmer than anybody i was ever with. the old preacher, reverend gideon, writes letters all day; he has the names of all the churches and preachers and we know where we are to be weeks before hand. jake came today and brought his two horses. they're nice horses but he won't let you drive them, he wants to drive himself. palmer went to the stable while jake was unhitchin' and i seen him get money from jake. we had beefstake for supper, fried, but it was too dry. she did not make any sop.[c] we had hot biscuits and good butter, but no pie and cake. i got acquainted with a boy, will peters. he invited me over to his house several times. i want to go but am ashamed to; they have pie and cake three times a day just like we all do at home. mrs. palmer talks a little to me now. she still wears the sun-bonnet but i don't believe it's newralgy that ails her. she asked me if your name warn't mary irons before you married pap. i finished the pilgrim's progress last night. it's a great book, you ought to read it. the one we got at home is not complete, borrow uncle tom's. i'm glad turkey evans did not get hold of my shotgun. palmer's done all his "work of art," as he calls it. tonight he reads the whole thing over to us and then we got to learn our parts. jake is going to be "christian;" that's what i wanted to be but "christian" carries a heavy load on his back and palmer says i'm not strong enough. me and tom must double a dozen different characters. mrs. palmer tried all the clothes for everybody on me. one of the suits i do not like; it's just like you had nothin' on but a shirt; it's for "faith" to wear. i told palmer it would not look right before women and children and he said the costume was patterned after the original plates. i don't know what he meant but he'll not put "faith's" clothes on me, plates or no plates. [illustration: "he'll not put faith's clothes on me"] is pap coming over before we start? if he is, you have lin bake a peck of doughnuts, put them in the big carpet-sack. i'm glad you got the gun. i wrote turner simpson to send you the pup when it was old enough to wean. your affectionate son, alfred griffith hatfield p. s. don't forget the doughnuts. somerset, pa. dear muz: it will be my luck to have pap come to mt. pleasant with the doughnuts and find us all gone. we left last night. i wrote you we was going but i didn't know it until palmer woke me up in the middle of the night. reverend gideon left two days before. someone pulled me out of bed. i hollered, "here, here, hold on!" then i knew it was palmer. i jumped up. he ordered me to dress quickly. i dressed and looked for tom. i asked palmer where he was. he said: "i've called him as often as i'm going to." i called tom and had to wait so long for him to dress that when i got out doors there was jake sitting up in the front seat of the wagon, and mrs. palmer beside him. she looked to me as if she was cryin'. jake told us to "get in, she's going to go." palmer was locking the doors. i heard something splash down in the well. his wife asked for the keys. "they're down in the well; old lane, the landlord, can look for them." mrs. palmer looked very much worried. they left all their things excepting a few bedclothes and the sewing machine. palmer spread the bedclothes on the panorama in the bottom of the wagon; tom, me and him slept all the way here. poor mrs. palmer set up all night beside jake on the seat. if she ain't got the newralgy she'll katch it sure. mrs. palmer wouldn't get out of the wagon to eat breakfast when we stopped on the road at a country house, and palmer spoke real cross to her and she cried. it's the only time i've seen jake's face without a smile and he looks a different man when he ain't smiling. i like jake and he likes me. he wants to see pap. reverend gideon met us here. palmer forgot his clothes and i heard him tell gideon they'd have to go, he had flung the keys in the well and if gideon went back after his clothes they was liable to fling him in jail. i believe palmer's run off owing everybody. this thing's bound to make money. i'm sorry i came for twenty a month. if he does well he'll have to raise me. your affectionate son, alfred griffith hatfield. p. s. the hound was to be a dog, not another kind. palmer, the wife and gideon, were a source of much speculation to alfred; he could not fix their standing in his mind. the facts were that palmer was one of those soldiers of fortune who had experimented with many things and failed in everything. he fitted dryden's description of: "a man so various, that he seemed to be not one, but all mankind's epitome; stiff in opinions, always in the wrong was everything by starts, and nothing long; but, in the course of one revolving moon, was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon." the only aim palmer seemed to have in life was to create the impression that he might have been worse. store clerk, school teacher, politician, preacher, scene painter, amateur showman; such were the pursuits he had been engaged in, not successful in any of them. abusive of all, save that one he was engaged in, blaming the world for his failures. he respected no man or woman. he approached no man save with a selfish motive; could he but injure those with whom he dealt he was happy, though he did not profit thereby. yet he did not so speak, but all his actions conveyed this impression of the man to alfred. and thus his character was impressed on the boy's intuitive mind as strongly as were the scenes on the canvas of the panorama. [illustration: palmer] the wife was only another of that type of woman who has blasted a life, one full of hope, by clinging to a man who was unworthy of one day of her life. it was a pathetic spectacle to see the faded wife standing helpless in the shadow of her husband's selfishness, having sacrificed youth, beauty and everything that woman holds dear. it did not matter to palmer that she was once a school teacher, more than a fair musician, courted by numbers who could have made her useful to society and happy in her life. it did not matter to palmer that she had burned up much of her attractiveness over the cooking stove; that she lost more of it at the washtub; in caring for and rearing the children that had unfortunately come to them. the slaving she had gone through in all their married life to help her husband to get on in the world was all lost upon the selfish man who never gave a thought to her sufferings. he actually treated her if as she had been the cause of his failures, and seemed ashamed of her when younger and more attractive women were near. her two children, somewhere in missouri in the keeping of her mother, seemed her only hope in life and the only time the poor crushed soul evidenced interest in anything was when tidings came from the children or she could prevail upon their thankless father to send them a little money. the mother's wardrobe was scanty that the darlings of her heart might be better clad. aunt susan wore a sun-bonnet almost continuously that she might better keep in place mustard plasters and horse radish leaves to relieve the neuralgia pains. alfred presumed that mrs. palmer was similarly affected since she always wore a sun-bonnet. that was before they left palmer's house. afterwards he became convinced that the woman wore the sun-bonnet to conceal the lines of sorrow in her once fine face. rev. gideon was the last of the trio whom alfred figured out. he had married palmer's sister. they went to a foreign country as missionaries; gideon's health gave way under the tropical climate. he returned to this country and had since made his home with the palmers. but little was learned of the wife. she still lived, and if remittances were not forthcoming, gideon was on the rack. in fact, each one of her complaining letters made gideon turn more yellow in color, sit up later and get up earlier than usual, no matter how poor gideon suffered. if he was ailing and palmer noticed it, he would sneer and jerk out: "huh! got a letter from sis, did you? s'pose she wants you to go back to china. say gideon, that must have been a hell of a job to instill the gospel into heathen when you can't make an impression upon those who understand what you say. it must have been discouraging to waste your eloquence upon those copper-colored thieves. there's many a game to catch suckers in this world but that foreign mission play is the rawest ever sprung. say, gideon, how much did you get? so much for each sinner saved or did you lump the job?" under such cynicism gideon would turn about and walk off as though nothing had been said to him. palmer took an especial delight in teasing gideon as to his mission labors. gideon never deigned to notice the ridicule of palmer, at least in words. yet there was one thing that impressed alfred. palmer always deferred to gideon in any business proposition under consideration; he would bluster and rave a little but always in the end gave in to gideon's judgment. in addition to the receipts that came to him from the exhibition of the panorama, palmer had a large, framed, steel plate engraving of john bunyan which he sold while soliciting subscriptions for several religious publications. he worked diligently. he never desisted when he once went after preacher, deacon or the entire congregation, and he generally sold what he offered or secured their names to one of his numerous subscription lists. he worked so adroitly that he made many his aides. not infrequently a minister would get up during an intermission in the pilgrim's progress exhibition and announce one or more of palmer's offerings. these announcements invariably wound up with the statement that the proceeds were for the benefit of a retired minister who had lost his health in an endeavor to carry the gospel to the heathen in foreign lands. alfred became curious as to what effect these announcements would have upon gideon and he often peeped from behind the scenes to note it. but gideon was never in sight. he would step out of the door as the speaker began. alfred noticed that mrs. palmer always lowered her face over the keys of the piano or organ when the announcement of this character was being made. palmer, behind the scenes, standing near the curtain his head bent to one side his hand up to his ear. if the speaker's efforts pleased him he would pull his tuft of beard with his free hand and ejaculate: "good! fine! capital! good boy, go it old beeswax. i didn't think it was in you. go it boots, you'll win in a walk. they're gittin' their pocket books out now; gideon will do well tonight, ha, ha, ha." did the speaker not measure up to his ideas, he would say: "wade in! wade in! wade in! dam you, the water's not cold. warm up now or you'll freeze them to the pews. oh, what you tryin' to git through you? just listen to that crack; he'll make them think he's going to take up a collection for the foreign missions. you can't get seventeen cents. it's been worked to death. come off, come off your perch, you poll parrot! come off! well you ought to be studying your primer instead of preaching; you don't know as much as gideon." palmer, through the influence of the church members, procured a half dozen young girls, at each place visited, to represent the multitude passing through the gates in the final scene of pilgrim's progress. although these girls were before the audience but a moment or two at the very end of the panorama, amateur like, instead of remaining in front witnessing the exhibition, they would repair to the rear of the curtain, don their robes and stand around during the entire performance, to the annoyance of everybody working the panorama, and, more frequently than otherwise, be late for their cue. one night, an old preacher was laboring with an announcement palmer had written and rehearsed him in, palmer was most vicious in his comments. the old speaker's daughter was one of the virgins, standing near she heard every word uttered and there was enough and there would have been more, had not alfred, by a nudge and a whisper, checked him. palmer grasped the situation at once. he stepped nearer the girls. then with a start, he shaded his eyes, dramatically gazed at the girls and began: "oh, woman, lovely woman, nature made thee to temper man; we had been brutes without you. angels are painted fair to look like you. there is in you all we believe of heaven, amazing brightness, purity, truth, eternal joy and everlasting love." he was never at a loss, his quick wit extricating him from embarrassment at all times. * * * * * somerset, pa. dear muz: we showed, or we exhibited, last night. it was the most crowded church i ever seen. i did well, better than anyone. gideon, mrs. palmer and all said so. gideon said i saved the day, but palmer held me back, he wouldn't let me sing or dance. i heard him tell gideon: "i'll have hell with that gilly kid, he thinks it a minstrel show; i got to hold him down or he'll queer the fake." i don't know what he meant, only he meant me. jake made some awful blunders but gideon said it was like palmer to put him in to play "christian." tomorrow's sunday and i'll write you the full purceeding. i know the whole thing by heart and if pap can paint a pilgrim's progress i can show it, exhibit it. palmer will make a million. lin could go along and play the organ like mrs. palmer. i tell you she can put in the music right, she fills out the thing just grand. lin would have to learn to play with both hands and she must learn music. mrs. palmer won't play without the notes to lead her. i will take the whole sunday to write you the full history of the first night. you better read "pilgrim's progress." did you borrow uncle tom's? does uncle ned feel hard towards me? if anything happens to me and i get ruined it's their doings because i could have been with a minstrel troupe. you have to lie more here in a day than i did all the time i was with a minstrel show. your very affectionate son, alfred griffith hatfield. p. s. i looked at the dictionary. a "gilly" is a man attendant in the scottish highlands. a "kid" is a young goat. it don't tell what a "fake" is. now i know palmer will have to raise my wages. if pap agrees to paint a panorama and take lin along you can get sis minks to work for you. [illustration: "oh! my dear hearers!"] palmer began the exhibition with a lecture: "ladies and gentlemen: john bunyan, the author of that wonderful work, 'the pilgrim's progress,' was an english religious writer, soldier and baptist preacher. he enlisted in the parliamentary army very young. he was so strongly impressed with the glimpse he caught of war that all his writings, even things sacred, were strongly illustrative of fortresses, camps, marching men, guns and trumpets. bunyan was but seventeen years old when he entered the army, hence the lasting impressions his military life made upon his mind. he became famous as a baptist preacher and was flung into bedford jail under order of the restoration. he was frequently offered his liberty on condition that he would desist from preaching. this he refused; therefore, for twelve years he suffered imprisonment for his conscience's sake. "while in bedford jail he began the book that has immortalized him. it is the best allegory ever written and is the only book, excepting the bible, about which the educated majority have come over to the opinion of the common people. the peculiar glory of bunyan is that those who hated his doctrines have acknowledged his genius by printing and using a catholic version of his parable, the pilgrim's progress, with the virgin's head in the title page. "oh, my dear hearers, how similar to the sufferings of the lowly genius in producing his masterpiece were those undergone in painting the work of art about to be unfolded for your inspection. for years he who transferred the thoughts of bunyan into almost real life, for years he who wrought these fancies upon canvas, labored and suffered in secret. no living eye was ever permitted to gaze upon his work save his own. night after night, by the dim light of lamp, the artist labored. lack of food, lack of sleep, did not deter him. he was inspired to produce that which has been pronounced by men of highest learning as the greatest painting the world has ever known, the greatest educator of the masses, the greatest object lesson ever presented to the people of this country. "the pilgrim's progress in living figures and realistic scenes, the hills, the mountains, the sunny pastures, the soft vales, the wilderness, the shining river, the beautiful gates, the celestial city. "like bunyan, the painter had no idea that he was producing a masterpiece." here palmer would step to the front of the platform and, after a modest pause, in a lower tone, continue: "ladies and gentlemen: i was not aware the printed bills had announced to the world that i, professor palmer, d. d., was the author of this work of art, otherwise, i am sure i would not have mentioned it." alfred could never disassociate this announcement from that of the clown in the circus who, after singing his song, announcing the sale of the books, assuring the audience that the proceeds of the sale of the book were for the benefit of an orphan who was a long ways from home, without money or friends. hoping the charitably disposed would assist the orphan by buying the song books. bowing low, he would add: "i forgot to tell you that i am the orphan." dear muz: the first night is the most terrible thing one can go through. we had a hard time of it; palmer became excited and cussed; tom did well as long as i told him; mrs. palmer filled in all the stops with music and this helped but if it hadn't been for me it would have been a bad failure. it was all i could do to keep it going; i nearly worked myself sick. i'm going to ask palmer to raise my wages. palmer praised all of us, but i know he was lying because every time jake or tom made a mistake he cussed. palmer does all the talking for all the characters; the way he can change his voice you'd swear there were several people talking. he is hid from the audience and of course they think it's the characters that talk. in spite of gideon's advice, palmer gave jake the part of christian. the first scene is a field. jake, as christian, is discovered standing in the middle of the field. here is where the pilgrimage begins. jake is supposed to be reading a book and asks: "what shall i do to be saved?" jake held the book in his hand, not looking at it but at the audience, smiling. from behind the scenes palmer hissed; "look serious! look worried! read the book! hold the book up! oh you dam dutch galoot look scared!" jake only smiled louder. i know jake didn't hear a word palmer said. i could hear him breathing from where i stood. you know christian is dressed in ragged clothes, he has a burden on his back. palmer wrapped an old coffee sack about a big stone and this was fastened on jake's back to represent christian's burden. i was evangelist. i had a long, white robe on and wore a wig with long curls; not yellow curls like you used to make me wear, but black curls, with a blue ribbon around my forehead. i walked solemn towards jake; i looked at him a little while, then i raised my hand, pointing the roll of parchment and, in the most saddest way i could speak, i said: "wherefore dost thou cry?" jake said easy like, "not by a tam sight." palmer came right in with the proper speech: "if i be not fit to go to prison i am not fit to go to judgment and thence to execution. the thoughts of these things make me cry." here jake looked at me, then at palmer; then he winked at me. i could scarcely go on with my speech: "if this be thy condition, why standest thou still?" "i don't vant to, i'd rather valk to bedford dan stan' dis way still," was jake's reply. a number of those nearest the platform overheard jake but palmer came in quickly with: "because i knoweth not whither to go." i didn't give jake any time, i just shouted at him: "do you see yon wicket gate?" i pointed at the imaginary gate. jake turned about, shook his head and answered: "no." i cut in before he could get further: "do you see yon shining light? keep that light in thy eye and go up directly thereto, so shalt thou see the gate at which, when thou knockest, it shall be told thee what thou shalt do." [illustration: "hold her down, tom"] jake was lost. he walked he knew not whither, palmer pleading and swearing to guide him. the gate and shining light to which i referred were imaginary. i pointed off stage. jake, in his excitement was trying to get away from the audience. he walked up stage; he pressed against the canvas, trying to force his way further. palmer and bedford tom had all their weight against the frame of the panorama. when jake felt resistance he put his powerful muscles to work. "hold on! hold on! stop! you can't go further," cried palmer. jake kept on pushing. "hold her down, tom; hold her down." then came a crash, the lights went out and over went palmer, tom and the panorama. jake's breathing and his efforts to release himself from the heavy canvas covering him could be heard above the din and confusion. palmer was here, there, everywhere, assuring the audience that a slight accident had befallen the mechanical part of the panorama. "just remain seated, we'll give you a good show." he forgot himself and called it a show after all his orders to us not to speak the word "show." the strong arms of bedford tom, and jake soon righted the panorama. mrs. palmer played the organ, and right there is where one of my songs would come in right. i sung for jake and tom last night and jake declared: "the people in bedford would like one of dem nigger songs better dan palmer's hull tarn pictur show. de hull tam ting is a fraudt; no such a man as bunjun was ever in bedford yail. i and tom knows every man dot's been in dot yail and dey don't put 'em in yail fur what he sedt." jake's mixed up; he imagines palmer refers to bedford, pa. the panorama worked along smoothly until pliable and christian, (i and jake), fell into the slough of despond. you know, in the book, pliable and christian are traveling together; they fall in the slough of despond; pliable struggles and gets out. christian, owing to the burden he carries on his back, flounders about and is fast sinking when help appears and asks: "what doest thou there?" jake answered: "noting." palmer hissed: "roll over! roll over! hold your head under the canvas; duck, you son of a gun, duck!" palmer answered with the speech jake was supposed to deliver, as jake rolled over and over: "sir, i was bid by a man named evangelist, who directed me to yonder gate that i might escape the wrath to come and as i was going thither i fell in here." then i come as help; i say: "why did you not look for the steps?" jake is supposed to say: "fear followed me so hard that i fled the next way and fell in." then as help, i lean far over, hold out my hand and say: "give me thine hand that i may draw thee upon hard ground that thou might go thy way." instead of jake following the business as rehearsed, he arose, took the burden off his back, walked out the opposite side, back towards the city of destruction. the audience, or some of them, tittered, others laughed outright. palmer was prompting jake: "get into the pond! complete the scene!" the more palmer prompted, the more confused jake appeared. "get your burden, it's not time to drop it; get your burden." jake, smiling, walked over the miry, muddy slough he was supposed to have struggled in a moment before, and took up the burden. instead of putting it on his back he carried it under his arm, nodded at palmer, as much as to say: "i'm ready for anything further, go on." worldly wise man here appears before christian and speaks to him: "how now good fellow; whither away after this burdened manner?" christian answers: "a burdened manner indeed as ever, i think, poor creature had. and whereas you ask me whither away, i am going to yonder wicket gate, for there, as i am informed, i shall be put in a way to be rid of my heavy burden." then worldly wise advises christian: "wilt thou hearken to me if i give thee counsel?" christian answers: "if it be good i will, for i stand in need of good counsel." worldly wise then answers: "i would advise thee that thou, with all speed, get thyself rid of thy burden, for thou will never be settled in thy mind until then." palmer answered with christian's speech: "that is which i seek for, even to be rid of this heavy burden, but get it off myself i cannot, nor is there any man in our country who can take it off my shoulders." [illustration: jake as christian] jake, smiling more pleasantly than ever, answered, "i kin." suiting the action to the word, he flung his burden into the slough of despond. the pond was a thin piece of canvas painted to represent the quagmire. the burden made a sound as of the house falling down. jake wiped the perspiration from his face and, spitting a mouthful of tobacco juice to one side, he gazed on the audience and smiled. it was too much for even the staid old church members. the laughter was so great that palmer pulled the curtain and announced an organ recital. christian's burden was replaced on jake's back, he was admonished to pay closest attention to palmer's promptings. jake continued the pilgrimage. in the next scene jake, representing christian on his journey from the city of destruction to the celestial city, must pass through the dark valley of shadows. when jake, instead of keeping to the right and following the straight and narrow path, boldly walked into the mouth of the burning pit, out of which palmer was sending sparks and smoke. palmer again pulled the curtain on the scene. jake sat on a stage stump. smoke was still coming from the pot of damp straw. tears filled jake's eyes, tears caused by the smoke. palmer rushed back and forth, declaring jake had made a farce of the most beautiful and inspiring scene in the entire exhibition. i was substituted for jake. i knew every speech; i had learned them all and it went good to the last. the second book is even more impressive and instructive than the first. you should read it. as the young ladies walk in at the beautiful gate of the city, pilgrim is seen through a gauze; one by one the sheets of gauze are pulled down until christian fades away like a vision. it held the audience dumb; they never witnessed anything like it; neither did i. palmer wouldn't let me speak the words; he said they must be delivered with great dramatic effect. the words are: "i see myself now at the end of my journey, my toilsome days are ended. i have formerly lived by hearsay and faith, but i now go where i shall live by sight." but glorious it was to see how the open regions were filled with horses and chariots, with trumpeters and pipers, with singers and players upon stringed instruments, to welcome the pilgrims as they went up and followed one another in at the gates of the beautiful city. here the young ladies, with lighted lamps, passed in. as pilgrim disappeared, palmer, with great effect, ended the scene with the eloquent words: "now, while he was thus in discourse, his countenance changed; his strong man bowed under him and, after he had said: 'take me, for i come unto thee,' he ceased to be seen of them." alfred griffith hatfield. footnotes: [b] bacon. [c] gravy. chapter fifteen do not believe all that you hear, for hot air men are hawking; and even keep a cautious ear when you, yourself, are talking. brownsville, pa. my dear son: i take my pen in hand to write you a few lines hoping that they may find you as well as we all are here. mother reads your letters to us at dinner time. i hope you are living better. i never knew a genius that cared much about his eating, therefore, i do not suppose palmer ever gave it a thought that you were suffering. he is a good fellow and i know he will make out well, except in the eating line. you need not worry about your shotgun; i have it and will look after it until such time as i feel you should be permitted to handle dangerous weepuns. turner simpson says your cousin charley got that hound pup weeks ago; he claims charley said you sent him after the pup. all your friends inquire about you. bill johnston told me he was sorry he had to have you arrested for overturning his hay stack; that he did not believe you was to blame, the boys with you led you into oversetting the haystack to catch the rabbit. your uncle joe was in town saturday, got tite and carried on high. he is getting worse as he gets older. betsy is mortified to death. they were just at communion afore it happened. how is palmer doing? is he making money? did he get my letter? hoping to hear from you very often and that you will remember that your father and mother and all the children think of you daily and all look forward to the time when we shall see you again, your affectionate father, j. c. h. alfred was living in a little world all his own. jake, bedford tom, mrs. palmer, gideon, tom white, were its inhabitants. palmer was not of it. he was not of the agreeable circle. alfred often read letters from home to mrs. palmer. she was greatly interested in the correspondence. alfred knew she desired him to read the father's letter to her. in a serious manner he advised the letter was a business one. this seemed to make the good woman even more anxious. she actually quizzed alfred as to whether the letter was not one demanding payment of money borrowed by her husband. alfred asked her if she knew the amount due his father. she did not, but said she would ascertain; further, she would exert herself to earn money to repay it. alfred appreciated this and regretted he had ever mentioned the flitch in his letters to the folks at home. he felt that he had reflected upon mrs. palmer. he re-read his father's letter that he might expunge the reference to the scant living. he read to where bill johnston had apologized for having him arrested; he did not care to have mrs. palmer know of this. [illustration: palmer and the wise virgin] palmer, with his panorama and side issues, was making money, and there was not a day, not an hour, that something coarse, selfish or mean, did not show itself in word or deed of the man. the half dozen young women, who took part in the final scene, were robed in long, pale blue gowns, worn over their street apparel. it was necessary to fit the costumes on the young ladies previous to the opening or first exhibition. in arranging with the fathers or mothers of the girls, palmer always emphasized the statement that: "my wife, mrs. palmer will take charge of the young ladies, show them their costumes." mrs. palmer was always ready to do so but palmer was always there. he insisted, he forced his services in fitting the costumes. he would take an unusually long time to smooth out the wrinkles on the waist and bust lines. all this was done so unconcerned that none would ever suspect he was playing a part. his wife would flush up, walk away and occupy herself with other duties. if there was a foolish virgin among the damsels--and there were some foolish ones in those days, though not so many as now--palmer would begin a flirtation, kept up until he departed. this was only one of the many mean traits of the man that lessened alfred's respect for him. palmer could not understand alfred. always full of fun and mischief, always ready to laugh, yet at times the boy was positively rude to the man nor would he permit any familiarity from palmer. one day in setting up the frame of the panorama, several members of the church in which it was to be exhibited, entered the auditorium unnoticed. palmer, while driving a nail, miscalculated, the hammer came down on one of his fingers. flinging the hammer on the floor with all the force he could command, he poured forth a torrent of profanity. gideon, by signs, gave palmer to understand that others were near. with a change as quick as a flash, palmer grabbed alfred by the coat collar, nearly lifting the boy off his feet. with a voice that sounded as if it were choking with indignation, he began: "you young scamp, i never heard you swear like this before, and i never want to hear you again. how dare you use such language in this house?" the onslaught was so sudden and unexpected that alfred was taken off his feet. he had been in high good humor, laughing heartily at palmer's mishap. palmer led the intruders out in the auditorium ere the boy gathered his scattered senses. jake exclaimed: "huh! balmur knocks his fingers und makes oudt alfred does der tammen." shaking his head, he continued: "balmur beats der bugs." alfred was savage with anger. he started after palmer but gideon restrained him, standing in his pathway, holding him back, appealing to jake to assist him in controlling the boy. gideon persuaded alfred to drop the matter for the time. jake desired that the boy call palmer to account. he answered gideon's appeals in a sort of careless, i-don't-care way: "vell, it's yust like alfredt feels, if he vants to yump balmur, i tink he kann handle him, i von't interfere. it iss none uf my biziness, yett." [illustration: palmer grabbed alfred by the collar] it was late in the afternoon when palmer again appeared in the church. he entered, as was his custom, all hurry and bustle. "hello, alfred! i thought you'd have the panorama all set. waiting for the boss, hey?" "yes, i'm waiting for the boss and i want to tell the boss the next time he tries to make a scapegoat out of me before a lot of church people he'll hear something he won't like. i'm no clod-hopper to have you make me appear a rowdy. you daddy your own cussing." palmer seemed greatly surprised at this and, as usual, in an argument with his people, became greatly excited. he endeavored to win with a bluff. "here, my young man, you're always playing your jokes on jake and all the others; i was only having a little fun with you, i didn't intend to hurt your feeling." "feelings! feelings! what about my good name? what'll those men think of me? i'm ashamed to face them again while i'm here." "oh, you're too soft to travel; you ought to be at home with your gilt edge ideas." "well, i can go home," hotly retorted alfred. "i've got a written agreement with your father and i'll hold you to it," threatened palmer. "you'll hold me to nothing. you've got no writings that'll permit your making me out a rowdy." "now see here, mr. minstrel," and palmer assumed mock politeness, "i've heard enough of your slack; dry up or i'll make you." alfred jumped to the middle of the platform and dared palmer to lay his hand on him. palmer got so excited he could not talk. gideon, as usual, in his quiet, argumentative way, endeavored to smooth the matter over: "come on, let's get ready for tonight. we're going to have the best business since we opened." "i've quit," announced alfred, "i'm going home." jake's smile fled; his under jaw hung down, giving his face an expression alfred had never previously seen it wear. gideon turned even more yellowish looking. bedford tom ejected a mouthful of tobacco juice as he blurted out: "i pity pilgrim's progress." gideon continued his plea: "well, if this company isn't demoralized i don't know what i'm talking about. now see here, boys, listen to me; we're together, let's reason like honest people should: to have you," and he looked at alfred, "quit thus abruptly would cause innocent ones to suffer. see what an embarrassment it would be to mrs. palmer. why, it would kill her. she has sacrificed everything she holds dear in the world; she has two children." (gideon had won his point, it was not necessary for him to say more). "she has not seen those children in two years; she hopes to have them with her soon. see what a disappointment it would be to her and the children. alfred, as at present arranged, we could not spare you. i will get palmer and we will fix this matter up satisfactorily to you." alfred was just a boy, not unlike any other boy. he did not desire to quit; and he knew he was indispensable to the successful production of the panorama. he also felt that he had won thus far. he did not yield, outwardly at least, but agreed that he would await gideon's interview with palmer. he had no preconceived ideas as to what to do or say further, but, like all who are disgruntled, he could not bring himself to say that he would. while gideon was seeking palmer, jake endeavored to console alfred: "ef you do go out of der paneramy it vill be too tam bad; i will not acdt out annudder time. i toldt balmur delas' time. i'm no handt at paneramy buziness und it's no more fur jake to do it." bedford tom put another blotch on the white pine floor as he patted jake on the back: "you're all yerself agin, ole man, your sensibilness is kerrect; don't try to act in a panerammer or enythin' else. ef ye hed seen yerself with thet tume-stun, er whatever it wus, on yer back, an' wallerin' in thet painted pond, ye'd never went back to bedford. ye certainly made a muss of hit." "vell, i toldt heem i vus ashamed mit myself, end he sedt: 'oh, hell yu kann standt und look myzerbul, kan't yu?'" bedford tom laughed in the honest dutchman's face as he assured him he looked "myzerbul enuff but his actin' was more myzerbul then his looks." "vhy don'dt yu try it ef yu tink it ees so tam easy?" was jake's answer. gideon walked in, beckoned to alfred: "come down to palmer's room, he wants to talk this whole thing over." alfred did not care to meet mrs. palmer. "tell palmer to come up here," was the message gideon carried back. alfred was feeling just a little ashamed of the part he had played in the dispute; he felt that he had gone a bit further than he should. but his instinctive dislike to palmer had grown day by day. the man's face, that index to character, had repulsed him when they first met. there are lines in the face chiseled by a sculptor who never makes a wrong stroke. the face is a truthful record of our vices and virtues. it is a map of life that outlines character so clearly that there is no getting away from the story it tells. the face is a signboard showing which way the man or woman is traveling, which of life's crossroads they are on. the face cannot betray the years one has traveled until the mind gives its consent. the mind is the master. if the mind holds youthful, innocent thoughts, the face will retain a youthful appearance. and the more permanent are the marks made by petulancy, hatred and selfishness thereon. the best letter of recommendation ever written is an open fearless face. palmer put in an appearance, his face showing plainly that he was not at ease. his manner was as flambuoyant as ever: "where is this mainstay of the only panorama on earth? come here, boy, i want to talk to you like a father: "i was a boy not long ago, unthinking, idle, wild and young, i laughed, and danced and talked and sung." the antics palmer cut while delivering this couplet were truly amusing. palmer was an actor. placing his hand on alfred's shoulder, gazing into his face, he continued: "just at the age twixt boy and youth, when thought is speech and speech is truth." then quoting christian in the pilgrim's progress: "i have given him my faith and sworn my allegiance to him. how then can i go back from this and not be hanged as a traitor?" palmer pointed his long, bony finger at alfred and awaited a reply. it came: "i was indeed engaged in your dominions but your services were hard and your wages such as a man could not live on. for the wages of sin is death." palmer, a little discomforted, led the boy to one side, saying: "now see here, young fellow, i'm as old as your father; i don't look it, but i am. now you want to quit, eh? you wouldn't be at home four days before you would wish yourself back here. you are not rich, your father is not rich. you have to make a living. i'll give you an opportunity to make money. you are learning this business, you have good ideas. you remain with me, i'll make a man of you; i'll put you in a way to make more money than you've ever seen." alfred intimated that he could not see himself making a great deal of money at twenty dollars a month. "why, don't you count your board, as anything?" "well, i'm not satisfied. i'm worth more than twenty dollars a month to you," stubbornly contended alfred. "but you and your father are both bound up to me in a written agreement. do you want to break it? would that be right?" "well, you broke your written contract with the members of rock hill church. you said gideon made the contract without consulting you. grandpap made this contract without consulting me." palmer laughed long and loud: "egad, that's good! this kid finds me skinning a couple of old duffers and forthwith he sets about to skin me. the harvest truly is plenteous but the laborers are few; ask and it shall be given to you; seek and you shall find; knock and it shall be opened to you." pointing at alfred, he continued: "but remember, the love of money is the root of all evil. say, what are you going to do with all this money?" "buy a farm, some day," answered alfred. "how great a matter a little fire kindleth," quoted palmer as he pleadingly asked: "say, kid, how much are you going to hang me up for?" "well, if you give me fifty dollars a month, i'll stick to you." "holy mother of all that's evil; the devil and tom walker! say, who do you take after? not your daddy. he's easy. fifty dollars a month? say, i worked two years and had a wife and two children to take care of and i never cleared forty dollars a month. i've been a lifetime working myself up to what i am and you jump into the game, inexperienced, green as a cucumber, and want to hog the persimmons at the start. 'taint fair, 'taint right; i'm an honest man; i want to treat everybody right. you're taking advantage of me. it's the principle of the thing i look at." "well, get another boy, you can find one any day. if i stay with this panorama i will get fifty dollars a month." "yes, and if i permit you to hold me up this time, the next move you'll want the panorama. your uncle william served his time like an honest boy, he has made a fortune. he has the best farm in fayette county; he has money, he is the judge of the county court. he never got where he is by breaking written agreements." "yes, but that was different, uncle william was learning a trade. he got all kinds of chances to make money on the outside of his work." "hold on right there--i'll give you any opportunity you want to make money on the side. you can sell the "life of john bunyan," "the pilgrim's progress," "paradise lost," the steel engraving of the twelve apostles or anything we sell and i'll allow you a good, big commission." the sale of the above mentioned articles was that which first turned alfred against palmer. the sneaking, wheedling methods he employed, the subterfuges, the lies in disposing of books and pictures, were the things which made the man most repulsive to alfred. he therefore felt insulted when palmer offered him the opportunity to make money from this source. alfred plainly informed palmer that he would not have anything to do with the sale of the books or pictures. "huh! i suppose you feel above selling books that are in the libraries of the best people in the world. you'd prefer, no doubt, to sell pills." a little abashed, alfred came back with: "well, if i did sell pills, i sold them on the square and at a less price than they were worth and they were sold to folks that needed them and if they needed them and wern't able to pay for them they got them free and we didn't lie about what we did with the money. we didn't pretend to send it to the heathen." palmer interrupted the boy: "wait and see how you get along when you strike your own gait, when you get your own show out. that's your idea; that's why you are so unreasonable. i'm going to give you the money you ask, not because it's right but because i want to do what's right. if i'd let you go, you'd go back to brownsville and it would not be a week until you'd have some fool thing afloat that would bring all sorts of trouble on your folks. i'm doing this for your people, not for you." alfred had won. he was not entirely free from the feeling that he had not acted quite right but he stilled his conscience by arguing to himself that grandpap had no authority to enter into a contract for him; besides hadn't his mother declared that no indenture was valid without her signature, that no child of hers should ever be bound to anybody? when she demanded to see the papers it was not convenient for those interested to have them at hand. the mother had forcibly informed palmer that there must be no restraint upon alfred should he become homesick and that he must be permitted to return to his home at any time he desired to do so. all of which palmer had unreservedly agreed to. bedford, pa. dear father: your welcome letter came to hand today; glad you are all well and hearty. i've had a big fuss with palmer. i wanted to quit. he coaxed me to stay and promised me fifty dollars a month. is that paper he holds on me binding? could he hold my wages if he wanted to. he told gideon he was going to record the indenture when we got to leesburg and it would always stand in evidence against me. he is not the kind of man grandpap and uncle thomas crack him up to be. if palmer don't pay the fifty, i don't stay, papers or no papers. he is gouging everybody and it is no sin to gouge him. say pap, now don't get mad; how much did he set you back? tell me. if i get the fifty i think i can get yours. if cousin charley has my hound he'll have to give it up when i get home. if i get the fifty i'll buy me a new shotgun like capt. abrams has. my love to muz and all the children and lin. your affectionate son, alfred griffith hatfield. p. s. i am not afraid of palmer; i could break him in two. but i don't like to break the law. let me know about the paper he holds, he would do anything, law or no law. * * * * * since alfred's experience with the law in the eli affair it could not be said that he had more respect for the law but undoubtedly he had more fear for it as evidenced by his letter to the father. things went on much the same with the panorama. palmer was more polite and condescending toward alfred in speech, but many little inconveniences were put upon him that he had not experienced previous to the unpleasantness. jake seemed to have fallen under the displeasure of palmer and many were the squabbles between them. at one place where the panorama exhibited the church was too small. an old carriage factory was used instead. at one end there was a large freight lift elevator. palmer's inventive genius prompted him to use the platform of the elevator for a stage. it was about twenty by thirty feet in dimensions much larger than the stages usually constructed for the panorama. when the elevator was in place it formed a part of the floor of the room. palmer and jake labored all day and into the night to elevate it about two feet above the floor. when elevated thus it was pronounced by the little company the best stage since the season began; just high enough to show the effects to best advantage. jake said he hoped "dey vould strike more blaces mit dings like dis." the building of a platform or a stage in the various churches had made strenuous work for jake. all was set for the unveiling of the wonderful work of art. the old factory was crowded. all went smoothly until the scene where "faithful" is adjudged guilty and condemned to the terrible punishment supposed to be meted out to him. this scene is not visible to the audience but is described by the lecturer, as "faithful" is supposed to be burned to ashes after being scourged and pricked with knives. palmer had just concluded the speech: "now i saw that there stood behind the multitude a chariot and a couple of horses waiting for 'faithful', who, as soon as his adversaries had dispatched him, was taken up into it, and straightway, was carried up through the clouds with sound of trumpet." palmer sounded the trumpet. tom white, in a long, white flowing robe, with gauze veils over his face, is pulled up by a block and tackle, the rope concealed by the long, white robe. with appropriate music this scene was one of the most beautiful in the exhibition. the trumpet sounded signaling "faithful's" ascension. how what followed happened no one will ever know. palmer blamed jake. jake never admitted or denied that he was the cause. when there should have been an ascension there was a descension. the elevator slipped a cog, or something; there was a slow, regular descent, not too hasty. down went the whole panorama, descending in time with the music; down went the city of vanity with its fair, its thieves and fakirs painted on canvas, while poor "faithful" dangled in mid-air. as the elevator sank out of sight, as the characters, painting and frame disappeared below the floor, the audience applauded approvingly at first, then the absurdity of the scene struck them and approving applause changed to aggravating laughter. jake stood manfully by the rope he was holding; palmer was wild; alfred and bedford tom were doing all they could to suppress their laughter. suddenly the thing stopped, struck the floor in the room below. jake, grabbing the windlass, soon had the panorama slowly ascending. as it came into view the audience applauded lustily. mrs. palmer kept the ascension music going until the stage was back in its proper place when palmer, who was always seeking an opportunity to make a speech, walked out in front of the curtain and explained that the panorama weighed several tons, the great weight had broken the lift. at this juncture jake appeared with two heavy pieces of scantling; unmindful of palmer, he began spiking the props under the edge of the platform. the strokes of the hammer completely drowned palmer's voice. when jake sent the last nail home he arose from his knees with a "dere, tam you, i ges you'll holdt now." palmer was in a greater rage than at any time since the tour began. his wife, gideon and several others endeavored to pacify him. everybody but alfred came in for a share of the abuse; even his poor wife, who was really deserving of all praise for saving the scene, was more than censured. alfred could not control his laughter; he fled fearing palmer would turn on him. palmer swore so loudly that gideon came from the front to quiet him. he swore at gideon; he did not care if the whole town heard him curse. he had worn his life out to produce the pilgrim's progress, and now a darn clod-hopper, a reuben, a gilly, a jay, had undone the work of a lifetime and made him (palmer) ridiculous in the eyes of the world. what would people say? what would church people say? they would not pay him for such an exhibition. would he (jake) furnish the money to pay the expenses after ruining the business of the panorama? jake sat on a box, his eyes following palmer as he walked from one side of the platform to the other, busying himself all the while with some part of the panorama, never looking toward jake. jake's smile was the same, that is around the mouth; but looking more closely you could see an expression in the deep-set blue eyes that betrayed feelings far removed from those which cause smiles. palmer concluded his tirade by flinging a hammer on the floor and declaring his belief that the mistakes were the result of a deliberate attempt upon the part of the perpetrator to ruin him. "but i will not be driven away from this work of my life by conspirators." jake had but a limited understanding of palmer's language, yet sufficient of what had been said sifted through his mind to convince him that palmer had made strong charges against him. jake, in a tone of voice that would have convinced anyone more reasonable than palmer, of his sorrow, inquired: "vot i tid?" "vot i tid?" repeated palmer, imitating jake. "vot i tid? ha! ha! what didn't you do? from the night we opened it's been one round of breaks and blunders upon your part." jake, in open-eyed surprise, repeated: "breaks? breaks? breaks? vot i breaks?" palmer never ceased talking nor noticed jake's questions. pointing at jake, he said: "first you assumed the part of christian, the most important character to be impersonated. every schoolboy or girl knows the christian makes a pilgrimage beginning at the city of destruction, from which he flees to the celestial city. he carries a burden, of which he is relieved at the proper time. he is supposed to encounter all sorts of hardships and avoid pitfalls of danger, coming out triumphant at the end of his journey. i ordered you to read the book. alfred read it and is familiar with every detail; you know nothing, positively nothing." "vot i tid?" again demanded jake, a bit sternly. "vot you tid?" and palmer pretended to tear his hair. "the first night, the first scene, by holding the book you were supposed to be reading, down by your knees, gaping at the audience like a baboon. you rolled over on the floor in the slough of despond like a hog wallowing; you throwed your burden in the slough, then walked in the pond after it. the pond you was supposed to be sinking into, drowning, you walked over it as you would over a lawn or carpeted room, not sinking one inch in it. you gathered up christian's burden. instead of replacing it on your back you took it under your arm like a basket; instead of walking as you were directed, towards the wicket gate, the shining light, you steered straight into the bowels of hell. not being satisfied with going to hell yourself, you so arrange this lift, this platform that, at the very climax of the most beautiful scene in the marvelous exhibition, you send the whole panorama down to the lower story of the building, thus conveying to the audience the idea that we are burlesquing pilgrim's progress. instead of steering for heaven, steering for hell! bah! every last one in that audience will leave this building with the idea that the entire panorama went to hell." then in an injured, pleading tone, as if scared, palmer continued: "if this goes ahead of us it will surely ruin our business. i will sell my interest in this show for one-half of what i'd taken yesterday." all this was acting. poor jake was completely confused, dumfounded. most conscientious, honest and sincere, without deceit, he scarcely knew what to say to explain that he was unfortunate and all that had happened was unavoidable. he said: "meester balmur, i'm werry sorry dot i haf you so much troubles made. i haf neffer toldt you dot i cud do vork as alfredt und tom. i cannot speek me plain und i did yust so goot as i cud. i am sorry i kan't exbress my, my, my feelings mit dis ting, but i hope you must exkuse me." palmer interrupted: "oh, well; it's gone beyond my patience to stand it longer. you are an incumbrance, you are a barnacle. i'll sell you my interest in this enterprise and you can go on and run it; this partnership business don't suit me." palmer ended it by saying: "i'll see you in the morning." the little party with the panorama were generally quartered with members of the congregation of the church in which the panorama exhibited. in making contracts with the various churches, palmer, whenever possible, made it a part of the agreement that his people and horses were to be boarded. one family would take palmer and his wife, another a couple of the others. when palmer paid their board they were quartered in the meanest, cheapest taverns or boarding houses in the town. at times the company would lodge in a house the owners of which were very poor people who were sorely in need. it seemed to alfred the more needy a family appeared, the more insistent palmer was in forcing pictures, books, etc., upon them. it was a trick of his to hang a picture in the best room, place books on the center table. if they insisted that conditions would not permit enjoying the luxury of the books or pictures, palmer would become insulting and complain of the quality or quantity of the food. alfred and jake were both so thoroughly ashamed at times they would go elsewhere for their meals. it happened that, when the trouble came up between jake and palmer, the entire party were quartered at a modest little tavern kept by a pennsylvania dutchman of large girth and little patience. palmer had failed to induce him or his good wife, who did all the cooking, to buy pictures or books. "ve vant no more picturs und ve don't reat der pooks," was the argument with which the old fellow met all of palmer's solicitations. after one of their arguments, palmer, as usual, lost his patience: "what sort of humans are you? you belong to no church. where are you bound for? like jake--hell, i suppose." then he laughed sarcastically. "vell, ve haf got along always in frostburgh und hell can't be much vorse und if you vant to sell picturs und pooks to pay fur your bordt, you besser stop mit con lynch (referring to a rival tavern). ve don't keep travelers to kepp oudt of hell, ve keep bordters to keep oudt of der poor house." palmer answered the old fellow's argument with a reply that he thought humorous: "well, if i'd thought there was a poorer house in town than yours i'd stopped there." "vell, it's not too late, gitt oudt, tam you, pack up your pooks und picturs und gitt oudt purty quick or i'll trow you oudt on der rote." palmer, his wife and gideon, sought quarters at the other tavern; jake and alfred remained. the next day was one of unpleasantness. palmer never permitted an opportunity to pass that he did not cast slurs at all, jake in particular. it was evident that palmer was imbibing more freely than usual. he constantly drank whiskey; he was drinking to excess. mrs. palmer cried almost constantly. gideon was more nervous than usual. he was at palmer's side constantly; everywhere palmer went gideon followed. long and earnest talks were engaged in, palmer always obstinate, gideon pleading. when palmer left the place where the panorama was on exhibition, mrs. palmer stood in or near the door gazing out wistfully until he reappeared; then seat herself in the furthermost part of the room from her husband seemingly desirous of keeping out of his sight. alfred finally inquired if he could do anything for her. in a few words she gave him to understand that her husband was of a very excitable nature at intervals, took to drink and continued it until he fell sick. she begged alfred to have jake apologize and not to quarrel or cross the man, no matter what provocation he gave them, all of which alfred promised her. jake readily agreed to do anything she suggested. alfred and jake retired to their room where jake took alfred into his confidence, informing the boy of the circumstances that led to his connection with the panorama. palmer had an advertisement in a newspaper offering flattering inducements to a man with six hundred dollars. jake read the advertisement. palmer visited jake in answer to his letter. his smooth talk won the honest german. palmer was very sorry that jake had not written sooner as he had about concluded a deal with a man in brownsville and before he could arrange with jake he must go to brownsville, see the man and make some sort of an honorable arrangement to relieve him of the promises made. he induced jake to accompany him to brownsville. hence the visit of palmer and jake to alfred's home. afterwards palmer informed jake that he was compelled to pay alfred's father two hundred dollars to release him from their agreement. the honest german was thereby convinced that the panorama was a good investment. he persuaded his mother to borrow six hundred dollars, all of which was turned over to palmer. jake's understanding was that he was to be paid thirty dollars a week for his team services. jake was to have charge of all moneys received, the six hundred dollars was to be repaid from profits of the venture. jake had received to that date forty-one dollars. drawing a paper from an old fashioned leather purse, passing it to alfred: "here iss der writing vot vill tell you how it all iss." alfred read and re-read the paper which was in palmer's handwriting. the legal phraseology was somewhat confusing, but his deductions, were that jake was to receive thirty dollars a week for the use of the team and his and bedford tom's services; that jake was to handle the money; that he, jacob wilson, was to retain six hundred dollars from the profits and that, when the said six hundred dollars had been paid, the terms of the contract had been complied with. such was alfred's understanding of the contract. he became convinced that palmer had in some way defrauded, or intended to defraud jake. the fact that palmer had repeatedly asserted that he could get rid of jake--he so informed alfred when urging the son to influence the father to take an interest in the panorama--caused alfred to feel sure that jake was being tricked. respecting mrs. palmer's request and owing to palmer's condition, alfred decided to keep the matter quiet for the present. ending the interview with jake, he returned the paper to the german with the advice that, when palmer got off his spree, to take the matter up, have the contract examined by a lawyer. although jake was quiet and undemonstrative, he was no easy man to control when aroused. his limited experience in business, his unsophisticated nature naturally made him suspicious and there was not an hour while he was awake that he did not seek alfred to talk over the possibilities of palmer absolutely dropping him without returning any of his money. the night following that of the scene between jake and palmer, after a day that saw palmer in front of the bar of the tavern at least twenty times, the second exhibition of the panorama began. it was the first town wherein the exhibition failed to attract a larger audience the second night than that which witnessed the first exhibition. the facts were palmer's condition was apparent to all with whom he came in contact. the talk went over the town that one of the preachers with the show was on a tear and the other one couldn't hold him down. the church people held consultations and it was determined to cancel the third night. the second exhibition was even more ragged and uneven than the first night. the lift, or platform, did not give way and carry the painted pictures towards the lower regions; "faithful" made the ascension as scheduled; and the climaxes and tableaux were all more beautifully presented than on the opening night. but the eloquent speeches were delivered by palmer in a thick-tongued voice; his pronunciation was so imperfect that many of the most beautiful speeches were lost upon the audience. palmer did not complete his lecture. all were nervous, all were laboring under great strain. the members of the little party exerted themselves; not one made a mistake, not one forgot a line. but palmer, the manager, the proprietor, he who should have been the first in the work, palmer was drunk, and the pilgrim's progress was ruined, insofar as that town was concerned. palmer had become frenzied the night previous and cried over the excusable blunders of an honest meaning man. yet tonight he had ruined the entertainment, disgusted all who heard him. palmer imagined the performance the most excellent yet given, he so informed all. none had the heart to correct his bewildered imaginings. when gideon came back and informed him that the church officials would have nothing further to do with the exhibition and that if it were put on the next night they would announce to the town that they were in no way responsible, he defied the church people, swore he would compel them to comply with their contract, that he would show, (he always used the word "show" when he was excited or drunk), the next night and several nights thereafter. he left the scene for the tavern. jake and alfred repaired to their lodgings. a long time after they had retired, a timid rapping on the door aroused them. the door opened, and gideon and mrs. palmer were standing in the hall. the woman's face was the picture of misery; gideon was in a terrible state of mind. palmer had continued his debauch until he was frenzied. both feared to remain in the house with him; he had attempted to injure both of them. gideon implored alfred and jake to endeavor to calm him; at least, prevent him drinking any more. jake was loath to go. he had no fear of palmer but brooded over the abuse the man had heaped upon him--bedford tom had fully explained and exaggerated all that palmer had said and that jake did not comprehend at the time. jake, after due deliberation, decided in his mind that if palmer ever abused him again, and mrs. palmer was not near, palmer would feel the weight of his hand. therefore jake thought he had best not trust himself in palmer's presence. loud words could be heard. alfred trying the door, found it locked. the landlord demanded to know who was there. alfred informed him that he was a friend of palmer's and had come to look after him. he was admitted. palmer was singing a popular song of the day at the top of his voice, the landlord endeavoring to quiet him. when alfred caught a glimpse of palmer he could not resist laughing outright. the man was minus coat, vest and outer shirt, his long, yellow neck, his sharp face with its tuft of beard, the hooked nose, made his head appear like punch on a stick. catching sight of alfred, palmer extended his hand and began singing a negro minstrel ditty, cake-walking around the boy several times, his hand extended as if he were inviting the boy to join in his dance. "mr. palmer! mr. palmer! it's very late. the folks in the house desire to sleep. come on with me; come on to your room," pleaded alfred. palmer kept up his singing, keeping time with his feet. jake appeared. palmer rushed toward him, threw his arms about him, embraced him, calling him his only friend. "stick to me, jake, i'll do the right thing by you. i know you're all right; i am ashamed of myself for cussing you. but--never--mind. come--on--jake--come--on. where's gideon? i want to give you $ . . come on jake." jake held palmer like a baby, pleading with him to go to bed. palmer swore he would not leave the room until the landlord gave him another drink. then he wanted all to drink with him. all declined. then he wanted to fight the whole crowd. alfred and jake finally pushed and carried palmer to his room. they deposited him upon the bed and held him there by force until his senses began to leave him. sleep overcame him and, although he kept up a twitching of the fingers and mutterings, he slept. alfred and jake both fell asleep. when alfred awoke, palmer still slept. he tiptoed toward palmer and was more than startled to see mrs. palmer seated at the head of the bed, where she had sat all night. gideon called the boy and jake into a conference. it was gideon's idea that the party leave the town immediately, keep palmer on the road away from drink until he was completely sobered up. the panorama was dismounted and loaded in the big wagon in less time than ever before. jake gave the word and they were on their way. palmer fretted and fumed the whole journey; jake did not drive fast enough to please him; he would walk, then ride a short distance; all the while complaining and censuring first one, then another. jake had not traversed half the day's journey until he became convinced that palmer's effusive exhibitions of friendship the night previous were prompted by the libations of which he had partaken. finally, donning hat and coat palmer started at a pace so brisk that he was soon a considerable distance in advance of the slow moving wagon. jake was thoroughly disgusted. at a little distance on he made excuse the harness was broken, and halted the team at least half an hour. jake, like alfred, concluded that palmer would go a little ways and await them. when jake resumed the journey he drove the team somewhat faster, prompted to do so by the anxiety of the good woman, who sat by his side straining her eyes, gazing ahead along the white, dusty way. the object she looked for did not come into sight. the shadows of night began to fall. jake had the team going at a faster pace than the big wagon had ever sped previously. all eyes looked down the pike ahead of the team; all expected every minute to see palmer on the road ahead of them. gideon broke the painful silence: "whoa! whoa! jake, pull the horses up." jake obeyed. all turned towards gideon. "no man could keep ahead of the team the rate we have been going. he couldn't keep ahead of us even if he had run, let alone walked. if palmer hasn't caught onto someone who is traveling in a buggy or other light vehicle, he has laid down by the roadside and fallen asleep and failed to hear us go by. i will go back and look for him; it's only two miles further to town, you all go on." all hesitated. jake then proposed that the wagon halt where it was and all go back seeking palmer. jake, alfred and bedford tom retracing their steps, looking on each side of the road as they walked. every person they met was questioned, but none had noticed a man answering palmer's description. inquiry was made at every farm house. finally a traveler on horseback informed the searchers that a man answering the description of palmer was seated on the driver's seat of the stage coach going west. the three retraced their steps and gave gideon and the wife the information gained. driving into hancock, gideon, who was best informed as to the lines of travel, decided he would take the train for cumberland and ascertain there as to whether palmer had been a passenger on the stage coach. later in the evening news came that a stranger had been discovered by the roadside dead. to attempt to describe the misery of the wife would be impossible, and to aggravate the situation, to still more deeply aggrieve the trouble laden woman, a letter came with the news that one of their children was very ill at home. jake and alfred mounted the horses and rode to the point where the dead man was found. they arrived previous to the coroner; the body had not been removed. it was a lonely place on the pike. two or three country folk stood near the fence, recounting for the tenth time the circumstances attending the discovery of the body. the darkness, the presence of death, were surroundings to which alfred was not accustomed. the body lay about twenty yards from the road under a big tree. as they climbed the fence and faced towards the spot, a stench met their nostrils. they looked at each other. jake was the first to recover his speech: "phew! if dot's bolmur, he iss spiled werry queek." alfred reclimbed the fence. jake looked over the dead man and remarked: "it don'dt look more like bolmur as you do." mounting their horses they were soon back at the tavern. the wife gazed appealingly at them as they entered, and, in a trembling voice, asked: "no news?" "no, it vasn't him, he iss been dedt a veek or two." jake spoke as if disappointed that the dead man was not palmer. later, alfred was lying on the bed laughing, jake, looking at him with a smile which spoke inquisitiveness more plainly than he could have articulated the word, inquired: "vot you laffin at? you laff like a tam fool. it makes me feel like a tam fool, too; i kan't tell but vot you iss laffin at my back." this only brought more laughter. finally, jake began laughing also. "i see, you iss laffin becos i toldt mrs bolmur dot de dedt man vos spildt." "why, jake, the manner in which you gave the news to her sounded as if we were disappointed that the dead man was not palmer." jake arose, walked over to alfred, his face assuming a serious aspect: "it's a werry great bitty for der poor heart-broken-down woman dot it was not bolmur." gideon telegraphed from cumberland that palmer was there; that he would arrive on the next train. jake and alfred had the panorama all set. night came on and neither gideon nor palmer had arrived. no train was scheduled to arrive until midnight. mrs. palmer was too nervous, too ill to give any advice or to even offer a suggestion. "could she play the music as usual if they went on with the exhibition?" "yes, she would get a cup of tea and be ready for her part of the work." alfred arranged with the son of one of the church members to take charge of the financial end. jake said he could do the part of christian and he was sure that he would not make any mistakes. the church was crowded. alfred had assured himself a thousand times that he could go through the whole dialogue. he was correct but there was quite a difference in the delivery of the impassioned speeches; the weak voice of an amateurish schoolboy could not impress the auditors as would that of an elocutionist with a deep musical voice. the panorama did not give its usual satisfaction although jake, to his credit, went through his part without a mistake. but he did so in such an awkward, halting way, that it seemed like anything but a character to excite sympathy; in fact, his fall into the slough of despond was so clumsy that he injured one of his knees. all the while he was rolling about, supposed to be sinking, he was holding his knee in both hands and crying: "by yimminy crickitts, uh! uh!" people sitting near the platform were tittering and laughing. gideon and palmer arrived sometime during the night. gideon was up and about early. he advised that palmer would be all right by night. gideon appeared more ill at ease than alfred had ever seen him. back of the scenes was palmer so drunk he could barely articulate. he looked at jake and alfred as they entered and said: "i--can't--work--tonight; go--on--with--the--performance. i'm going--to--bed." with this he stretched himself out on the floor. jake and alfred gathered him up and laid him none too gently to one side of the stage. confusion or some evil spirit awakened palmer. he walked out into the auditorium. sitting near his wife, he attracted the attention of many of the audience by giving orders, not only to his wife but in one or two instances he shouted at alfred. this so completely unnerved the wife that she actually made mistakes in the music cues. this confused all and the exhibition was terribly marred. the minister of the church was outraged. he ordered the panorama removed at once and palmer ejected. the town marshal escorted palmer out. alfred was so angry at the tantalizing remarks palmer had cast at him from the audience that he did not dare trust himself near the man. he warned jake: "if that palmer speaks to me i will slap his face until it is as red as he made mine." the marshal, through gideon's pleadings, did not lock palmer up but carried him to the tavern. gideon placed him in bed and returned to the church to escort the wife to the tavern. when alfred and jake appeared, gideon was pleading with palmer to go to his room. palmer was demanding drink, the landlord informed him that he sold no drink nor would he permit drink carried into his house. alfred, ashamed of the man, walked out on the sidewalk. palmer forced his way out, gideon feebly holding him. palmer gave the feeble old man a push that would have sent him headlong into the gutter had alfred not caught him. alfred stood gideon on his feet. palmer backed off a pace or two, bowing and feinting as if to fight. he cried mockingly: "who, who art thou? what kind of meat does this, our caesar feed upon that he should thus command us?" putting up his hands prize-fighter fashion, he sparred towards alfred. he made pass after pass as if to strike the boy who stood motionless, permitting palmer's fists to fly by his face without moving or dodging. whether through alfred's passiveness or by mistake, one of palmer's fists landed square on the nose of alfred. the red blood spurted over his shirt front. before jake or gideon could interfere, alfred had the man by the coat collar raining open handed slaps on his face, slaps that so resounded they could be heard above the confusion and bustle of the encounter. palmer had become as a madman. seizing alfred's arm in his teeth, sinking them into the flesh, he held on like a bulldog. the blows alfred rained on the man's face had no effect on him and it was only when beaten into insensibility that the jaws relaxed. the light was dim on the outside and those near by did not realize that palmer was biting the boy. the severe punishment he meted out to palmer did not meet with the approval of many. however, after they were separated and alfred exposed his lacerated arm the talk turned the other way: "he did not give him half enough." the landlord sent for a doctor; the arm was treated. mrs. palmer assisted in binding up the wound. alfred felt so humiliated he scarcely knew how to thank her. he requested the doctor to go up and see palmer, but the good wife had attended to his injuries. palmer, his wife and gideon, decided to travel to the next stop by train. all day on the road jake and alfred were debating as to the course they would pursue. jake was inclined to demand a settlement at once. alfred persuaded him to hold off until he heard from home, then he would endeavor to collect the amount due his father, and if jake desired to travel, he, alfred, would organize a minstrel show and they would go on the road right. the panorama was set. gideon was at the church but mrs. palmer and her husband had not put in an appearance. alfred ran out to the door to inquire of gideon as to whether palmer would be on hand. gideon assured him that the husband and wife had left their lodgings with him and should be at the church at the present time. alfred ran back to the panorama. as he passed behind the curtain he came face to face with palmer. a badly bruised, black and blue face was that into which the boy gazed. he was strongly inclined to take the man by the hand and beg his forgiveness. jake, when advised of alfred's feelings, said: "vait, you kan't tell, he may make your forgiveness. it iss his place to do der beggin'; don't you make vrendts mit him till he askts you to." palmer worked as effectually as if nothing had occurred, although his voice was unsteady at times and slightly hoarse. palmer kept out of view of the audience. alfred never worked so effectually, although his arm pained him constantly. mrs. palmer seemed in better spirits than for a long time. gideon reported professor palmer had met with a painful accident in the last town and could not be seen--this was gideon's statement to all inquiries for palmer. the next morning ladies called at the tavern with flowers. the minister called; he talked to palmer until the panorama man was so nervous he coaxed gideon to get him whiskey. the next night palmer was at the church early. he was particularly deferential to jake and alfred. anything they said or did he acquiesced in. mrs. palmer seemed like a different woman. a letter bringing good news from the sick child was ascribed by jake and alfred as the cause of her cheerfulness. gideon lingered at the church after the performance. jake asked for one hundred dollars to be paid on the morrow. gideon advised that the order must come from palmer ere he could pay out the money. jake answered: "i vill see mr. bolmur aboudt it early tomorrow." gideon begged that jake defer it: "palmer is just getting back to himself; if he gets excited he may go to drinking again." "if he does ve know how to kure him, jes give him a tam goot trashing; dot's vot vill kure him. heh, alfredt?" gideon carried the news to palmer that alfred and jake had combined and at any time they saw him look toward liquor they intended to give him a thrashing. whether gideon understood this to be the attitude of alfred and jake toward palmer or whether he used the threat to deter the drunkard, is not certain. its effect was to so embitter palmer that he set about getting rid of jake at once. mrs. palmer was assured by alfred that no such threat had ever been indulged in by jake or himself. after he had exhausted all subterfuges, palmer grudgingly gave jake the one hundred dollars. alfred was behind the scenes of the panorama dressing his sore arm. he had been thus occupied for some time when palmer and gideon entered and resumed a conversation they had evidently begun previously. gideon seemed in doubt and fearful: "but how will you manage to get rid of him?" was the question he put to palmer. "you leave that to me and don't you give him any more money; stand pat the next time he approaches you." "but he is a partner in the concern. if he went to law he could compel you to make an accounting from the time we began." "what do you think i am?" and palmer looked at gideon in disgust. "don't imagine for one moment of your innocent, unnecessary life that i would sell a reuben like jake or anyone else a third interest in this panorama for six hundred dollars. jake has no interest excepting in the profits until he is paid six hundred dollars. after the six hundred dollars is paid he has no further claim upon me. i could pay him six hundred dollars and kick him out today, or if the panorama did not make six hundred dollars this tour he would get nothing." "well, it's best you pay jake the six hundred dollars and get rid of him honestly," answered gideon. "i'll get rid of him. it's a hell of a nice business to carry two men with you that threaten if you don't carry yourself straight they will thrash you. i am justified in doing anything to free myself and the law will uphold me in it." "well, you will be compelled to get another man if you dispense with alfred," urged gideon. "oh, i can run into baltimore and get a dozen people if i want to. however, i'd like to keep the boy; he's useful and you can trust him. but he's the damndest, greenest kid that i ever met to have had the experience he has." "well, he's a pretty good boy. he did all your work the night you were not here and your wife says he did it well; the boy has talent." "talent, hell! that's not talent; that's nerve. that's why i say he's green. did he ever say anything to you about his arm where i bit him?" inquired palmer. "no; only to say it was pretty sore." "why the dam little fool could shook me down for all i had in the world, mayhem is a penal offence in maryland. that's why i say he's green. i skinned his daddy out of nearly two hundred dollars. he imagines he will get it when we go to brownsville. i'll keep this trick so dam far away from that town a crow couldn't fly to me in a week." alfred had a mind to walk out on the man and declare himself, but he held his peace. he sought jake and together they consulted an attorney. alfred's father would be compelled to bring suit where the debt was contracted, get judgment, send the transcript on before the debt could be collected. jake did not own any of the panorama proper; his agreement gave him one-third of the profits until he was paid the sum of six hundred dollars and thirty dollars a week as hire for his team. alfred did not believe palmer would do anything at once; he concluded that the talk he had overheard was of the same character as that which palmer had indulged in so often previously. alfred was in bed; jake sat by the window buried in thought. finally jake muttered: "to hell mit dis bizness, i vish i vas back at my home in bedfordt." after musing in silence for some time, he muttered: "to hell mit palmer; to hell mit gideon; to hell mit everything but der panorama." jake mused a few minutes. rising to undress, he said defiantly: "to hell mit der panorama." the following day jake asked for an accounting. palmer endeavored to put him off. "how much uv dis panorama i own?" asked jake. "oh, jake, what's the matter with you? you know what our contract is. come now, you're an intelligent man, let's do business on business principles. i'll have gideon balance the books by sunday." "i vant dem balanced today; my condract says dat i am der vun dots to handle der money; maybe i take holdt tonight." palmer became frightened. gideon furnished jake a statement showing the profits to be six hundred dollars and a few cents over. as jake understood the contract he was to receive one-third of the profits, this would entitle him to $ , one hundred of which he had received. jake immediately demanded another hundred dollars. palmer pleaded that he had sent his money away. jake was obdurate. palmer finally produced the amount. jake demanded that he have access to the books; both palmer and gideon demurred, but jake was again triumphant. however, nothing that favored jake was learned from them. hagerstown, md. dear muz: your letter to hand. pap will never get his money from palmer. he is never going to brownsville or near there. i heard him tell gideon, pap was a reuben and he had skinned him out of two hundred dollars. and pap needn't deny it to you. this man is awful; he will cheat anybody. i had to lick him, he nearly bit my arm off. i nearly beat his head off; it was the only way to get loose. i can't tell you all i know in one letter. let pap sue for his account, send the transcript on and i'll get it or i'll know why. he'll not get a chance to bite if i go at him again. i went out to your old home yesterday; they're real nice people. i found the room where i cut my name on the walnut window frame, it's nearly rubbed out. the house looks natural but the garden and flowers are not like grandmother kept them. all the old people asked about grandpap, uncle john and uncle jake. stir pap up. if i come home, i'll write you before i do. your affectionate son, alfred griffith hatfield. p. s. jake's written agreement is a fraud. if pap has an agreement with palmer, it's a fraud too, don't go by it. do as i tell you, i know what's best. you'll learn law if you travel with a panorama. the next move, to winchester, was a long journey. one of jake's horses having been sick, palmer advised a day or two previously that the panorama and people, excepting bedford tom and jake, would travel by train, thus relieving the team. he also promised jake a payment on the profits at the end of the week. as an evidence of good faith he advanced jake a week's wages. jake wanted alfred to make the journey with him in the wagon, but palmer became offended: "what do you people want to do, get rid of the work of preparation? i should take bedford tom with me also but i will permit him to go with you for company, but not alfred." palmer gave all directions as to the roads as he always did. in fact, he cautioned jake more particularly than usual. he also left orders that a dinner be put up for jake and tom to carry with them. palmer arose early to see jake off and again cautioned him not to lose his way. gideon, palmer, the wife and alfred boarded the train. they were to change cars at harper's ferry. but alfred took the train for winchester, gideon excitedly calling him to take the other train. "but that train goes to washington, the man said so," pleaded alfred. "get aboard, quick," shouted gideon, as he jumped on the moving train. alfred ran into the train to palmer. "don't we go to winchester?" he inquired. "not until next month," answered palmer. "where's jake and the team going?" asked alfred. "they told me they were going to winchester." palmer gave a little forced laugh: "jake was your friend, was he not? i thought so at least. didn't you regard him as your friend?" inquired palmer. "of course i did," answered alfred. palmer looked at gideon: "i told you there was something behind this. didn't i tell you so, eh?" gideon seemed undecided; he both nodded and shook his head. palmer threw one limb over the other and rubbed his dirty hands together. "it was like this: jake was a partner of mine. we've been having trouble for some time past. yesterday he accepted a proposition of mine on condition that i was not to mention it to you. he stated you were friends but he did not desire to go into the minstrel business. he feared if you learned he had received his money from me you would be after him hot-foot to invest in a minstrel show." alfred's face flushed. he did not deny that he and jake had conversed many times regarding a minstrel show; jake seemed greatly interested in it. alfred fell for palmer's plausible story. palmer exhibited that which he claimed was a clear receipt from jake. when the party arrived in washington alfred was so taken up with the thousand and one places of interest, he took note of nothing save sight-seeing. lodging at a little hotel on a side street, palmer had not been seen for a day or two. to alfred's inquiry, gideon mumbled something about new people. mrs. palmer became more anxious-looking every day. alfred overheard gideon mention pharoah to the wife. alfred connected the biblical character of that name with the remark. thinking the matter over he remembered hearing palmer oftentimes refer to losses or gains at pharoah. he finally connected it with some sort of a game and made bold to ask gideon what palmer had done about old pharoah. gideon, with a surprised look, asked how he knew palmer was sitting in. "oh, i heard he was after old pharoah." "you've got the pronunciation wrong but the facts right. palmer was one thousand ahead of the game. i begged him to cash in but that's the way with all who play faro. he didn't know enough to quit the game when he had velvet in front of him." palmer had lost all his money but the little savings of his wife. gideon had a few dollars, but that went also. alfred had twenty-nine dollars which he refused to loan palmer. the landlord finally yielded to the arguments of palmer and gideon and agreed to permit the baggage to be taken to the depot and, with the panorama, shipped to the next town; he, the landlord, to accompany them until his claims were paid. the party were off their route. no previous arrangements had been made. none of the religious denominations in the town could be induced to take an interest in the panorama. finally, the courthouse was secured by rental, but without the influence of the church people, the receipts were not fifty per cent of what they usually were, so palmer repeatedly stated. the hotel man had to advance money to move the company to the next place of exhibition. here the receipts again fell short of the expenses. the hotel man sent home for money finally. thoroughly disgusted, the hotel man left the party with palmer's note endorsed by gideon. he requested alfred's endorsement also. that gentleman remembered sammy steele's advice and very politely declined to attach his signature to the paper. palmer insisted that alfred endorse the note, arguing: "it's only a matter of form; i'll take up this note within two weeks." but alfred did not sign. later on, alfred overheard palmer cussing gideon's lax business methods: "since you have been a missionary you don't know enough to top broom-corn. i told you to hold out everything on that hotel guy and you made him put up only thirteen dollars." it developed that there were no losses while the hotel man was with the panorama. palmer made it appear there was in order to get rid of the man. alfred wrote jake a sarcastic letter advising that he thought it would have been more gentlemanly to have informed him of his dislike of the minstrel business instead of talking to palmer. "i assisted you in every way and i thought you were my friend." no reply came. "jake was ashamed to answer," was the conclusion reached by alfred. disgusted with palmer, homesick, offended at his folks that they did not reply to his letter, he resolved to write no more but next pay day leave the panorama and go home. he so informed palmer. palmer's arguments had no effect upon him. finally mrs. palmer persuaded him to remain until they could secure someone to take his place, promising to do so at the first opportunity. "if it's not too long i'll hold out but i want to go home; i'm homesick." mrs. palmer covered her face with her hands as she cried: "if there is a more distressing feeling than a longing for home i pray to god no one will ever suffer as i have. i've been homesick for years." palmer sneered and sarcastically granted her permission to go home at any time she wished. "you and alfred better go home together." alfred felt like slapping the man and would have done so had not his wife been present. palmer greatly interested the family with whom they were boarding. his long prayers at family worship and his eloquent talk completely captivated the entire family including two fine young men. alfred the last day of their stay found palmer rehearsing the elder of the two boys, the younger holding the prompter's book. later alfred overheard palmer assure the old gentleman the panorama was the best money making and the most refined exhibition ever devised. two days later the old gentleman, his two boys and another gentleman arrived in the town where the panorama was on exhibition. the report became generally circulated that the panorama had been sold to the old man for his sons. gideon was to remain as long as they desired his services. alfred was also a part of the sale. palmer advised the buyers that alfred knew as much about the panorama as himself. alfred very promptly informed the old gentleman that he could not remain longer. this held up the sale. palmer coaxed, begged and implored the boy to remain with the panorama. he assured the purchasers his only reason for disposing of the panorama was his wife's health. she had been separated from her children for two years, she was a nervous wreck. he had to make the sacrifice no matter what the consequences--his wife's happiness came first. the wife's appearance more than corroborated palmer's statement. finally he offered alfred one hundred dollars to remain until the new owners learned the way of running the exhibition. alfred's answer was: "you owe my father two hundred dollars." "i do not, i owe him only a hundred and ninety dollars," contradicted palmer. "pay my father and i'll stay." palmer replied: "i always intended to pay your father; i'll pay him whether you stay or not." "when will you pay him?" asked alfred. "as soon as i get my money from these people." "will you give it to me for him?" "no, i will not. i will pay him as i promised. your father is not worrying about his money. we're going to paint a panorama in partnership. i expect to be in brownsville inside of a month, just as soon as i can settle my wife at home." alfred agreed to remain. the sale was made, and alfred was paid one hundred dollars. he wrote the folks at home detailing all the changes, advising that palmer would be in brownsville soon to paint a panorama. alfred remained two weeks. the new people hired an actor to take his place. they did not do well with the panorama, gideon remained but a short time after alfred left. * * * * * palmer forgot to pay alfred's father; he also forgot to visit brownsville. years afterwards alfred met palmer. he was painting, he was an artist, so he stated. he looked like a vagrant; there was not much change in his face, only a little more weather beaten, the lines and wrinkles deeper, the eyes more dull and his hands more dirty. he advised alfred that he had a contract and the work was partly done, but he could not draw any money until it was completed. "now alfred, you know me, you know how i have struggled, you know how the world has been against me. but i'll come back; i'll come into my own. i've got a scheme and i am working it out and it will be a winner. it will put me on easy street all the rest of my days." alfred knew all of this talk was leading up to a "touch." alfred had mellowed in his feelings. he had sympathy for the outcast but felt he did not care to waste any charity on the man. he was figuring rapidly mentally: "i will buy him clothing and give him a small sum of money, that's all." "now you know my ability to earn money," continued palmer, "and you know my family. i want you to do me a favor." ("the 'touch' is coming," thought alfred, "i'll have to give him $ at least.") "now, don't refuse me. i will have money as soon as this job is done, and i'll send it to you; i don't want you to give me nothing. i want you to loan it to me. now alfred, don't go back on me." "well, business is none too good and i have heavy expenses and calls like yours every day. how much do you want?" cautiously inquired alfred. "loan me a dollar," pleaded palmer. alfred handed the man two dollars with a sigh of relief, crediting himself with eighteen. "where are mrs. palmer and gideon?" asked alfred. "oh, gideon died years ago. he hadn't nothing to live for; he just laid down and died. mrs. palmer is at home; i've got a fine home. the children--oh, one of them married a big orange grove man in california and the other is with her mother." alfred afterwards learned that gideon was dead; that the contract palmer was working on was decorating mirrors in bar-rooms. mrs. palmer was living with relatives. palmer had not contributed to her support in years. one of the girls was cashier in a store in kansas city, the other a nurse in a sanatarium. palmer died of alcoholic dementia only a year or two ago. jake is living in bedford; he began where he left off--on the farm. when alfred met jake he summed up his panorama experience thusly: "balmur cheated us all; he cheated everybody und got no good oudt uv it. he stoled the letters i wrote you und made you badt frednts mit me. but it iss all gone now and so iss balmur. i dond't know vich vay he iss gone. he sed i valked straight into hell mit der panorama; i hope he valks straight oudt of it. if he does get in i'll bet dey haff a hard yob to keep him dere; he neffer stays no place long; und i'll bet dey'll be gladt ven he leaves--dat iss if he makes es much troubles in hell as he didt mit der panorama." it is not necessary to state that palmer sent jake to a place he never intended visiting with the panorama. jake, confused and deceived, made his way home. chapter sixteen something each day--a smile, it is not much to give, but the little gifts of life make sweet the days we live. the world appears different to different persons; to one it is dull, to another bright. contentment has much to do with it. the pleasant and interesting happenings crowded into the life of one being may arouse envy in another. the man of genius, the man of imagination will note things in the every-day trend of human affairs that will enrich his memory, store it with wisdom. the man of dulled faculties will never see things in this world as does he who is of a higher intelligence. two men may travel in a country strange to them, their impressions of the customs, habits of the people, conditions and appearances of the land, will be widely different. after alfred's return from the tour with the panorama he became the sir oracle of the town. the shoe-shops of frank mckernan and nimrod potts were the gathering places of those who came to hear the stories that alfred had collected in his travels. previously the atmosphere of the two shoe-shops had been different. mckernan's shop was the gathering place of those who lived under the teachings of thomas jefferson, they were democrats; the audiences at pott's shop had formerly been composed of abolitionists. nimrod potts had been an avowed abolitionist. a change had come over him, politically at least. from a rabid abolitionist he had changed to a dignified democrat, nor was it lust for office that wrought the change--that unholy feeling which influenced horace greeley, who was potts' political god. greeley, after twenty-five years of vituperation and personal abuse, such as was never before applied to opponent by political writer, denouncing those who were opposed to his opinions, as representing all that was of vice and violence, crawled to those he had abused for years begging their votes, willing to pretend to espouse their principles to attain office. horace greeley's seeking and accepting a presidential nomination did more to discredit partisan journalism in this country than all other causes combined since the establishment of the republic. dr. patton, a clean cut man, was the democratic nominee for burgess (mayor) of brownsville. the doctor was slightly aristocratic in his bearing, and a number of his own party were dissatisfied with his candidacy, although a nomination on the democratic ticket was equivalent to election. nimrod potts was the nominee of the republican, radical and abolition element; no one imagined potts had a living chance of election. the times were propitious for the elevation to office of those of humble origin. andrew johnson, a tailor, was then president (by accident). the argument was used, "why not elevate nimrod potts, the cobbler, to the highest office within the gift of the electorate of brownsville?" alfred had unconsciously boosted the candidacy of potts by publicly announcing that he had visited the tailor shop of andrew johnson while in greenville, tenn., and that the shoe-shop of nimrod potts in brownsville was much larger and more pretentious than the tailor shop of the man who was then president; and since the qualification for holding or seeking office in those days seemed to be graduation from some sort of a shop, potts' claims should be considered. whether it was this statement or the vagaries that at times influence the minds of voters, potts was elected. it is a peculiarity of human nature that people neglect little bills--bar bills, cobbling bills, etc. now every man in brownsville did not run bar bills, but every man wore shoes (except in summer). nimrod potts had a list of names in the debtor column of his book embracing some of the best known men and hardest men on shoes in town. when nimrod instituted what he considered needed reforms in the judiciary system, certain ones of the borough's citizenship--although they had never heard of the recall--brownsville had not advanced that far toward socialism as yet--instituted proceedings in the county court, impeaching potts. he was removed from office. those who instituted the ouster proceedings were republicans. alfred's uncle william, who was judge of the court, was a democrat. potts evidently reasoned that it was but natural that a democratic judge should decide to remove him, but to be assailed by his own party was too much for even his fealty. hence he proclaimed himself a democrat and was received with open arms by that party. the causes that led up to the removal of nimrod potts as burgess of brownsville are recorded in history. however, the reader may have failed to note this famous "causus bellus" or forgotten it. in expounding the law two points were always kept in view by burgess potts--the constitution of the united states and his cobbling accounts. if either the plaintiff or defendant were indebted to the cobbler, justice was meted out as the law required, with the addition of the amount due for cobbling. the cobbling bill was always added to the costs. if both parties to the case were indebted to the judge the law was bent to apply to the assessing of costs with the cobblers' bills added. potts felt the honor that alfred had conferred upon him in likening him to andrew johnson. the gatherings at potts' shop, of which alfred was the center of attraction, became more conspicuous than the assemblages at mckernan's. as may be inferred there was bitter rivalry between the two shoe-makers. it was not long ere doubts were expressed as to the correctness of the word pictures alfred painted of the country and its people through which he had journeyed while with the panorama. some folks who had emigrated to brownsville from virginia and maryland could not remember anything of the scenes that alfred described. others remembered just such things as he pictured. barney barnhart, who was from shepperdstown, not only verified alfred's stories relative to the section where he formally resided but actually bettered some of them. alfred was in high repute. he had regained all the prestige lost through his unfortunate connection with eli. working for his father by day, relating his panorama exploits by night, he was leading an exemplary life. some folks ascribed his changed ways to the great moral uplift of the panorama. uncle ned gave palmer credit for the reformation of the boy. consequently they held palmer in highest estimation. alfred had not uttered one word derogatory to palmer to anyone as yet. he was secretly hoping palmer would put in an appearance and paint another panorama, that he might get control of it. he felt riches awaited anyone who possessed a panorama. even when alfred pushed a large pumpkin in the round hole of the chimney on potts' shoe-shop, smoking out the largest gathering to which he had ever described "the pilgrim's progress" as shown in panorama--while the auditors stood on the outside of the shop fanning the smoke from their faces with their hats, alfred, phoenix-like, stood in the middle of the shoe-shop reciting palmer's lecture. alfred was never suspected of smoking his audience out. instead potts hiked across the street to jake sawyer's grocery and accused jimmy edminston of smoking out the temple of justice. alfred's talks and recitals aroused considerable interest in john bunyan's work, "the pilgrim's progress." many were the arguments over the propriety of the work as presented by palmer's panorama. lin said: "fur the life of me i kan't figger out how bunyan hed ever hoped thet christian would turn out good after the load saddled on his shoulders an' the trubles he wus sent through. why, the devil wouldn't try tu win anyone by abusin' 'em thet way. i do not blame jake fur kickin' over the traces an' takin' the wrong path, kos i'd jes soon gone tu hell as some uv the places they sent christian tu." it was explained to lin that the book was written as an allegory and the sufferings were to try christian's faith. "allegery or perregary, i don't kur which. it's jes es bad es burnin' peepul tu deth tu make 'em christians. besides, i don't think much uv christian nohow, the book shows he run away, an' left his wife an' two childrun." however, it was generally admitted that the panorama had greatly benefited alfred. sammy johnson was no longer teased by him; alfred even assured him that the presbyterian church would soon have a bell and he would be employed to ring it. ringing a church bell was sammy's hallucination. alfred could even enter johnny tunstall's grocery, as he no longer shouted "wrang hule" at the old gentleman. alfred no longer associated with his former companions, but was more often seen with teddy darwin, john leclair and other good boys. the civil war, the presidential campaign, the fight between the rival steamboat lines, had kept old brownsville pretty well stirred up for several years, but nothing equaling the excitement caused by the campaign between potts and patton had ever been experienced in the old town. torch-light processions were the popular way of arousing enthusiasm. it was the general belief in those days that the fellow who carried the biggest blaze in the procession was the fellow of most importance. nowadays it's the fellow who buys the oil and sits on the porch and watches the procession go by. cousin albert was an ardent adherent of the potts faction. alfred's father was just as strong for patton. the father was well disposed toward albert but he was very much disgusted with albert's fondness for torch-light processions, particularly when albert bore a transparency on which was painted, in crude letters, a motto most offensive to patton men. the father more than once intimated that alfred was a very dull boy in some respects. "he can play practical jokes on people who should be exempt, and jokes in which no one but alfred could see the humor. but there's albert, who has laid himself liable to have any sort of a joke played upon him, goes scott free." therefore alfred fancied any joke perpetrated upon cousin albert must be pretty strong or the father would stamp it as inane and without humor. handbills advertised there would be a parade of the potts club and the route was given. alfred knew that cousin albert would be at the head of the marchers, bearing a very large transparency, with an offensive motto painted by his father's competitor, jeffries. alfred procured a piece of duck canvas, water proof, about one yard square. repairing to the bowman's pasture lot where the cows spent the night near the gate, alfred, with a scoop shovel, filled the canvas with a half bushel or more of fertilizer. he carried it to sammy steele's old tan house where he had once carried food to the exiles. an old finishing table stood under a window from which the sash had long since disappeared. one standing on the table at the opening was six or seven feet higher than the narrow street below. drums were beating, the procession was coming, the candle torches showed the parade turning hogg's corner off market street; they were coming toward the old tan-yard. alfred stood at the window with the canvas containing the mass of fertilizer. as the head of the parade came opposite he could see cousin albert outlined against the white-washed fence on the opposite side of the street. swinging the package a time or two to give it momentum, as one does a club, alfred loosened his hold on three corners of the canvas. the mess slid out as he had planned it would. he aimed all of it at cousin albert. alfred was pretty sure aim generally, but he had not experimented with the sort of ammunition he was using on this occasion; he was not familiar with its scattering qualities. alfred did not have time to either see or hear how his aim had affected cousin albert. there was an angry confusion of yells and curses extending down the line of march. alfred felt sure that something awful had happened. "catch him! hang him!" there was a shuffling of feet in the darkness. those at the head of the procession had dropped their torches. alfred's joke on cousin albert had spread to some twenty others; in fact, all in line opposite the window were included in the joke. there was a rush for the old tan-house. alfred flew. down the stairs, over the fence, through the widow cunningham's, across the street, through captain cox's yard and into his home, the thoroughly frightened boy fled. pete keifer, who had been in the army, a ninety day man, one of the first to go to the front at the call of duty, one of the first to leave for home after bull run, was most vehement in his threats on the lives of those who had broken up the torch light procession. keifer's hearing was undoubtedly affected by the two pound lump that struck him in the ear, and some scattering. sammy rowland's white shirt front caught a cluster as large as a saucer. his wife said she had a feeling something was going to happen when he put on a biled shirt on a week day. aaron todd, who wore a set of whiskers that would have sent him to the senate had he lived in kansas, carried home concealed in his whiskers a pound or so of alfred's joke. alfred lay in bed trembling. every sound, every footstep on the street startled him. when the father returned home he trembled until the bed shook, fearing it was the mob entering the house. he heard his father laughing, also the mother; then he heard footsteps on the stairs. pretending to be sound asleep he snored loudly. as his father neared the bed he pretended to suddenly awake. the parent carelessly inquired: "how long you been in bed?" "oh, i don't know how long, i've been asleep. why? is there anything happened?" asked alfred as he pulled the clothes up over his head to hide his laughter. the father replied: "yes there has and i feared you were mixed up in it. i am glad you came in early tonight." then the father informed alfred that some half a dozen rowdies had hidden in the old tannery and bombarded the potts procession with all sorts of missiles and _things_. he told of the rage of keifer, the plight of todd, etc. alfred was sorry the joke on cousin albert had miscarried but it seemed to him the hand of fate guided his aim, as all those who suffered were unfriendly, all save sammy rowland. he was a good friend with whom alfred had labored in the tan-yard. alfred went to sleep laughing and arose laughing. his mirth excited comment; it was so continued. the mother often asserted that alfred, from the time he was a baby, always awoke laughing in the morning. but his mirth was so uproarious this morning that it caused the father to look worried. finally, he called alfred into an adjoining room. looking him full in the face he asked: "did you have a hand in that affair last night?" had alfred been threatened with death he could not have suppressed his laughter. the more he laughed the more serious the father became. he had become satisfied that alfred was connected with the reprehensible act. the father continued threateningly: "well, my boy, you keep on, there will be an end to this kind of work. i cannot protect you if it gets out on you; it will be the worst blow you ever inflicted upon this family." thus the father talked until alfred said: "well, pap, i hope you are not going to connect me with this thing just because i laughed." "no, but i have a feeling that you know something of it. those associated with you in this thing will be very apt to blame it all on you." "oh no, they won't. now, just because i laugh _you're_ going to swear this thing onto me." "i am not," replied the father. "the whole town is laughing for that matter but it will go none the less hard with those engaged in it. i wouldn't go over in town if i were you," advised the father as he left the room. alfred made his way to potts' shoe-shop, passing the old tan-house on the way. broken transparency, bits of candles, and other odds and ends were scattered over the ground. the white-washed fence opposite the window in the old tan-house had the appearance of a field covered with snow, with here and there a bit of cedar shrubbery growing on it. dennis isler, jim johnson and piggy mann were under suspicion. alfred stood among the crowd and listened in silence to each description of the scene. no two had seen it alike; one man swore there were half a dozen shots fired, another declared a brick knocked the hat off his head without injuring him in the least. alfred returned home. the mother and lin repeatedly inquired as to what he was laughing at. lin finally, when the mother was not within hearing, with an air "you may fool everybody else but you can't fool me" half whispered: "i know ye done hit. everybody wud know hit wus ye. why, look at yer pants laig, up thar in the room, the marks is on hit." alfred flew up stairs. the right leg of a fairly good pair of pants was amputated just above the knee. the mother wondered why alfred gave those pants to cal pastor (who had but one leg). the _clipper_ had become very friendly. there was scarcely an issue that there was not a complimentary reference to the rising young actor, "an ex-attachee of this paper." the _clipper_ carried a graphic write-up of the disrupting of the potts procession. it was headed: "a dastardly attempt to defeat potts by discouraging his supporters." "a most unexpected and unprepared-for assault was perpetrated upon an orderly procession of brownsville's honest toilers, who were assaulted in the darkness of night with murderous missiles and other _things_, in a heated campaign with momentous issues involved. the hurling of foul epithets is bad enough but when political opponents hurl such things as were hurled at the potts adherents it is time to call a halt. many who were injured by the fusillade declare the onslaught was so unexpected; they were so completely taken by surprise that, had they been killed and interred the assault would not have been more surprising to them. among those who were in the worst of the affray was that gallant soldier and shingle maker, peter keifer. he has also seen service in assisting in arresting sam craft who was drafted. mr. keifer will devote his time to running down the hellish brigands who are a menace to the liberty of the ballot. mr. keifer says he will not be deterred in his purpose." among those employed by alfred's father was one, node beckley--"noah" was his proper name, but all, including his wife, called him node. in personal appearance he was not unlike palmer; spare and wiry, slim-faced, a large hooked nose, a tuft of beard on his chin. he had no particular calling or trade; first a hotel keeper, then a house or boat painter, paper hanger or decorator, saloonkeeper, book-agent, banjo player and cheap gambler. he was good-natured. his wife was the head man of the family; what node lacked in spirit she made up in talk. node was kind in his way to his wife and children, who accepted his efforts in their behalf without any untoward semblance of gratitude and with many complaints that he did not do more for them. consequently node was always on the hustle, or as near so as his indolent disposition would permit him to be. isaac jacquette, john barnhart, jim mann, cousin charley and others were continually teasing node over his many unsuccessful ventures. node did not always take their joshings good naturedly but would remind them that his time was coming, that he would yet strike a lead that would bring him fortune. he had hinted so often in this manner that alfred became convinced node was working on something in secret and became interested in him. the other men ascribed alfred's fondness for beckley to the fact that he could perform on the banjo; they often suggested that alfred and beckley start a minstrel show. "a boy's sense all runs to heart; a boy never sees the dark spots on the character of the man he fancies." node beckley was not a man of bad character. alfred's father dispensed with beckley's services that he might disrupt the intimacy between the two. node opened a saloon, the rialto, on the corner of barefoot square and market street. alfred's father forbade him ever to enter the place. alfred obeyed. the familiarity continued, the man and boy were often seen together on the street. cousin charley tracked them to the barn of the old james beckley tavern. alfred's father feared he was gambling; all the gambling in those days was in haymows or unoccupied buildings in winter, under the trees in summer. the games were "seven up" and "euchre". node was of an inventive turn of mind. it is not known whence came the inspiration, nor is it certain that there was an inspiration. however, it can be recorded to the glory of brownsville that the first flying machine or airship was the invention of a citizen of the old town. the flying machine was the mysterious creation that node had so often hinted at. alfred was deeply interested in the aerial machine. it was planned that the invention should be kept secret from all. harriet, his wife, knew he was working on an invention of some sort, as he had been engaged in this sort of experimenting a greater part of the time since they wedded. when his perpetual motion machine failed to work "had" beckley had lost interest in node's inventions. hence, the flying machine under process of construction was known only to alfred and the inventor. it was their intention to completely surprise the world at large and that part of it in particular bounded by the brownsville borough lines, by having node flit over the town and perhaps over the river; then later on, to uniontown, to pittsburg and other cities. then alfred and node would travel all over the world exhibiting the flying machine. in those days steam was the only propelling power. gasoline engines were unknown, electricity had not been harnessed except for telegraphing. the propelling power of node's flying machine lay in the arms and legs of the one who soared in it. the invention was a very simple contrivance, from which very fact node argued it would be successful. there were two large wings, nine feet in length and of a proportionate breadth, constructed of very light material, and, at alfred's suggestion, covered with feathers. alfred felt it would be more apt to fly if it wore feathers. every backyard, wherein a family killed chickens, ducks or turkeys, was ransacked for feathers. the variegated plumage of the machine would have defied the most learned of ornithologists in defining the species of the bird family to which it belonged. there was what node termed a "rear extension." alfred invariably alluded to it as "her tail." why he applied the feminine gender to the machine was another of those vagaries of which inventors are always possessed. node termed the wings, "side-propellers." the arms of the aerialist were thrust through loops under the wings, hand-holds were at the proper length from the base of the wings. there was a light frame, to which the wings were attached; two light ropes, through pulleys worked by the feet, flopped the rear extension up and down. the rear extension could be also used as a steering apparatus. the entire thing depended upon the movements of the arms. after the machine was far and away up in the air, it would sail as do eagles and buzzards, so node asserted. the only doubt node had was as to possessing strength to raise the thing to the proper height. when he once got in the air, he had no fears of staying there. alfred suggested that the first start be made from the steeple of the episcopal church. node seemed pleased with the suggestion. later, when they walked by the church and gazed up at the heights node concluded the wings and rear extension would have sufficient air pressure to make the rise from a hill. the work had progressed to the point where an experimental trial was in sight. node had been strapped in the frame-work several times. the wings worked perfectly; that is, so long as node's arms kept in motion. the rear extension did not work so well. node explained that it would not work until the thing got up in the air where his feet would have free play. he would sit astraddle of a bench, alfred would hold the frame off the floor, and node would work his feet. her "tail" would wobble and fly up and down at a great rate. its eccentric actions excited the admiration of alfred. he assured node that her tail would be the wonder of the world. "why, black fan's tail never flew around like that, even when she got in the bumble-bee's nest," asserted alfred. node had made several attempts to raise himself from the barn floor, but there was not space to work the machine properly. they determined to arise early some morning, take the machine to hogg's field, just below the pike and give it a trial. the apparatus was carefully carried to the little mound on the high hill overlooking dunlap's creek. alfred cautioned node not to fly down the hill, because it would be a job to carry the machine up the hill. [illustration: trying out the flying machine] lin, gazing out of the kitchen window at the chickens picking around in the yard, said: "lor' a-mighty! what's happened them chickens? they ain't one uf 'em got the shadder uf a tail." alfred had even stolen the big fly brush, made of peacock feathers, to birdify node's flying machine. the extreme end of the rear extension held the long peacock feathers. that the bird man idea should be carried out alfred had made a head dress of turkey feathers down the nape of the neck, and chicken feathers in front. when placed on node's head, with his beaked nose and tuft of chin beard, he appeared very much as one would picture uncle joe cannon robed in maude adams' "chanticler" costume. node was strapped in the frame, his arms adjusted to the wings, and alfred adjusted the head dress against node's violent protest. he argued: "the dam thing will get over my eyes and i am liable to fly into a tree top. take it off. i'll wear it after i get the hang of this thing, after i fly awhile." several attempts were made at a rise. the rear extension always got out of gear; the ropes and pulley tangled in the rigging. it was decided that alfred hold the rear extension aloft. node would run down the hill a few feet launching himself into the air. alfred assured node that he could be of even greater assistance. while the machine was in course of construction node had his own way in everything. now he was strapped in the apparatus and any innovation alfred insisted upon he was powerless to reject. therefore alfred hastened home. there was not a clothes prop in his father's garden long enough to suit his ideas, therefore, he ran to the next door neighbor's, alex smith's, selecting the longest prop he could find. hastening to the scene of the ascension, he found node in anything but an amiable mood. "what the devil do you mean by strapping me in this thing and running all over town to find a pole to push me up in the air? do you s'pose i want you to pole me like a raft? you hold up that end of the thing and i'll fly." node was mad enough to fly. against his angry protests alfred inserted the end of the pole between his legs, held up the tail part of the machine, encouraging node to take a running start, when he got the proper momentum to shout "now," and he, alfred, would give him a lift that was bound to shoot him into the air. they backed up the hill. node lowered his arms, the wings resting on the ground, resting himself a bit; turning his bird-like head toward alfred he asked if there was anyone watching them. node was evidently not sure in his mind that the flight would be successful. when assured by alfred that there were no witnesses node cautioned him not to lift too strongly on the pole which was still between his legs. looking up in the air as if to gauge the height to which he intended to ascend, he said: "now get ready and stand by if anything happens when i light." "ready?" asked node, in an eager voice. "let her go," was alfred's reply. down the hill ran the two. "now!" shouted node. alfred put all his power into the lift he gave the man-bird. node seemed to arise. one of the ropes caught around alfred's neck nearly severing one of his ears. alfred fell headlong, rolling over two or three times. when he arose he directed his gaze heavenward, expecting to see node soaring through the air. curses and struggles from a point twenty feet down the hill disclosed the whereabouts of the inventor. node was lying there, the apparatus in a tangled heap. it was with considerable labor, made more difficult as he was weak from laughter, that alfred released node. criminations and recriminations followed. node swore he had started on a beautiful flight; he could feel himself going up as light as a soap bubble, just then alfred's damn fool head-piece flopped down over his eyes, blinding him so he couldn't see what he was doing. he quit flapping his wings and fell like a log. if it hadn't been for the head dress there's no telling where he would have flown to. alfred contended that the tailpiece caught on one of his ears and pulled the bird-man back out of the air. as proof he exhibited the lacerated ear. alfred had assured node that there were no witnesses. however, the aeronauts had an audience. jake beeca and strap gaines stood in the road below; pete williams, billy brubaker and a couple of strangers were looking down from the pike above; johnny johnson and widdy gould were gazing on the wreck from their back yards. mary hart, jim hart and mrs. smith were at the front gate, inquiring of lin and alfred's mother the cause of the strange procession then passing. [illustration: the end of the flight] node came first. he had forgotten his hat and shoes, laid aside to lighten him for his flight, his clothes were literally bespattered with soft, brown earth, his nose scratched, one of his hands bleeding; on his head the bedraggled feather cap. following behind came alfred, one ear bleeding, his clothing covered with dirt. in his arms he carried the wrecked flying machine, the rear extension dragging, the beautifully colored peacock feathers trailing the dirt. node, with bowed head and abashed manner, walked as though going to his execution. alfred could scarcely walk at all, the ludicrous ending of the flight, appealed so to his mirth. lin gazed curiously at the two as they passed. she scrutinized the flying machine closely, the feathers, the head-dress on node. she entered the house: "well, mary," (addressing the mother), "i've seed a good many funny sights sence alfurd's been ole enuf tu run aroun' but i'll be durned ef this one ain't the cap sheaf." "what's happened now?" anxiously queried the mother. "well, i ain't seed enuf tu jes zackly say what it is but hit looks like alfurd hed turned his mind tu a injun show. he's got node beckley into hit; they has things all trimmed with feathers. now you know what has made our chickens look so bobbed; they ain't one uf 'em thet's got es much tail feathers es a blue bird in poke berry time. an' yer peafowl feather duster,"--here lin raised her hands--"why they ain't enough left to shoo a pis-ant, let alone a fly. lor' mary, hit's orful, they must-a had a sham battul or a war, fer node is kivered with blood an' alfurd looked peeled in several places. node had on a ole feather head dress, barefooted 'ceptin' socks, no hat or coat, kivered with dust and so was alfurd. he was carryin' the injun fixin's and laffin'; laffin', why you'd think hit wus the bigges' frolik in the world. node looked jes es joe sandford looked when he shed his wall-paper show duds. i'll jes run over an' see what had beckley has tu say. i'll bet she'll rear an' charge when node gets home." "good mornin' mrs. beckley, how's all?" was lin's greeting. "won't you walk in, we're all upside down here; walk in ef you can git in fur the dirt and cluttered up house. node's been up and gone for two hours; i'm waitin' fur him to kum so we kin eat breakfus an' clean up. i have no idee whar he is; your alfred an' him's together nite an' day now." lin looked surprised as she repeated, "nite an' day? an' what do ye s'pose they is up tu, mrs. beckley?" "well, i dunno. node's allus got some notion or other in his head. i never pay no tension to him; ef hit ain't one thing hit's anuther. i rekon hit's a patent rite concern. he's been putterin' on pattern things ever sence we wus married." "do they run out at nite much, node an' alfurd?" lin asked. "why, every blessed nite and all day sundays." lin suggested: "maybe they go to baptus meetin'. thar havin' a revivul; maybe node an' alfurd's thinkin' of jinin' the baptus church." "huh! node would be a hell of a baptus; he's so feared of water he hain't washed his feet this blessed wintur," snapped mrs. beckley. lin decided in her mind that mrs. beckley was entirely ignorant of the scheme her husband and alfred had under way and she changed tack: "perhaps they're startin' a show. has yer husband talked about injuns tu yer lately?" "no," answered the wife in open-mouthed wonder, "have you heard they were goun' off tu fight injuns?" "no, no," quickly assured lin, "i didn't mean they wus goin' tu fight injuns. yow know alfurd's full of show notions, an' you know we had a injun show yer on jeffres commons; hit wusn't much uf a show, nuthin' to hit. i thought maybe node an' alfurd had got hit into theur noodles to act injun. did ye see them things with feathers on them they wus draggin' aroun'? yes, an' they got pea fowl feathers on too; bet all they hev no luck, pea fowl feathers allus bring bad luck." here node entered the room. his wife scanned him, noting his skinned nose: "eh, huh, mr. injun, i hope ye ain't skulped?" lifting his hat and looking at his head. node was considerably taken aback; he muttered something about making it go yet, "but no damn fool could pole him into the air." poor node imagined that his secret was out and that all knew of his dismal failure. when he learned that the feathers had deceived all and that the flying machine was looked upon as some sort of show paraphernalia, he humored the deception and admitted that he and alfred were experimenting with indian arms and things, thinking of giving an indian show. this satisfied lin. with all her cunning she was easily deceived. running home she advised the mother that she had guessed it the first guess. "lor', hit's no use fur alfurd tu try tu fool me, i know thet thar boy better'n he knows hisself. i sed, sed i, es soon es i seed node an' him comin' 'hit's injun bizness this trip sure.' why, anybody'd know thet what alfurd was carryin' wus war hoops; war hoops is what injuns has got more uf then most anythin' else. but i swear tu goodness i don't see how node or alfurd cud pass fur an injun. node looked like a skur-crow an' alfred like a tom-boy girl. maybe alfurd kud be pokerhuntus an' node captin john smith." that first attempt at flying but increased the determination to make the thing a success. the complicated gearing of the rear extension, was supported with one rope. it was double gear previously; now it was single gear. before, it worked too rapidly and, like black fan when under full speed, was liable to go by the head. node declared again and again that it was the rear extension that caused him to shoot head-first into the earth. he had just started to rise, he felt himself going up; suddenly the rear extension flew forward, "hit me on the head, your ole injun feathers pushed down over my eyes, and i had to head her for earth. why i'd been a fool to gone on up in the air blinded. when a man's flying he's more anxious to see than when he's walking." alfred meekly suggested that the fellow with the circus walked the tight-rope blindfolded. node admitted this fact; "but he had a foothold. if i'd had a foothold all hell wouldn't held me, i'd been flyin' yet." often did they settle on a date for the next flight only to have something unforeseen interfere. node desired a cloudy day with moderate wind. furthermore, the next flight the course was to be laid out. node declared with decision: "i want to have the starting and the stopping points definitely in mind, i want to know just what i am doing. i know this machine will do the work; i've got more strength in my arms than i ever had afore," and here node would bare his spare arms and fling them about for exercise. "yes, sir, if my arms hold out i can fly anywhere. i'll start from town hill, light on krepp's knob an' pick about a bit, rest my wings and fly back agin." then node would look down on the river which flowed between--he couldn't swim--and with less enthusiasm add: "but i won't do that yet; i'll wait till i get more used to the machine and the air currents. a man to fly right must understand the air currents jes as a sailor understands the course of the winds. there are currents and cross currents; sometimes they git all tangled up, then i'll just quit flappin' my wings, sink below the disturbance, and fly about below until i git out of them. the main thing is to get the rise." "well, i'll give you a lift," suggested alfred. "i want no more of your lifts," quickly answered node. finally it was decided that the next flight be made from the roof of the old barn in which the flying machine was housed. in answer to lin's query as to what he was doing on the roof of the barn so early in the morning, alfred carelessly answered: "oh, i'm making a pigeon box." lin said it looked as if they were going to build a mighty big pigeon house. alfred declared it would be the proper thing to do to invite a half dozen or more friends to witness the ascension. node dissented: "wait until we get the rear extension to working as perfectly as the side propellers and we'll give an exhibition. if you invite anybody in this town to see me fly and anything goes the least bit wrong, they'll walk off and sneer and say: 'he'll never fly.' that's the way they did when i was working on the perpetual motion machine. i had it just about goin', and i invited two or three who i thought were my friends. they looked at it, praised me to my face and said: 'node, by golly, you got it,' then they went right down street and told everybody that i was a dam fool and that's what disheartened me and i quit working on it. if i hadn't invited anybody to look at my work i'd had perpetual motion down to a nicety today. why, i invented a magnet with which you could find gold or silver, no matter if it was buried ten feet deep." (it was the belief of many that there was gold buried in the hills around the old town; that eccentric, wealthy persons in the early days had buried.) "i had this magnet," continued node, "working to perfection. well, i took four men with me, and we went around the point to where a fortune teller told 'had' there was money buried. we worked along the hill up to where the fortune teller had said the money was. the magnet swung right, then left; suddenly it stopped, then whirled around and around. we all turned pale. there was a smell in the air like the damp in a coal bank. one of the men marked the place and said: 'node, it's too late to begin digging today; we'll dig tomorrow.' i waited all day, but none of the men came. 'had' was all excited about it because the fortune teller had described the spot to her; she could tell it with her eyes shut. well, we walked straight to the place, and what do you suppose?" node waited for alfred's reply. "well, i expect you found you was fooled," drawled alfred. "yes, that's what we did," asserted node, "that's jest what we did find, we was fooled, robbed, tricked. there was a hole in the ground four or five feet deep. at the bottom, just the size of a dinner plate and round as a crock, you could tell there had been a crock full of money taken out of the hole. not one of them fellers thet was with me has ever worked a day since." (node had forgotten that they had never worked a day previously.) node put his hand on the flying machine as he declared: "no, sir, no one shall know a thing about this invention until your uncle noah has it so he can do anything a bird can." the allusion to the hidden wealth impressed alfred greatly. he became certain node would make the flying machine a success. therefore, he built the platform on the barn longer that node might get a better start. alfred was strong in the belief that he could greatly aid node with the clothes prop as before. but at the mere suggestion node became angry. he threatened to abandon the flight if he caught sight of a clothes prop in alfred's hands. node knew full well once he was strapped in the machine alfred could do anything he chose. he therefore determined that no poles or props should be taken to the roof of the old barn. alfred had the clothes prop hidden in the barn below. node happened to discover it, and forthwith ordered alfred to carry it back to alex smith's yard. he never took his eyes off the boy until the prop was leaned against the fence in the yard of the owner. node swore he would inform alex smith the next time he went by jacob's store that alfred was stealing his clothes props, "and you know what that red-headed son-of-a-gun will do to you," threatened node, as he shook his finger at alfred. the morning was propitious; node said so at least. there were to be no witnesses, but cousins charley and george were hidden in john fear's coal house, baggy allison was in alfred's barn, jim hart and mary were at the upstairs windows in alex smith's house--all by invitation of alfred. node was very nervous. alfred could do nothing to please him. in preparing for the first flight he had alfred strap his arms in the wings first. he insisted all fastenings should be made ere his arms were strapped. alfred had occasion to go below. node watched him closely as he made his reappearance through the hole in the roof, evidently fearing he had brought a pole with him. finally, the side propellers were adjusted. node flapped them a few times, stood on tip-toes, very much like a cock crowing, as alfred encouragingly assured him that he saw him rising. "if you had only given two or three more flaps with your wings you'd been up in the air sure." then in a coaxing manner alfred continued: "now node, if i was you i would not go too far for the first flight; just flit about, then settle and rest. go at it moderate like." node seemed to gain confidence. he walked back and forth, or rather he walked forth and then back, as he could not turn about owing to the rear extension. node declared it wouldn't bother him in the air. node walked to the edge of the barn some three or four times, bending his bird-like head to look down as if measuring the distance. as he backed up after looking down the last time, alfred sort of taunted him by saying: "if you can't keep yourself from falling hard enough to hurt you, your flying apparatus ain't much account. s'pose you don't fly very high the first time, s'pose you don't fly far, with them wings and that tail you ought to settle so lightly you wouldn't break an egg shell." this seemed to strengthen the bird-man; he drew in a few deep breaths, gazing heavenward, then across the river at krepp's knob, then below him at the river. alfred was all a-tremble. he remembered that node said: "you must mark your course, your starting point, your landing place." alfred wondered in his mind whether node would cross to krepp's or only cross dunlap's creek over duck leonard's mill. node flapped his wings again. this time, with each flap of the wings, alfred gave the rear extension a gentle lift. node would rise four or five inches with each lift. he did nor realize that alfred was lending help to his efforts. after a more forcible lift of the tail than any alfred had yet given it, node, turning his head, with a triumphant look, shouted: "when i say 'three,' i'm going, but don't you do anything, jest let me handle her. let go the rear extension." [illustration: node's flight] pointing the wings heavenward, gazing up as if in prayer, raising himself on his tip-toes, straining every nerve, in a voice tremulous with excitement, he began: "one," stretching higher, he shouted: "two," rising on his tip-toes, he reached the edge of the barn, as he fairly yelled: "three." the wings came down beautifully, but they did not rise again. as node stepped off the edge of the barn he descended instead of ascending, the rear extension got sort of tangled on the comb of the roof, node and the machine dangled in the air momentarily. as alfred dropped through the opening in the roof, he heard node claw a time or two at the weather-boarding; something seemed to let go, to rip, then, there was a dull sound as of a bag of sand falling from a height to the earth. there was the sound of footsteps coming from several directions. alfred heard all this while he was moving faster than he had ever moved before. node did not beat him to the earth by a great margin. as alfred flew out of the door of the barn, he saw jack rathmell doubled over the fence laughing as only jack could laugh. ere node was disentangled from the wrecked airship, ere they escorted him to "had"--he declined to be carried--alfred was safely hidden away in alex smith's hay mow. buried under the hay he kept peering through a convenient crack which gave him a view of the territory between his home and node's residence. somehow he figured the whole thing would be blamed on him. first, lin was seen with her apron around her head going toward node's house. it was not long until she returned, walking hurriedly. she reappeared in a moment, bearing in her hands something that appeared to be bandages. then alfred's father came. in a moment or two he was seen going toward beckley's house. then, a little later, the father and two or three others, including cousin charley, reappeared, walking toward the old barn. cousin charley was evidently describing the attempted flight as he pointed to the roof of the barn. all looked up, then as charley marked a spot on the manure pile with his foot, all looked down. the father gathered up a part of the flying machine and carried it home. standing at the gate he gave a shrill whistle, one that he had used to attract alfred since he was a little boy. alfred made no response. alfred did not know how badly node was injured. he felt very sorry for him, he really liked the man. as miserable as he felt, as sorry as he was, the funny side of the affair crept into his mind and, as usual, he relieved himself with a good hearty laugh. alfred's laugh was cut short by a voice calling from below: "who's that? hey? who's that?" alfred recognized alex smith's voice. he remained motionless for a moment. the voice, part of the way up the ladder leading to the hay mow, called again, this time commandingly: "who's up in the hay mow? come down! come down! or i'll bring you down." alfred remained motionless. "you won't come down, won't you? well, you will when i come back." and the voice told alfred it's owner was leaving the place. alfred, climbing down the ladder, left the stable just as the gate slammed announcing mr. smith's coming. he stood motionless as mr. smith approached. when the elder man recognized the boy he was somewhat surprised. "was that you in the haymow?" "yes, sir," answered alfred. "why didn't you answer when i called to you?" alfred related the whole story. alex smith accompanied alfred home. the story of node beckley's flying machine was gone over. the father was mollified. lin commented thusly: "one story is good till another's told. i jes kum from beckley's; node's not hurt much, jes jarred. he sed he went on the barn to test his apperatus; he wern't ready to fly. an' i don't reckun he wus an' what's more, he never will be. he wus jes straitnin' out the perpellers. he ses: 'alfurd's been so alfired crazy to hev me fly he jes couldn't wait till i got my apperatus finished. while i wus standin' near the aidge uf the roof, my perpellers hangin' down, alfurd snook up ahind me an' gin me a push, and afore i could raise my perpellers i wus on the groun'. if i hed knowed hit i could've saved myself an' flew off an' lit in the field.'" alfred asked lin who made this statement. she replied mrs. beckley had told it to her. "if node told that story i am going over to contradict it, if his back's broken." "nevur mind, nevur mind," consoled lin, "i jes tole 'had' thet node wus a bird, an' like all birds, he knowed which way to fly, kase i heard he headed straight fur the manure pile." chapter seventeen laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone; for this brave old earth must borrow its mirth, it has trouble enough of its own. the world does not require the same attainments from all; it is well it is so ordered. some persons are well taught, some are ill taught, some are not taught at all. some have naturally good dispositions and absorb learning readily. some are deficient in mechanical ingenuity and yet can analyze difficult mental problems. it is no crime to fail in any pursuit or vocation, if failure is not due to idleness or deliberate preference of evil to good. there comes a time in the life of every reasoning person that they must take themselves for better or for worse, that they must take themselves more seriously. captain abrams had unintentionally contributed to alfred's discontent. he had remarked that to putty up holes, paint a board or smear a hurricane deck was not much of a trade or calling, but to be an artist like alfred's father was a profession that would bring success. alfred could not drive a nail straight; he could not saw a board straight; he was such an awkward writer, the school teacher made fun of his copy book. she advised alfred that she did this hoping that by publicly reprimanding him he would learn to write a more legible hand. "you excel in spelling, reading, geography and other studies; you should be ashamed of your writing." the grandfather, the father, the teacher, all liked alfred. none intended to injure his feelings, yet the taunts, the censure, just and unjust, sunk into alfred's soul, and, he advised captain abrams it was only the duty he owed his father that kept him there a day. alfred was low in mind. he sought his father and endeavored to reason with him, but was dismissed with the argument: "you don't want to learn anything useful; if it was something connected with a show, you'd master it mighty quick." "but father, i have no skill or sleight to work with tools." the father interrupted with a peremptory: "do as i did--learn." "i can't learn," pleaded the boy, "try as i may, i'm not cut out for a mechanic. if i could work like you it would be a pleasure to me to keep at it. i'm out of all heart with my work." the father evidently felt for the boy as he spoke in a more kindly tone: "you are not lazy; the things that you can do, you do well. now you painted around that hull quicker than any man at work on the boat. be a little more patient, take more pains and you'll make a good workman. i will pay you wages, try to make something useful out of yourself. you'll never amount to a hill of beans if you follow up your show notions," pleaded the father. "pap, i'm satisfied with what you give, it ain't that. i don't like the work. of course, i painted the hull of the boat quickly but that's all i can do and captain abrams says there's nothing in puttying up nail holes and painting hulls; anybody can learn that in six months." the father became cross again, and, in a threatening tone, said: "i am your father and it is my duty to do my best for you; i firmly believe i am fulfilling my duty as a parent in ordering you to give up all other notions as to the future and get down to business and learn this trade. now make up your mind; go at your work with the feeling that you are determined to succeed. if you go at your work in a half-hearted way you are certain to fail." "well, that's the way i feel about this work; i can't learn it, i don't want to. there's a dozen other things i'd rather do and i can make more money out of them." this stubborn talk exasperated the father, and pointing his finger at the boy to emphasize his words, he said: "first, it was circus, then it was minstrels. you tried the newspaper business, you were not satisfied." "why, you made me quit newspaper work," interrupted alfred. "don't interrupt me again," cautioned the father, "then it was that infernal panorama. that panorama was the worst of all, it gave you the habit of roving; you've never been satisfied a day since you went off with that panorama." "but father, you and all your family were willing i should go. you wanted me to go; i didn't want to go, i only wanted to get back the money palmer cheated you out of." the father thundered: "don't you try to saddle your roving onto me. you're not satisfied in any place and never will be. don't you ever tell me to my face again that i even hinted that you go with the panorama and i don't want you to ever mention that anybody cheated me. i'd like to see the man who can cheat me. now you go to your work, you're not your own man yet. i am going to send you to the merrittstown academy this winter and i want you to settle down. you've had it too easy. when i was a boy i had to get up at o'clock in the morning, make all the fires, milk four cows and feed a pen full of hogs and i had to be done by daylight. you've had it too easy, your mother is the one that's spoiled you. from this day on it's hands off with her; i'll be your boss. now, don't let me hear more of this roving talk." "why, pap, i haven't said one word about roving. can't i do other work right here at home if i quit this, i don't have to rove, do i?" "no, but that's the upshot of all this talk," persisted the father. "now get down to your work; learn it." "i can't," doggedly answered the boy. "didn't you tell me yesterday my fingers were all thumbs? didn't you tell me in front of all the hands that you were ashamed of me and that you didn't think it possible that a child of yours could be so ignorant and awkward." the father stammered and colored. he was a most affectionate parent, he was truly sorry that he had humbled the pride of the boy. "why, my son, the men all know i was only teasing you; they all know you are most intelligent. you can learn anything you set your hand to. why, when you went to dr. playford to learn to be a doctor he informed me as did bob, that they never knew anyone to learn latin as quickly as you. you could tell us all the names for medicines. why, uncle jake, steve gadd and joe gibbons told me the time they took you to washington county to the turkey shoot, that they'd all been down sick if it hadn't been for you. they say it rained a cold rain and you all got wet. uncle jake is subject to the quinsy and he was on the verge of it. they tried the drug store and everywhere and they couldn't get nothing. steve said you went to the drug store and got all they wanted, only you didn't ask for whiskey; you called it fermenting spirits. steve said the druggist told him confidentially you ought to be a druggist, you told him things he didn't know before. now, go at your work as you did at doctoring and you'll learn. it has been the regret of your mother's life that you did not learn to be a doctor. i've sometimes thought old hare just pretended your medicine made him sick to get out of paying the bill. i don't think dr. playford cared one thing about it so far as you was concerned but the other doctors talked so about it he just had to let you go. i've always felt sorry about it because, if any of our family is taken down with a fever, playford is the only fever doctor in town." arguments of this character occurred almost daily. alfred grew more and more dissatisfied, the father more insistent. alfred kept up his minstrel work, appearing ever and anon in amateur exhibitions. folks kept pouring it into his ears: "well, if i had your talent this town wouldn't hold me fifteen minutes; i'd take the boat for pittsburg tonight. what does your father mean by holding you down in this way? does your mother favor it? why, your folks are standing in their own light. if i had a boy like you i'd hire him out and travel with him," was shuban lee's comment. all this was not calculated to cool the ardor of an ambitious amateur. alfred read the _new york clipper_ weekly. he wrote many letters to many minstrel managers to which he did not receive replies. charles duprez, of duprez and benedict, answered one of alfred's letters thusly: dear sir: in answer to your letter--do you double in brass? charles duprez. alfred read and re-read the letter and finally answered: mr. charles duprez: respected sir: i do not double in brass or anything else. i'm a minstrel, not a contortionist. alfred griffith hatfield. no reply ever came. alfred concluded the minstrel field was overcrowded or managers would not have permitted him to remain idle, especially in view of the fact that he had offered to give their full performance, for as low as twenty dollars a month, washing and mending. to one manager he added a confidential p. s.: "if you are not doing very well i can put you on to a good thing, a panorama. i'm a panoramist." alfred turned his attention to acrobatics. every spare hour was spent on the tan bark pile with lint dutton, james todd livingston, tom white and lash hyatt. lint dutton was determined to learn bare-back riding. sneaking his father's horse from the barn, he would endeavor to stand alone on the back of the animal, alfred playing clown and bindley livingston ringmaster. mr. dutton, after lint had fallen and nearly broken his back, locked up the horse. lint determined to give up bare-back riding and practice the indian style of horsemanship. many are the persons who had narrow escapes from being run over by lint as his horse galloped up and down the back streets of the town, wearing the old feather head-dress that node wore in his attempts to fly. alfred and bindley livingston constructed a trapeze. completed, it was suspended to the roof of the cow stable; the boys spent many hours practicing. the climax of the act, livingston, the stronger of the two, hung by his knees on the little horizontal bar above, holding alfred by the ankles both hanging head downwards, swinging to and fro, as does the pendulum of a clock; the limitations of the stable would not permit the swinging part of the performance. a large locust tree in bowman's pasture lot, near alfred's home, was selected as the best possible place to try out the double trapeze act. from a limb of the tree, hen ragor, the assistant in the performance, suspended the trapeze. the news spread that there would be some wonderful acting in the old pasture lot, saturday afternoon, always a holiday to every boy and girl in old brownsville to go fishing, swimming, nutting or berrying. on this particular saturday all the boys and girls hied themselves to the old pasture lot; nor was the gathering confined to the younger set; a few of the adults were attracted. they stood at a distance, viewing the doings; however, not one of them but had a vantage position. as the exercises went along, danny gummert, george pee, denbow simpson and alf mccormick, drew nearer. caroline baldwin, seated on the fence, yelled: "come in and look out, you can see better." this brought a laugh and a few of the elders outside of the pasture sauntered a little ways off only to come nearer as the applause and laughter grew louder. alfred had covered himself with all sorts of glory in the numerous numbers in which he had participated. caroline baldwin, who, with her brothers clarke and charley, occupied two entire private boxes, (two panels of fence), proclaimed during an intermission that alfred was the greatest actor in the country; "it was just shameful he was held down when people all over the country were pantin' to see him do his showin'." lin declared: "nobody in eny show thet's ben yere in years kin hol' a candul tu him; they can't tech him. he kin walk ontu his hans better en some peepul kin on thar feet." here lin cast a withering glance at jack beckley that would have sobered one less saturated. jack returned lin's look with a vague grin, saying: "i'm drunk and glad of it." lin gave him a smart push as she ordered him to keep his distance: "i smell licker on yer close." "excuse me--i didn't--no--i hed--spilled eny--of hit." jack seated himself on the grass, unheeding the jibes of the little boys and girls. he was a good natured tippler. in fact, he seemed pleased that his condition was furnishing fun for the crowd. no blare of trumpet or beat of drum announced the coming of the death-defying gladiators; no eloquent orator was there to describe their deeds. unheralded, unannounced, without applause or acclamation alfred and bindley emerged from their dressing room, baldwin's barn. crossing the narrow alley, climbing the fence they stood under the shade of the trapeze tree, the open-mouthed, craned neck cynosure of all eyes, excepting jack beckley's--he had gone to sleep. the silence that greeted the duo was broken only by sotto voce remarks of lin, taking a mental inventory of alfred, or rather, his costume. he was attired in a red waist trimmed with beads, white tights, long, bright green, silk stockings tied with broad yellow ribbon garters, a big, double bow knot on the outside of each limb; a bright red nubia or neck comforter wound about his middle; no pumps, shoes or other covering on his feet. [illustration: the aerialist's debut] the silence that greeted the appearance of alfred was broken. jack beckley lying on the ground too listless and drunk to raise his eyes higher than alfred's green stockings, noticed the great expanse of feet in them, seemingly larger by the spread of the loose stockings. he remarked to those near him: "thar's a heap uf thet one doubled down on the groun'." lin spoke as if to herself: "well, i'll be tee-to-tully durned. ef thet harum scarum devul hain't got my nit drawurs on fur tites, an' they fit him like sassage guts that's too big fur the fillin'. an', an'," lin craned her neck towards alfred, "an', an', by jiggurs, ef he ain't a wearin' mary's (the mother's) green silk stockin's she used tu dance an' frolik in when she was a gal; an' aunt lib's worked, beaded jenny lind waist; an' lizzie's new red nubby woun' roun' his shad belly. ef he ain't stole the yaller ribbon offen sal whitmire's weddin' bonnit, i'm blind. well, jus' wate, jus wate. ef thar ain't a nuther circus to home tonite it'll be bekase his daddy ain't well." alfred and bindley bowed low, right and left, kissing their hands to the audience, then saluting the trapeze in turn. (this pantomime introduction they had copied from mathews and hunting, noted trapezists in those days.) however, the same salutes have been employed by all aerialists these many years, therefore alfred and bindley should not be charged with stealing the business of others. preparatory to ascending to the trapeze alfred unwound the nubia from his waist, casting it on the ground. lin grabbed it up with a look that seemed to say: "thank gawd, i'll get that anyhow." trapeze performers usually ascend to their rigging on a net webbing, hand over hand sailor fashion. alfred and bindley, after their bows and salutes, climbed up the trunk of the tree to the limb on which their trapeze was suspended. coon like, they crawled out on the limb and lowered themselves to the trapeze. they kissed their hands to the uplifted faces below. at an agreed signal they bent backward, beginning with the feats performed by all trapezists. after every trick the aerialists would come up smiling, seated on the lower bar, side by side. turning themselves upside down--which is the clearest explanation that can be written--they hooked their feet over the short bar in the small swing above and hung motionless head downward with folded arms. as they thus clung one of the yellow ribbons or garters on alfred's limb became loosened. the long ribbon fluttered in the air, furling and unfurling it gracefully descended. lin reached up her hands to catch it, muttering through her set teeth: "i wonder ef he'll shed the rest uf his borryed plumes. i wish he wud. stretchin' an' crawlin' about he'll bust 'em sure." and lin looked at alfred's limbs with an anxious expression: "ef he does you kan't sew 'em an' i ain't got no yarn thet'll match tu darn 'em." the last feat was the hanging head downward by bindley, clasping alfred by the ankles. hen ragor, with the aid of a rope cast over the lower bar, pulled the performers, backwards and forwards. when the proper momentum was gained alfred released his hand hold on the bar. henry was to hold the bar away from the swing of the human pendulum until alfred clapped his hands. he was then supposed to slacken the rope in his hands permitting the bar to swing within the grasp of alfred. this was the rehearsed procedure to carry the thrilling feat to the proper climax. henry swung the trapeze too forcibly, one end of the rope slipped out of his hands and pulled loose from the trapeze bar. the lower bar fouled in the branches of the tree. alfred was clapping his hands violently for the trapeze. henry was endeavoring to cast the rope over the bar, his efforts resulting in failure after failure. finally in his excitement he endeavored to cast the rope up to alfred. the pendulum had nearly stopped swinging, and alfred was waving his arms, clapping his hands and begging piteously for the big trapeze swing. bindley above was holding on to the boy below. he implored alfred to climb up to him. effort after effort was made by alfred to do so, but he hung limp and helpless. he could not command sufficient strength to pull his body up. he clutched at lin's unmentionables as he hung head downward. the earth seemed a long way from him and things on it upside down. the boys below were yelling in their excitement, the girls had covered their faces, the grown folks, who had stood afar, rushed to the scene. never will alfred forget the few moments he was suspended thus, nor will he fail to remember to his dying day the first message he received from the man above. there was a splash, an incipient shower of warmish liquid falling on alfred's upturned chin. alfred wiped it off with his hand; fearing it was blood he scanned it closely. he was greatly relieved when he discovered that it was tobacco juice. (bindley always chewed when acting). following the juice came this message: "i can't hold you all day, come up here or i'll come down there." alfred made frantic grabs, clutches and wiggles to climb up, only to fall back, more helpless. hen was making an effort to throw the rope to alfred. lin grabbed him. snatching the rope from him, she shouted: "clim' the tree, clim' the tree, loose the swing, ye dam fool." hen had started up the tree. a flood of hot juice rained down on alfred's upturned chin, flowing into his mouth. bindley, with clinched teeth, muttered: "if you get killed it's your own fault, i can't hold you any longer." alfred could see old mrs. wagner at an upstairs window waving a book at kenney shoup urging to the rescue. he could hear voices as if in the distance. he felt a lowering of his body. he felt himself rushing through space. he made an effort to look up, and then all was blank. he had a numb feeling in his whole body. "stan' back, stan' back, gin him air, wash thet tobakker juice off his face, hit luks like blud," were the first words he caught. his eyes were wide open. "pour water on his head; lor' don't pour hit down his bosum, you'll ruin lib's worked waist. open the gate an' we'll carry him hum an' fetch a doctur, ef thar's no bones broke he may be hurt innerdly." alfred raised himself up. he looked up into the faces about him. "where's bindley?" were the first words he uttered. "oh, i'm all right," alfred assured him, "we'll do it all right tomorrow, won't we bindley?" bindley nodded his head, doubtfully. alfred attempted to walk but would have fallen had not helping hands been stretched out, easing him down until he rested on all fours. he commanded all to release him: "let me alone, i'm all right. come on home with me, bindley." painfully, slowly he started, crawling toward the opened gate, over the spot where he had collected the ammunition that disbanded the torch-light parade; nor did he turn aside for anything. not unlike a four-footed animal he made his way to the middle of the street. he attempted to arise. again weakness, or pain, bore him down. hands that were willing to assist him before he crawled through the cow pasture, were now held aloof. lin, as she saw him fall in the dust, said: "well, ef he ain't a sight on airth. kum on james todd, help him hum; an' you boys strip him while i heat a kittle uf water, till we git him so the doctur kin handle him." alfred staggered to his feet again, bindley and charley brashear supporting him on either side. thus, the limping procession slowly moved homeward, the young ones and a few grown-up ones bringing up the rear. these latter were re-telling the story of the accident for the twentieth time, usually concluding with: "bindley is a fool; he had further to fall than alfred; he didn't have to fall, he could have just flopped alfred over and turned him so he would have lit on his feet and let him go. no, dam if he didn't hold on 'til he petered out and down they both come like two bags of salt. alfred hit full length, it's a wonder it hadn't busted him. bindley lit sort of half standing, but he got right up and limped a little and it was all over with him, but tother one was knocked colder than a wedge." alfred had been feverish, hot. the great amount of water poured over him to revive him had run down his body, and the many pads in the maiden aunt's garment absorbed the water. alfred complained of feeling cold. someone whispered behind him: "that's a bad sign. when that jones boy got throwed off a horse, nobody thought he wus hurt much but he turned cold just afore he died." aaron todd stood at his gate with a cynical smile spreading over the small expanse of face not hidden by whiskers. he viewed the plight of the boy with evident pleasure. as alfred, with the assistance of his companions, entered the gate leading to his home, todd elevated his nose, and turning about as though to enter his house, sneeringly muttered: "dad-burn him; he got a dose of his own medicine. ho, ho, ho; chickens comes home to roost, don't they?" lin led the way, as she commanded. "kum on in through the kitchen, it won't du fur ye tu track over the front room carpet." with bowed head, leaning on his companions, alfred limped to the kitchen door. bindley and charley disrobed him. placing a big, tin vessel in the middle of the kitchen floor, they soused alfred into it. there was not a bath room, private or public, in brownsville in those days. wash tubs were used in winter, the creek and river in summer. once there came an oldish, high-toned lady from richmond. she lodged with isaac vance at the marshall house. he bought a new carpet and other fine furnishings for her room. it was an unusually warm summer. one day vance noticed the colored porter carrying a tub to the lady's room: "yer, yer, where yer goin' with thet tub?" demanded the proprietor of the hotel. "i'se jes carryin' it up tu mrs. so and so's room," answered the colored man. "what's she goin' to do with thet tub this hot weather" inquired the landlord. "i reckon she's gwine to wash herself; she sed she's gwine to take a bath, i ges dat's washin' herself." "huh!" snorted vance, "not in this house in this weather. ef it wus winter i wouldn't mind it, but i won't have her floppin' aroun' up thar like a dam ole goose, splashin' water all over thet new carpet. take thet tub back to the cellar, an' you go up an' tell her ef she needs a wash to go to the crik like i do." alfred was put to bed. the doctor, after careful examination, declared no bones were broken, there were bad bruises and might be internal injuries. however, it would require several days to fully determine, meanwhile the patient must be kept very quiet. lin advised the doctor: "he lit mos' settin'; ef he'd hed a littul further tu fall he'd lit flat on his settin' down attitudes." a bottle of liniment was ordered, and alfred rubbed often with the preparation. john barnhardt and cousin charley volunteered to sit up with alfred the first night. alfred regained his good humor, laughed and jested over the termination of the trapeze act until all agreed he was in no danger whatever. "why, he's jes carryin' on same es he allus does; hit nevur fazed him," lin assured the mother. however, when the doctor called the following morning and lin confidentially advised him that the boy was all right and he needn't lay abed another minute, the doctor dissented, insisting that the patient remain quiet, at least another twenty-four hours. jim mann agreed to sit up the next night. the father requested jim to get someone to sit up with him for company. it was getting late, lin was dozing, alfred urging her to go to bed. there was a knock on the door; both felt sure it was jim. lin opened the door; there stood jack beckley and in about the same condition as the day before. lin hesitated to admit him. jack explained that jim had invited him to sit up with alfred. he said: "jim and dave adams had a quarrel and jim threw a pot of white paint on adams, covering him from head to foot. jim don't know whether he will be arrested or not; he does not want to be arrested and locked up at night when he can't give bail, so he sent me to look after alfred." lin, when jack's attention was elsewhere, whispered to alfred: "don't close a eye tunite, sleep tumorrer; ye can't tell what a whusky drinkin' man'll du, thar's no dependence in 'em." jack was a most attentive nurse, in the early hours of the night at least. he hovered over the bed at the slightest move of the patient. he insisted on using the liniment almost constantly, declaring he would rub all the soreness out of alfred's bruises before morning. alfred, half asleep, remembered jack saying something about looking for more liniment. jack left the house ere any of the family arose. alfred was loud in his praise of jack's kindness and declared him the best hand in the sick room he had ever seen. the mother was sorry he went off without breakfast. the father said he would hand him a piece of money when he met him. alfred insisted that he had entirely recovered; jack had rubbed all the soreness out of his hurts and he would not lie longer in bed. the father and mother commanded he lie until the doctor assured them danger had passed. the doctor called, and alfred assured him he was all well and wanted to get up and go to work that very day. the doctor said: "well, you ought to know how you feel. have you any soreness in your joints or muscles?" "no, sir; jack beckley rubbed all the soreness out of me last night." "turn over, let me see if there is any evidence of bruises." the doctor seemed deeply interested. alfred could not see his face but he seemed to be critically examining him. he would tap various places on the bruised part of alfred's anatomy. "does that hurt? does that pain you?" would be the question after each tap, to which alfred would invariably answer: "no, sir; no, sir." after studying a few moments the doctor passed into another part of the house; he was evidently conferring with the mother. returning he again took alfred's temperature, examining the tongue even more carefully than previously. the doctor remarked, as if to himself: "it's curious. did you sleep; have you no pain?" again he turned alfred over and gazed long at the parts of the body supposed to be bruised. alfred began to get interested: "what's the matter, doc; have you found any bones broken?" "no, no, nothing of that kind. but the bruises; have you no soreness." alfred assured him that he had not. "i will be back in an hour," was the conclusion of the doctor's instructions to lin. when lin entered the room alfred's first anxious query was: "what's the matter with the doctor, he wants to make you sick whether you are or not. i'm going to get out of this bed this day; i'll not lay here any longer." here the mother entered cautioning alfred to remain entirely quiet. "i'm going over to see grandmother; she is not well. i will bring your father home with me; the doctor will return by that time and we will know what to do for you." later mrs. wagner came, a good-natured, motherly, old german woman, a near neighbor. among her neighbors, she was esteemed as one whose knowledge was invaluable in the sick room. she insisted upon examining alfred's condition. although he insisted he was all right the old lady was permitted to examine his bruises. she left the room, returning soon with a large, hot poultice, applying it. alfred grew rapidly worse. the doctor soon returned. at every pressure of his fingers he found a new sore spot. "does that hurt?" "yes, sir," would be the answer from alfred. warm teas were administered, cold towels were placed on his head, and hot poultices on other parts of his anatomy. alfred feebly acknowledged he was feeling very badly. the father and mother came and with them the grandmother. when alone, the father advised alfred that his body was a solid mass of bruises, that the flesh had turned black and blue. alfred heard lin whisper something about "mortification hed set in an' the doctor feared blood pizen." the family were at dinner--alfred had been placed upon a diet of squab broth, none of the flesh, just the broth--alfred quietly arose and, with the aid of the big looking glass, (mirrors had not been discovered as yet, in brownsville), and a contortion feat such as he had never attempted previously, he scanned the bruised parts. lin's worst fears seemed confirmed; all his person reflected in the looking glass was black as ink, as he expressed it. good mrs. wagner, with the doctor's permission, continued applying the hot poultices. alfred's misery increased near night when the nurses advised him to calm himself as the bruised blood was rapidly disappearing. alfred urged the good woman on by declaring the poultices were getting cold, although they had been applied but a moment or so. uncle ned came to sit up. he greatly increased alfred's nervousness by his attempts at consolation. he showed alfred the error of his ways, assuring him he might have been killed outright and that his foolish ambitions to become an actor would probably lay him up for weeks, that it would cost his father a lot of money and possibly leave alfred with his health impaired for a year to come. alfred, to get relief, implored the uncle to bring in more poultices. he kept the good uncle so busy his lecture was greatly interrupted. in answer to the doctor's first question: "how do you feel this morning?" alfred replied: "very weak; i had no sleep last night." the doctor examined the patient carefully. "does that hurt?" "no, sir," answered the sufferer. "well, you're coming around all right; the blood is circulating and the bruises are much better, your flesh is assuming its natural color." "doctor, i think that liniment had something to do with my trouble, don't you? it nearly burned me up and the turpentine in it smelled so i could hardly stand it. i told jack when he was rubbing me it felt like he was raising blisters." the doctor interrupted the patient by hastily correcting him as to there being any turpentine in the liniment. "i know there was, i've worked with turpentine too long not to know the smell of it," persisted alfred. lin also declared the whole house smelled so of turpentine she was compelled to change the bed clothes. "ye kan't tell what a man thet drinks licker like water mought take intu his hed to rub ontu a body. i wanted tu hist him when he fust kum, but no, jim mann sent him an' he mus' stay." "where's that bottle of liniment i sent here," demanded the doctor. lin opened the closet door and handed out two bottles. one of them contained a few drops of an amber colored fluid. "this is the lotion i prescribed," said the doctor, and he poured a few drops of the liquid in the hollow of his hand. rubbing his hands briskly he held both palms over his nostrils. sniffing it he drew his hands back, his eyes watering. "there's no turpentine in that mixture." he held his hands over lin's nostrils and triumphantly asked if she could detect the odor of turpentine. lin admitted that it had no scent of turpentine. the doctor held his hands over alfred's face: "where's your turpentine? you're a good judge of turpentine and you work in it every day and cannot detect the odor of it from alcohol, wintergreen and chloroform." the doctor laughed as he seldom laughed. calling the mother the doctor laughingly poked a great deal of fun at lin: "i wouldn't want alfred or lin to buy turpentine for me." he kept the fun going by reminding alfred that jeffries (the father's competitor) was probably correct when he spread the report that the father used benzine in his paint instead of turpentine. this was a center shot at alfred. the report had been circulated that his father used benzine to mix his paint with. during the war the price of turpentine was almost prohibitive and benzine was used by many painters. it was not a good substitute and it was a common thing for one contractor to injure another by circulating the report that his competitor used benzine. raising himself up in bed alfred stoutly reiterated that it was turpentine he smelled in the liniment. lin said: "durned ef ye kin fool me in the smell uf enything; my snoot nevur lies. i not only smelt hit but ye kud taste hit." the mother added her observations to alfred's and lin's insisting the room smelled as strongly of turpentine as though it had just been painted. "i was compelled to open the windows," she said. the doctor could not combat the new evidence, it was too direct. "well, if there was turpentine rubbed on this boy, jack beckley brought it here. have you any turpentine in the house he could have gotten at?" the mother and lin both declared there was not a drop of turpentine in the house. the doctor left with orders to continue the poultices. bindley called with his coat pockets full of green apples. emptying the unmatured fruit on the bed, he cautioned alfred to eat salt on them and they wouldn't hurt him. bindley was insulted when the green apples were thrown out by lin, with the remark: "huh! he's got enough pizen in his sistum without loadin' him up with worms." the turpentine story was detailed to the father with the benzine reflection, and he was hot under the collar. he sent bindley forthwith to locate jack beckley and bring him to the house: "but don't say one word to him about what we want him for." the report had spread that alfred was in a serious condition. many were the callers and many the comments on the accident. mrs. todd said: "well, i can't understand why it was that the livingston boy, who was the higher up and fell the farthest, escaped injury, and alfred was hurt so badly. they say livingston could have saved himself the fall. they say he risked his life to save alfred. i can't just understand how alfred got hurt so badly; it seems like a visitation of providence; you know alfred has been so forward in his devilment with other folks." lin flared up as she answered: "an' i kan't fur the life uf me figger out how bindley fell so much higher down then alfurd an' didn't break his back. but judgin' by the terbakker juce he spilled on alfurd afore he fell he mus' dropped his quid an' then fell on hit an' thet broke his fall." there is no denying the fact that the accident made bindley the hero and alfred the goat. peter hunt said: "bindley was prompted by that sense of duty one boy feels toward another. he held alfred until he could hold no longer, and when strength gave out, he fell with alfred. it was an act of heroism." peter said there were two bodies falling with equal velocity; if one had fallen on top of the other the concussion would not have been great. johnny tunstall said of alfred: "huh! the munkey devil; ye kudn't kill him with a hax." george fee expressed his sorrow thusly: "it's a great pity they fell; i tole susan so, for when they wus up in them swings they wus nearer heavun un they'll ever git again." aaron todd pushed his whiskers over the garden fence, inquiring of lin as to alfred's condition: "he's purty badly hurt i fear," he began, and, with a tone that betokened anything but sympathy: "hurt internally i reckon. he'll hardly pull through ef he hes blood pizening; i never knowed anybody thet hed hit internally thet evur got up again." "oh, my!" and lin pretended to be greatly surprised, "oh, my, alfurd's all right. why he's up an' about. ef you're goin' out on a torch-lite percession soon ye'll hear from him." todd's face clouded, pulling his whiskers over the fence into his own yard, muttered: "the luck of sum peepul beats hell." the doctor and jack arrived. "what kind of liniment did you apply to alfred's bruises?" sternly demanded the doctor. "i dunno," quietly answered jack, "your liniment i reckon." [illustration: "and thar's the very bottle"] "was there turpentine in the liniment you used?" continued the doctor, not regarding jack's reply. "well i should say; hit nearly burnt my han' off, hit tuk all the skin off twixt the fingers; my han' wus jus' like when i hed the itch. i've been greasin' hit with hog's lard an' elder bark ever since," and jack pulled his hand out of his pocket and held it up to the doctor's view. the doctor bent over the hand; it was discolored with small blackish spots. "where did you get the liniment; did you bring it with you?" more sternly demanded the doctor. "no, sir, i didn't bring hit with me," somewhat impudently answered jack, "i'm no hopathekary; i got the liniment right thar," pointing to the closet door, "an' thar's the very bottle," continued jack as he opened the closet door. taking the large bottle off the shelf with both hands he passed it to the doctor who shook and uncorked it. as he was in the act of smelling it the father entered the room. turning toward him the doctor, with his nose still at the neck of the bottle, inquired: "john, where did you get this stuff, this liniment?" "liniment?" the father repeated, as he reached for the bottle. "liniment? why, doc, that's not liniment. who said it was? why, i've been experimenting with that stuff nearly a year. that's not liniment, thet's walnut stain; i can stain anything to resemble walnut. we--" the remainder of the father's recommendation was lost in the laugh. alfred kicked the bedclothes over the headboard; the women-folks ran, the doctor did not remain to see jack remove the mortification from alfred's body. when jack had scrubbed, rinsed and dried the supposedly affected portion of alfred's anatomy, he assured him the black and blue color had been supplanted by a redness of the skin that was remarkable. "hit's es red es scarlet," was jack's comparison. "well for heavens' sake, jack, keep it quiet or they'll be doctoring me for scarlet fever," cautioned alfred. as the doctor walked up the path toward the front gate lin shouted after him: "doctur, ye kin tell ole jeffres thet john uses turpentine in his liniment ef he don't in his paints." chapter eighteen thank god for the man who is cheerful, in spite of life's troubles, i say; who sings of a brighter tomorrow because of the clouds today. then came a letter--whatever you may be, your parents were probably more so about the same age; but the world is wiser now than then, the boy world at least. the writer had heard of alfred and his wonderful talents; he was organizing a minstrel show and would like to negotiate with him. the new organization would be one of the most complete in the country; it would be an honor to anyone to be connected with it. benedict would head the company. duprez and benedict's was one of the leading minstrel companies of the period. how was alfred to know the benedict who was to head the new show was not lew benedict? alfred engaged with the great benedict minstrels. rehearsals were called for a. m. daily, but were generally called off until p. m., by which time the principals were in such a jolly mood they did not require rehearsals; they felt funny enough to entertain royalty. the manager, or more properly, the angel, for angel he was, seemed more desirous of making a reputation in bar rooms than with his show. alfred learned the minstrels were being organized to invade the oil regions where money grew on derricks. after subduing the oil territory the angel was supposed to become so favorably impressed with the possibilities of the enterprise, augmenting the company, he would treat the larger cities to a sight of the mighty monarch of the minstrel world. doctor mcclintock and wife lived near rouseville, pa. childless, they adopted a boy, john w. steele. prior to the discovery of coal oil, the worn out fields of that locality were valueless. now broad acres were as valuable as the diamond fields of south africa. never in the wildest days of the gold excitement in california was money more rapidly accumulated or squandered than in the oil regions of pennsylvania. johnny steele fell heir to all the lands of dr. mcclintock. wealth rolled in upon him; he entered upon a career of extravagance. he spent thousands of dollars daily, he literally cast money to the winds. his notoriety spread to the furthermost limits of the country; the daily papers, the weeklies, the monthlies printed exaggerated accounts of his profligacy. skiff and gaylord's minstrels crossed the path of "coal oil johnny," as steele had been dubbed. lew gaylord made a great ado over the spendthrift. steele accompanied the minstrels for a few days; their pathway was one wide streak of hilarity. when hotel men complained of the boisterous behavior of steele the coal oil spendthrift bought the hotel for their stay. "coal oil johnny" was the sensation of the day. he bought the minstrel boys hats, coats, shoes, trunks and that most coveted minstrel decoration, a diamond. the minstrels flourished for a few months. the public rebuked the unenviable notoriety of "coal oil johnny." the minstrels steadily declined. "coal oil johnny" went down with them. his money gone, he was made treasurer of the troupe his prodigality had ruined. when the ending came there was none so poor as he. hotels where he had spent thousands, refused him even a night's lodging. he went back to the farm; the acres he had cultivated were covered with oil derricks; the friends he knew had departed; he was almost a stranger save for the notoriety he had acquired. unabashed he seemed to take a pride in the spendthrift race he had run. he drove a baggage wagon; afterwards he became the baggage master at the depot in rouseville. * * * * * there never was a full rehearsal of the minstrels ere they embarked for parker's landing on the good boat "jim rees." there was no railroad to the oil regions from pittsburgh in those days. the allegheny river was navigable to venango, opposite the present oil city. two members of the minstrels, song and dance men, took a dislike to alfred. others soon became intimate with him, they enjoyed his humorous narratives, particularly his experiences with node beckley and the panorama. the two members mentioned exhausted the new boy's patience and he invited both to fistic combat. his challenges were laughed at; the jibes and jokes became more and more insulting. jealousy, that canker that eats and festers at the hearts of actors as it does at those of no other humans, was the motive for their actions. alfred had introduced a bit of acrobatic comedy in the closing farce that was the laughing hit of the minstrels. owing to the lack of acts, the stage manager ordered alfred to put on a single turn. this act preceded the turn of the song and dance men. the singing of alfred took with the oil men greatly. the two who followed were not even fair singers, their efforts fell flat; they had the stage manager change them on the bill. the change put them just before alfred. when advised of the change he reminded the stage manager that he went on only for accommodation in the olio and flatly refused to follow the song and dance men. the angel ordered the two song and dance men on in their usual position, following alfred. alfred rehearsed a dance secretly. he finished his singing turn with this dance, introducing all his known acrobatic stunts. this rough dance simply set the oil men wild and the two worthies fell flatter at every performance. no philanthropist of the "coal oil johnny" sort had discovered the minstrels as yet, but the path of their travels was one of nightly carousals. the two dancers were assisting the manager-angel in scattering the money that came in. the people were hungry for amusements; hence the tour thus far had been one of profit. the manager and his companions never went to bed when there was another place to go. it was one of the pass-times of the two dancers to enter alfred's room noiselessly, pull him violently out of bed and steal out in the darkness. in one of their playful moods they carried alfred's wearing apparel to another part of the hotel. alfred warned the stage manager that he intended to resent this treatment. however, there was no cessation to the indignities the two put upon the young minstrel. but like all so-called ladders, they could not stand the gaff. after a particularly keen onslaught upon alfred with their tongues, in which several of his weaknesses were commented upon, alfred got back at them: "i don't have to cater to the manager to hold my job; i'm drawing my wages on my work, not on my cheek," was alfred's retort. * * * * * at titusville, a banquet was tendered the minstrels by the landlord of the hotel. many speeches were delivered, good, bad and very bad--all predicting the perpetual success of the minstrel enterprise. there was a lull in the gaiety. the toastmaster announced as there was no prepared program all would be expected to say something. he thereupon introduced one of alfred's tormentors. the fellow arose, cleared his throat and made a laborious attempt to speak a few intelligible words, concluding with an indelicate story. the landlord tiptoed across the room closing the door that none might overhear. with a maudlin leer he followed the landlord with his eyes, as he shouted: "thanks, landy, this ain't a ladies' story." as he sat down there was neither laughter nor applause. the toastmaster called upon alfred. he was overcome with bashfulness and did not arise until several urged him to say something. "get up, get up," urged the two men opposite. alfred arose, so confused he could not articulate. a voice shouted: "tell them about the panorama." alfred began palmer's lecture. it had no application to the occasion, but few understood it, there was an oppressive silence. alfred had no idea of when to cease talking, and would probably have given the whole lecture, had not bill young, a musician, one who took a very great interest in him, seized him by the arm, shaking him forcibly: "here, here; you forgot the song, you promised to sing for us." bill continued: "gentlemen: alfred will now give you a correct imitation of an old maid singing 'barbara allen.'" he gave the imitation so cleverly that the guests applauded again and again. as he ended the song, his eyes closed, imitating the old maid, something soft and mushy struck him on the breast of his white shirt. the juice spattered into his face and over those near him. a glance at the mushy mess, alfred's eyes fell on the two men opposite him. one was looking apologetically at the gentleman next alfred who was wiping his face with his napkin; the other laughing tantalizingly. retaliation was speedy. it was not two seconds after the decayed tomato landed on alfred until a large platter of soft salad of some sort, a sugar bowl and several smaller dishes were landing just where aimed. one of alfred's tormentors lay upon the floor, his face and vest literally covered with salad and other cold lunch. the other was making for the door, dodging plates and cups that flew perilously near his head. alfred, being the swifter, soon overtook the fleeing man. there was a short struggle, and alfred's well directed blows took all the fight out of him; he begged for mercy. the landlord led alfred to the parlor, commanding him to keep quiet and not cause further disturbance. alfred remained in the parlor for what seemed to him a long time. finally, the landlord returned to advise the man struck with the salad plate was pretty badly cut and they thought best to get a doctor. he further stated the other one had complained to the police. "the coward," sneered the landlord, "i wish we had let you give it to him; he would have had something to complain of. however, the chief is a good friend of mine and i think i can fix it so you will not be locked up." alfred's first thought was, what will the folks at home say should he be thrown into jail? the chief of police and members of the company and others crowded into the parlor. the chief, one of those officials who felt his importance greatly, assumed to try the case then and there. "have you had any fights before?" "yes, sir, thousands of them," answered alfred. he was under the impression the question covered his entire life. everybody in the room laughed. "no, i had reference to a fight with the parties whom you assaulted here tonight," continued the officer. alfred was just a little ashamed of the admission and entered into an explanation: "i never tried to fight them before, though they have done everything they could to worry me. ever since i joined the show it has been one insult after another. i could scarcely keep my hands off them only i was afeared they would double team on me. i'd had it out long ago but for that," and as alfred talked he warmed up. "hold on," the chief interrupted, "do not incriminate yourself. did either of these men ever offer you violence?" "no, they was afraid to, they're both cowards. i will fight it out with either of them right now." alfred was angry; the old brownsville way of settling such disputes was all he thought of. the chief remarked to those near him: "i feel sorry for this boy, owing to the fact that they have tormented him;" he turned to alfred, "i do not feel sorry for them nor wish to protect them, yet that is no legal excuse for your assault upon them." someone came forward with this proposition, that inasmuch as they all belonged to one family, that they shake hands all around, call everything square and go on about their business. "well, if the party will withdraw the charge of felonious assault it's all right with me. i don't get nothing out of it nohow," was the police officer's reply. "get them together," was the suggestion made by several. alfred interfered by saying: "i'm willing to get together or do anything that's fair but i'm not going to travel with this gang of rowdies another day." the chief nudged him to cease and whispered: "then they'll put you in jail." "well, i'll put them in jail, too," retorted alfred. "what charges will you prefer against them; you stated you had never had trouble with them before?" "but look what they have done to me," persisted alfred. "they have plagued me until i couldn't have a minute's peace of mind, and then they hit me with a rotten tomattus as big as a gourd, why--?" the chief here interrupted alfred to inform him that in law a rotten tomato was not considered a dangerous weapon. "well, if anybody would hit you with a rotten tomattus, i know what you'd do; you'd shoot 'em, that's what you'd do." "why, there was no tomattuses on the table; i can prove it by the landlord." "them fellers went to the slop barrel and fished it out; didn't i smell old sour swill on it. why the smell of that tomattus would made a dog sick." whether it was alfred's anger, emphasized by his smacking his hands together, his hurried speech, or the description of the condition of the tomato, the laughter that convulsed all seemed to make him more indignant. with heightened voice and more forcible gestures he continued: "if i do live in a little town, i've been away from home before, and i won't let no son-of-a-gun ride over me even if he is as big as the side of a house. i've got a home; i've got good people; i can go to them and i won't travel another day with a pack of drunken rowdies. you can do with me as you please. you say there's no law agin heavin' rotten tomattuses at a person in a banquet. what kind of law have you got in titusville? if anybody would hit another with a tomattus at the dinner table in brownsville they'd beat hell out of him quicker'n you could say 'jack robinson.'" the remainder of alfred's forcible, if not eloquent, speech was drowned by laughter. half a dozen present volunteered to go his bail. numerous attempts were made in the early sunday morning to influence alfred to continue his travels with the troupe. to all arguments he gave the same answer: "no; i'll not travel further with a lot of drunken rowdies." with all sorts of promises, a raise of salary, promotion, and other alluring inducements, they failed to move alfred. finally as do all cajolers, the manager endeavored to threaten the boy into following his wishes. but with no better results. "i would walk home before i would travel another day with you," was the parting shot as the manager left the room, swearing he would have alfred in jail and keep him there. the injured man swore out a warrant for alfred. captain ham came forward promptly and signed the bail bond. the captain was to open a summer garden or park a few days later. as alfred had no previous acquaintance with the gentleman, he has often thought the deep interest evinced by the genial captain was influenced by the two weeks' engagement offered and accepted by alfred to appear in the park. in so far as the writer's knowledge goes, this summer park in titusville was the first of it's kind in this country. titusville is renowned. rockefeller's career began there. titusville was the birthplace of the summer park and the standard oil company. the minstrels left titusville with diminished forces; four remained behind. after a few nights more of feverish hilarity the company disbanded without money or friends. thus early in life the fact was impressed upon alfred that the drunkard is an annoyance to sociability; without judgment, without civility, the drunkard is an object to be avoided in every walk of life. the drunkard is a detriment in business; a disgrace to his friends; the shame and sorrow of his wife and children. he is shunned by even those who profit by his excesses. at a banquet in chicago last year alfred was confused by someone shouting: "al, tell them about your panorama experience; there won't be any tomatoes thrown." he could not get his mind off the interruption. as the guests were departing a gentleman passed his card; the name was not familiar. alfred was passing on when the gentleman said: "al, don't you remember me? we attended a banquet thirty-nine years ago. you were served with tomatoes; i got a dose of salad or some such stuff. i didn't mind the salad but the plate kind of jarred me." here he pushed back a lock of red hair streaked with gray, exhibiting a small scar high up on the temple. alfred recognized him. to relieve the situation alfred inquired as to the whereabouts of dick, the other song and dance man. "oh, he is, or was, working in a saw-mill in williamsport. i haven't seen him in thirty years. al, i didn't throw that tomato. come over to the store, i want to talk to you." * * * * * fort duquesne, afterward pittsburgh, was builded at the confluence of the monongahela and allegheny rivers where they form the ohio, called by the villagers the "point"--a natural site for a beautiful village such as fort duquesne was at the time we write of. it was indeed a sight on which the eye might gaze enraptured, with ever changing beauties to charm it. the high hills on every side cast their shades over the peaceful village for, notwithstanding the prefix "fort", there was no semblance of soldiery, cannon or war, about the peaceful place. the hills of smiling green rising abruptly in places, gently at others, towering above the rivers, seemed to look down upon the village and its peoples. the hills crowned with lofty trees and climbing vines, the trees swaying in the breezes seemed to be bowing approval at the tranquil scene below. the locust, the sumac, the oak, the walnut, the dogwood, the haw, the red berries, glowing in the eyes of the boys of the village, and as impelling to them as the red lights that later glowed on the anheuser busch plants in the city that supplanted the village of fort duquesne. brownsville was one long symphony of content and happiness. the prosperity of its people excited the envy of those of fort duquesne. it was argued by the discontented of fort duquesne that the changing of the name of "red stone old fort" to brownsville was that which brought brownsville renown and riches. therefore, certain ones of fort duquesne called a public meeting to be held at the "point" where the matter of changing the name of fort duquesne was discussed. those who had emigrated from washington county insisted the name should be brownstown, hoping thereby to profit from the confusion that would arise as between that name and brownsville. they argued that when the traders from shousetown, sewickley and smith's ferry, came up the river to barter they would be confused by the similarity of the names and ascend the river no further, thus the trade of brownsville would be diverted. others argued that the name be changed to "three rivers;" still others insisted if change there must be, it be to fort pitt. others wanted a burg made out of the old fort. there was a compromise and the name "pittsburgh" adopted. immediately there was an influx of settlers, particularly from somerset and butler counties. the town profited greatly by the change of names; there were many who could neither spell nor pronounce "duquesne;" but now that it was made easier to explain where you lived, the town thrived. pittsburgh, with an "h", became noted. in fort duquesne the people had been content to live as they began; but the interlopers from braddocks field, greene county, and holidaysburg changed conditions. the luxuriant cabbage gardens gave way to boiler yards; the little brick houses were supplanted by glass houses, still houses and other manufacturing establishments, the mark of that van of commercial greatness that has made pittsburgh famous. that part of the town formerly given over to agricultural pursuits, namely the river banks, was now paved with cobble stones and termed "wharves," thus providing a vantageous place for the citizens to congregate when they had a boat race over the lower course. occasionally a raft from salamanca would be moored on the allegheny wharf and shingles unloaded in piles for the children to play ketch around in the twilight. on the monongahela side where the boats came from and departed for brownsville, there was always more activity. many of fort duquesne's best citizens seceded. the volunteer firemen remained faithful to the old fort. they went into business on smithfield street and are known to this day as the duquesne fire company. it was through those who seceded that the outlying boroughs of birmingham, brownstown, and ormsby, were created on the south side, while those on the north-west side christened their settlement "allegheny," thus destroying its future. as the river of that name that runs away from itself when it rains and drys up when it is clear, is so uncertain, the name allegheny does not appeal to the masses. had allegheny taken the name of "pittsburgh," the courthouse and all other public buildings would be located on the north side, a natural site for a populous city. as it is, pittsburghers are compelled to live in irwin, latrobe, cassopolis and kittanning, to make room for their public buildings. in the early days of the "smoky city," for such had become its nickname, the residents were wont to sit for hours and gaze at the sun and sky; this pleasure is denied residents in modern pittsburgh. the only knowledge they have that there are sun, moon and stars, is that which professor john brashears (from brownsville) supplies with his astronomical instruments. hurrah for brownsville! in those good old days there was no caste or class. on a saturday afternoon the entire populace would gather at scotch hill market and on fifth avenue at night. andy carnegie knew every man who worked for him by his first name and could be seen daily at the bull's head tavern where the men always stopped to open their pay envelopes. the leaders of society were consistent. there were two balls each winter and one picnic in summer. city hall and glenwood grove were the scenes of those gayeties. harry alden, mayor blackmore, chris ihmsen, tom hughes, major maltby, n. p. sawyer, john o'brien, jimmy hammill, harry williams, major bunnell, john w. pittock, bill ramsey and dan o'neil were the social, political and business leaders of pittsburgh in those days. no social function, no political scheme, no public celebration from a wedding to a boat race was successful without their active co-operation. ben trimble, harry williams, matt canning and major bunnell controlled all the theatres. jake fedder was the toll-taker at the smithfield street bridge, a position second in importance only to that of mayor. those were happy days for pittsburgh. everybody had a skiff and fishing was good anywhere. the suckers were all salmon in the river and you did not have to go to lock number one to catch white or yellow perch. a twine line could be bought at any grocery store. sporting goods emporiums had not taken over the fish hook industry. happy would pittsburgh have been could it always have existed as in those golden days. but communities, like humans, grow out of their simplicity, encouraged or subdued by the successes or failures of life. alfred was in pittsburgh again among friends whom he loved. johnny hart had graduated from second cook on the tow boat red fox to stock comedian at trimble's variety theater. harry williams was the stage manager. there was a place made for alfred on almost every bill. the levantine brothers, fred proctor, of keith & proctor, harrigan & hart, delehanty & hengler, joe murphy, johnson & powers, and all the famous artists of that time appeared at this house. alfred impersonated a wide range of characters while in this theatre. harry williams, the stage manager, was an ideal "mose" in the play of that name. (it was the saturday night bill for weeks.) alfred made a big hit as the newsboy, sharing honors with the star. he added new business to the part weekly and was retained several weeks for the one performance on saturday night. alfred was engaged by matt canning, the manager of the pittsburgh opera house. in those days all first class theatres employed a stock company; the stars traveled alone, or at least with only a stage manager. the manuscript of their plays, the scene and property plots were sent in advance. the company studied their parts until the arrival of the star when a grand rehearsal was gone through with. this was a strenuous day's work, particularly if the star was a stickler. booth, barrett, mccullough, edwin adams, joe jefferson, jane coombs and many other noted stars appeared at the pittsburgh opera house and alfred had the honor of supporting all of them, by assisting in moving bureaus, dressing cases, center tables, cooking stoves, bedsteads, bar fixtures and other properties required in the plays, up and down stairs. however, parts, and minor roles, were entrusted to alfred. if the stock system had continued it would be greatly to the advantage of the dramatic stage of today. it made the actor, it proved the actor. he remained in the ranks alone on his ability, impersonating many characters in one season. his art broadened. actors do not compare with those of the olden days. this is true. we may have a few actors as able as any that ever lived but the dramatic profession in general has deteriorated since the combination system superceded the stock company. the stage has advanced in the authorship of plays and their production, not in their rendition. the actors of today are not the students or workers as were those of the earlier days, neither have they the opportunities. alfred was entrusted with many roles not congenial to him; in those he generally failed. in a society drama, appearing in evening dress, a turn-down collar, a large red and white flowing tie, a huge minstrel watch chain attached to his vest, he was reprimanded by jane coombs, the star, in the presence of the company. another time he led a roman mob costumed as a quaker. john mccullough laughed over this afterwards, but at the time, what he said cannot be printed. when joseph jefferson appeared as rip van winkle, in addition to impersonating one of the villagers, alfred was entrusted with the task of securing children to take part in the play. the stage manager advised the bashful children to make merry with rip; that he was very fond of children and would enjoy their familiarity. whether it was the shaggy beard or the assumed intoxication of rip, a child refused to clamber up on rip's back. the stage was waiting; that the scene should not be marred, seventeen year old alfred attempted to perch himself on rip's back. it was not the jefferson of later days but the jefferson of middle manhood. alfred was dropped to the floor amid laughter that the scene never evoked previously. instead of the great actor being peeved, he kindly inquired of alfred if the fall had hurt him. as a matter of fact alfred purposely made the fall awkward. dick cannon had a number of young friends--billy conard, clarke winnett, charley smith, billy kane and alfred. dick had a large luxuriously furnished room in the hotel. one evening each week he set apart to entertain his young friends. to pass the time away dick introduced a game he had played a few times while tending lock at rice's landing. it was a greene county game, new to fort duquesne but universally popular in pittsburgh since. the game was known as "draw poker" in greene county. after several lessons, in which dick's courtesy and unusual interest in his young friends was evidenced at the end of every deal, as dick raked in the pot with the air and manner of a learned professor of a college, he explained to each player who had lost--and his lecture always embraced the entire class, for when the pot justified it, they all lost--just how they should have played their hand to win. "it's just as important to learn how to lay 'em down as it is to play 'em up," was his advice. alfred had failed, notwithstanding dick's teachings, to learn even the rudiments of the game, so he sought the dictionary. he had become convinced that a person to be proficient should, as dick advised in one of his lectures, not only study the game but human nature as well. therefore, alfred decided to start right. he found the word "draw" signified "to drag, to entice, to delineate, to take out, to inhale, to extend." the word "poker" signified any frightful object, a "spook." [illustration: the old greene county game] the echoes of gideon's words were daily percolating through alfred's gray matter: "don't know enough to quit the game when you got velvet in front of you." when questioned as to the cause of his absence from the weekly seance, alfred replied that, as he understood it, the object of dick was to teach and enlighten each in the class, and that he had thoroughly mastered the mysteries of the game and he felt it was imposing on dick to take up his valuable time and devour his delicacies longer; dick should get a new class. "i'm graduated," concluded alfred. * * * * * alfred's connection with the drama was both pleasant and profitable. the probabilities are that if a certain production had realized the hopes of its authors, he would have continued in the dramatic line. it was the beginning of that evolution of the stage that culminated in the ascendency, for a time, of the melodrama. a serial story under the title of "from ocean to ocean," then running in street & smith's _new york weekly_, was dramatized for j. newton gotthold and in so far as the writer is informed it was bartley campbell's first play. the play bore the title of "through fire." it was a stirring drama, and both actor and author had high hopes of its success. j. k. emmett, recruited from the minstrel ranks, had made himself immensely popular, and wealth was rolling in on him. his vehicle "fritz" was a flimsy frame on which was hung emmett's specialties. byron's phenomenal success in "across the continent" was achieved only through his artistic ability. it was argued that j. newton gotthold, a sterling actor, with a sterling play, was sure to attain success. alfred was engaged for the spring trial of the play; also the following season. the opening occurred in youngstown, a western city, so looked upon by pittsburghers in those days. after two nights in the west there would be a week or two weeks in pittsburgh. alfred, in addition to doubling the character of a young snob, afterwards a quick gun-man, also led the indians' attack on the wagon train. a number of supes were employed in youngstown, husky young rolling mill men of muscle and grit. alfred, at the head of his indian braves, attacked the wagon train of emigrants; instead of the supes falling back, as rehearsed, then charging forward, led by the star, they pitched into alfred and his indians at the first rush. alfred to save the scene, fought valiantly to stem the tide of strength and sturdy determination. but the supe pale-faces were too muscular for the copper tinted braves whom alfred led. in fact, at the first onslaught of the whites the indians, with the exception of one or two, fled and left alfred to battle alone. alfred was overpowered, completely vanquished--a blow between the eyes laid him low. the youngstown supes not only wiped up the stage with him but they wiped their feet on him. the gallery howled, the down-stairs applauded, the company laughed. the curtain fell amid loud applause. alfred was anxious to continue the conflict after the curtain dropped; the supes were agreeable. but the stage manager, the stars and others of the company interfered. the matter was amicably adjusted. alfred, although badly maimed, played his parts during the week's run in pittsburgh, although the war club he carried was not the imitation one he wielded in youngstown. however, there was no recurrence of the youngstown scene. the play did not meet with success. after the pittsburgh engagement it was carefully laid away and thus alfred was preserved to minstrelsy. it is a curious fact that the only play bartley campbell ever wrote, a play with the theme of which he was not in sympathy, written for commercial purposes only, has lived longer and earned more money than his most meritorious creations. we refer to "the white slave." who is not familiar with those thrilling lines: "rags are royal raiment when worn for virtue's sake." bartley campbell was a self made man--from laboring in a brick-yard to journalism, then a dramatist. he was a noble boy, a manly man. he toiled patiently all the days of his only too brief life for those he loved. * * * * * it was in the early days of the beginning of that race for wealth that has made pittsburgh both famous and infamous. jared m. brush had been elected mayor; hostetter stomach bitters had become famous in all dry sections of the country; jimmy hammill had won the single sculling championship of the world; the red lion hotel had painted the lion out and painted st. clair hotel in gilt letters to attract trade from sewickley, which community, so near the economites, had imbibed a sort of religious fervor exhibited outwardly only. it was argued by the proprietor that when the residents of sewickley drove by on their way to market to dispose of their garden truck, butter and eggs, they would be attracted by the word "saint." the st. nicholas hotel on grant street always boarded the court jurors. the st. charles on wood street had the patronage of the democrats of fayette county. brownsville people always stopped at the monongahela house. the bleating sheep, the frolicking calves, the cackling hens, that had been heard on the verdant ridges of pennsylvania road, had been crowded to the rural district known later as east liberty and walls. the log houses had given away to brick and frame dwellings owned by those who occupied them. doctor spencer had opened a dental emporium on penn street near the old ferry, then known as hand street, now ninth. business was so good joe zimmerman had to paint his name upside down on his store front near the union depot. the fact that this cigar store was always crowded suggested the idea of another railroad for pittsburgh. at first it was contemplated building the road along the south or west bank of the monongahela, extending the road to, or beyond brownsville. bill brown then resided on braddocks field, although he has repeatedly and earnestly protested to the writer that he was not at home when braddock fell and did not hear of it for some time afterwards. therefore, it is hoped those who are not acquainted with bill will not connect him in any way with anything that happened to braddock--the general, not the village. when bill learned of the projected railroad he interested a number of capitalists who owned coal land and town lots in braddock. hence, the new road was built on bill's side of the river. first, it was completed to mckeesport. the opposition steamboat lines plying the river, (the boats being much fleeter than the railroad), controlled the passenger traffic. when the projectors of the new railroad had this fact forced upon them they abandoned the plan of building the road further up the monongahela than mckeesport. surveying a route along the youghiogheny river and thence to connellsville they announced that they would eventually build to uniontown and down redstone creek to brownsville thus entering brownsville by the back door, as it were. however, this change of route did not work as the railroad people hoped for. the railroad carried a few passengers for layton's station, west newton and several settlements between mckeesport and connellsville. all travelers to mckeesport still patronized the boats, even those for west newton and layton station traveled on the boats to mckeesport, and awaited the train to continue their journey. the railroad people, dispirited and almost bankrupt, appealed to brown and his friends who had held out such glowing inducements to them to build the road on their side of the river. an investigation of conditions was ordered and bill, with his usual good luck and influence, appointed chairman of the investigating committee, with powers to expend whatever amount was necessary to the investigation. bill made one trip on the railroad to connellsville. thereafter, he spent the greater part of the beautiful autumn traveling up and down the monongahela, even as far up the river as geneva, although the scope of the investigation was to extend only as far as mckeesport. the palatial side-wheel steamers were always crowded to the guards with travelers. many slept on cots in the cabins but bill had the bridal chamber. the mirrored bars employed a double shift of irrigators. they were never closed except when the boats were moored at pittsburgh, and then bill could always get in the back way. the food was bountiful; stewed chicken for breakfast, turkey for dinner, fried chicken for supper, and at night a poker game in the barber shop. again and again the railroad people requested a report from bill but he was busy investigating as to why the steam cars were running with empty seats. finally notices were mailed to the railroad people, the superintendents who were also the section foremen, that the chairman of the committee was ready to report. they were requested to meet at dimling's where bill often assembled himself. [illustration: bill's report] brown arose to read his elaborate report. he began by making a short explanatory speech mostly devoted to the immense amount of labor entailed upon him in the investigation. he thanked the railroad people for the confidence they had placed in him. he deplored his lack of ability and knowledge. in fact, in his talk he expressed such a contemptuous opinion of himself that those present (country folks), from hazelwood and port perry were wrothy that they had entrusted bill with the mission and money to complete the investigation. they were ignorant of the fact that the speech was one he had delivered to the members of another body yearly when elected to the office of treasurer. bill then read his report. it dealt with the crowned heads of europe, the free traders of pennsylvania, the populists of kansas and nebraska, the government of ancient greece and the wars of the romans. of course this had nothing to do with the subject under investigation but it served to rattle and confuse those to whom the report was read and impress them with the wide scope of the investigation. the report referred in scathing terms to the unparalleled audacity of the officers of the rival lines of steamers, more particularly the new, or people's line. that line had only two boats, the "elector" and "chieftain," while the mail line had the "fayette," "gallatin," "franklin," "jefferson," "elisha bennett," and other boats. bill, like everybody on the inside, felt that the mail line would soon absorb its rival and it was politic to be "in" with the stronger corporation. the report demanded that the runners for the boats be restrained from soliciting passengers; that the steamboats be restrained from departing on the scheduled time of the railroads. thus, if the west newton and layton station passengers could not make connections at mckeesport, that is, if the trains arrived prior to the boats, travellers would be compelled to patronize the railroad. he also compared the officers of the steamboat lines to the gauls who devastated rome, the vandals who had over-run the fairest plains of europe. that part of the report ended with: "god forbid we live longer under these conditions." having thus artfully worked up the feelings of those present, bill gazed over the assemblage with the air of a man who has gotten that which he went after, and continued to read: "after diligent research, entailing much traveling, including many trips up and down the river at great expense including shoe-shining, your committee has succeeded in evolving a plan whereby the pittsburgh and connellsville railroad may be able to control the passenger traffic on its lines. and it is to be hoped that all concerned will take the proper view of the matter and concur in the recommendations of the committee: first, that all trains on the pittsburgh and connellsville railroad (excepting when otherwise so ordered), be and are hereby ordered equipped with an extra car, divided into three compartments, namely, dining room, bar-room, and another room." the chairman explained that the words "excepting when otherwise so ordered" were inserted as a precautionary measure. "it might happen at times that two cars, of the kind the committee recommended, might be required." after concluding his report the chairman carefully folded the paper, placing it in his hat. casting his eyes over the meeting he silently waited for some one to say something to dimling. after the meeting adjourned, one man ventured to remark that bill had gone about the investigation like a colt approaching a brass band, prancing and dancing, wrong end foremost. many were the written protests sent bill. all these he ignored. he not only refused to reply to them, but to emphasize his contempt, used them for an unseemly purpose. chapter nineteen hang on! cling on! no matter what they say. push on! work on! things will come your way. "a person dunno till after they've fell intu a muddy ditch how meny roads they cud a took an' kept out uf hit. but after ye've fell in the mud a time ur tu an' then ye don't no enuf tu keep outen hit, ye ain't much; ye're only gettin' muddy an' not larnen eny sense, an' thar ain't much hope fur ye." this was lin's answer to alfred's declaration that he would never go out with another show unless it was first class. if there ever lived a boy who has not experienced the feelings that must come to a rooster that has been in a hard battle and lost the greater part of his tail feathers, he is one who has never looked over his record and endeavored to rub out the punk spots. there are but few boys who have not an exaggerated ego, and it is well that they are so constituted, they will better battle with the rebuffs and the disappointments that youth always walks into. if a boy is lacking in confidence--conceit is confidence increased in a boy; conceit is ignorance in a man. conceit renders a man so cock-sure that he ignores advice. the first thing for which a boy should be operated upon is an overdeveloped bump of self-conceit. the earlier in life this protuberance is punctured the more quickly he will become useful to himself and family. it often requires several operations to effect a cure. over-zealous friends are responsible to an extent for the failure of many promising young men. many persons regard exaggerated praise necessary to the advancement of youth. a boy entering almost any profession or trade can be unfitted for his labors by fulsome flattering. alfred's best friends filled him with the false idea that he was a great actor, that he was being abused and thwarted. had his friends been sincere, he could have side stepped many stiff punches that he walked straight into. most fortunate is the boy who gets knocked through the ropes early in the bout of life; his youth will enable him to come back the stronger. the king solomon of showmen, p. t. barnum, the father of fakes, originated the "gift show"--the giving of presents to all who purchased tickets of admission. everybody received a prize. several hundred of the prizes were of little value. there was one that was valuable: a gold watch and chain, a diamond pin or other article of jewelry, was generally the capital prize as it was designated. people flocked to barnum's museum to win the capital prize; barnum reaped a harvest. of course the idea of the "gift show" was immediately taken up by ignorant imitators who are always quick to appropriate the ideas of others. numerous magicians were soon touring the country with their alluring advertisements promising presents far exceeding in value the receipts of the theaters in which they appeared, even though the prices of admission were doubled. the circus concert adopted the "gift show" scheme, and when a circus side-show, or concert, adopts an innovation of this character, it is safe to wager that the yokel will "get his" good and plenty. the "gift show" idea was worked so successfully that the numerous jewelry concerns that had sprung up in maiden lane and on the bowery could not fill the orders for the brass ornaments required to supply the enterprises distributing them. everybody got a prize; there were no blanks. alfred and another boy, george, did the distributing act. stationed on either side of the stage, they received the tickets. pretending to look at the number, they handed the prize out. alfred had four packages of prizes; he was ordered to alternate. first a lady's breast pin, then a gent's collar button, then a stud, then a finger ring. the capital prize the boss awarded in person. since the days of barnum's "gift show," no "sucker" has ever seen the capital prize except when the proprietor of the "gift show" was not looking. the "gift show" man usually placed the capital prize in the show window of a prominent store. everyone who bought a ticket hoped to capture the capital prize. the "gift show" always fixed the landlord of the hotel or some man about town to draw the capital prize, returning it to the "gift show" manager afterwards. it is amazing the many who were willing to play the part of capper in this game. after a number of tickets were presented and not less than a peck of the cheap presents distributed, the capper would pass up his ticket, and the boss proclaim in a loud tone: "four hundred and sixty-two wins the capital prize, a solid silver tea set." the plate was set out on a table covered with a black velvet cloth to brighten the appearance of the ware. "if the gentleman prefers we will gladly pay him one hundred and seventy-five dollars in gold for his ticket." the money counted out to him in the presence of the gaping multitude whetted everybody's desire to win the capital prize. the following night the hall was crowded again. "gift shows" always remained three nights in each place. the entertainment offered was a secondary consideration; hence alfred was the star of the show. he had unlimited opportunities. the fact was, the only reason the manager gave an entertainment at all was to escape the lottery laws. alfred was on the stage half a dozen times and would have gone on again had he had anything more to offer. alfred imagined the more often he appeared the more he was appreciated, until one night a sailor heaved an orange from the gallery, landing it on alfred's head. the seeds flew all over the stage. alfred did not regain his composure even when assured by others of the company that the seeds were not his brains. a gentleman whom he had met while with eli during their tour of greene county--he was only an acquaintance of a day--called on alfred. alfred introduced him as his friend. agreeable, intelligent and well dressed, he made an impression on the show people and without consulting alfred, the "gift show" man fixed alfred's friend to cop the capital prize which he did very successfully. when the boss called: "ticket three hundred and nine wins the capital prize," the rehearsed scene was gone through with, although alfred's friend made the play doubly strong by hesitating in accepting the cash in lieu of the tea set. "i would prefer the silverware; i wish to preserve it in our family." after a little further parleying, he was handed one hundred and seventy-five dollars. he received congratulations, answered questions and smiled on everybody. the night alfred's friend won the capital prize the audience was larger and more intelligent than usual. one gentleman remarked, as he passed back to alfred the present tendered him: "boy, keep this for me until i call for it. write my name on it; i don't want to lose it, i want to get it melted, we need a pair of candle sticks and brass is mighty high." an old lady opened her envelope containing a pair of ear-rings. handing them to alfred she remarked: "i hope there's no mistake here, the ticket reads ear-rings, these are chandeliers." the stool pigeon, after receiving the money for the capital prize, wandered leisurely out of the hall. he was supposed to be met by the fixer of the "gift show", to whom he was to return the money the boss had given him. alfred's friend played his part capitally. he sauntered out leisurely; he did not saunter out of the main door, or, if he did, the fixer failed to meet him. the hall was empty save for the two or three stragglers and the manager. the fixer entered hurriedly, looking sharply around the almost vacant room, he whispered with the boss. they turned their glances toward alfred. it was an illusion of the boss and his staff that others of the company were ignorant of the deception practiced in the awarding of the capital prize. the boss called alfred to his room and questioned him at length as to the gentleman he had introduced as his friend. alfred stated when the eli minstrels were touring greene county the gentleman accompanied them several days. his companionship was so agreeable that eli remained behind in carmichaelstown a day or two. the boss had learned the fellow was a short card player, and he swore he would not allow a cheap poker player to do him. "fix the olly! i gave him broads to the show! he's right as a guinea! fix him! have this cheap greene county bilk pinched. i'll land him in the quay." all of this, interpreted, meant that the boss wanted the winner of the capital prize arrested and thrown into jail. he did not dare proceed against him for holding out the money he had given him. to attempt to recover it by law would expose their nefarious practice. there was hurrying to and fro and in hot haste but nothing as to the whereabouts of the gentleman could be learned. the constable searched all night, and the fixer remained with him as long as he could keep pace with the officer. weary, blear-eyed, unsteady on his limbs, he finally lay down on a bench in the hotel sitting room and was awakened only by the breakfast bell. next morning he was very surly. he ordered alfred in a very rude manner to remove two large boxes of jewelry from the hotel to the theatre and to remove the boxes as soon as he got through his breakfast: "and don't eat all day either." alfred did not eat all day; in fact he ate but little. he was choking with wrath over the insult the man had put upon him. taking himself from the table he awaited the coming of the man. as he emerged from the dining room, alfred halted him with: "i say, you ordered me to move some baggage from the hotel to the theatre. i just called upon you to tell you that you ain't my boss; you didn't hire me, you don't pay me; furthermore, i did not hire out to this troupe to peddle brass jewelry or handle baggage. you move the boxes yourself." "well, we'll see if you don't move them boxes, and i'll give you a smack in the jaw, you jay, you!" alfred remembered titusville, and a greatly subdued manner, said: "if you're the boss, just hand me my money and i'll skedaddle double quick." later in the day the boss sent for alfred to come to his room. as he entered, the boss said: "well, you want your money, do you, eh?" alfred replied: "i couldn't very well stay here after what's passed between your manager and myself." "that's so," smilingly assented the boss. turning his back on alfred and pretending to look over his books, he continued: "where do you expect to meet your friend?" "what friend," inquired alfred. "the smart young fellow you rung in on us yesterday. i'd thought you'd skipped without waiting for the few bones i hold of yours. you're too fly to work for a salary. talk about sure-thing men, there ain't a strong arm game in the country can beat it; garroting is laid in the shade by your play." alfred could not understand the man at all. he was completely confused: "what do you mean? has that man who tried to boss me this morning been telling you anything about me?" the man wheeled around in his chair, facing alfred. pointing his finger at alfred, in a voice choking with anger, he exclaimed: "you're not as slick as you imagine you are; you've been under cover ever since you came here. you made all my people think you were a straight guy; you played the role of a gilly kid to the queen's taste. but i'm on to you bigger than a house; after you've worked me for a hundred and seventy-five dollars, now you want to wolf me for twenty-five more. i won't shake down for one dime more. you think you'll get your bit of the touch but i'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that guy will double cross you and it will serve you right for doing the man you were working for. you can leave; i can't hold you but you won't get a case from me. i'll stand pat on this proposition. do you hear?" alfred understood the man, in some way, was endeavoring to connect him with the gentleman who won the capital prize. "all i want is my money, the money you owe me and you'll pay me before i leave this town," was alfred's declaration as he left the room. a bluff always unsettles a scoundrel. spaff hyman, the magician of the troupe, was after alfred in a moment. he explained that the boss and one or two others were under the impression that alfred and the gentleman whom alfred had introduced as his friend were in cahoots, that alfred had brought the stranger there to do the gift showman out of the money and that alfred stood in with the play. alfred was indignant. spaff assured the boy that he had implicit confidence in his honesty. "i know that greene county gang," continued spaff, "jim kerr and lias flanagan had that old trotting horse sneak. this fellow that came on here was the brains of the gang; they skinned every sucker on the fair grounds where they entered this horse. he had this combination sized up; he came on here to trim the boss and he got away with the play. i know you had nothing to do with it, but if you leave now, those who suspect you will make others believe you are crooked. hold down the job until you prove yourself right, then skip if you want to." alfred began an explanation: "i never met this man but once. i heard several people say he was a young man with no bad habits: 'he does not drink a drop of liquor, he don't smoke, chew tobacco, nor cuss.' that's what i heard in carmichaelstown." "huh! yes, he's a saint," sarcastically mused the old sleight of hand man, "he's a saint and that's what makes him successful as a con. sam weller advised his son to 'bevare of vidders,' i advise you to beware of saints. since the days of the bible when saints were inspired, there have been but few of them roving the earth. latter day saints are material, hence, susceptible to all the temptations and frailties of this world. when you get acquainted with a man who boasts that he has no bad habits, look out for him, he will spring something on you that will outweigh all the minor defects that scar the character of the ordinary man. i do not say there are no good men, there are; but the man who pretends to go through this world on a record of no bad habits accumulates a heap of inward secretiveness. it keeps growing. he gets swelled up, and some day he breaks out and the enormity of his break surprises all. 'he had no bad habits,' that's what they all said. no, he had no bad habits that were apparent; he was a sneak. in order to conceal his little sins, he deceived himself and his friends. if he had been honest he would have gone through life like the average man. go back in your mind and figure up the fellows that have fallen and see if the fellow with no bad habits isn't in the majority. mind, i'm not figuring on the poor devil without education or advantages, the fellow who robs hen-roosts or steals dimes. i'm talking about the fellow who walks off with one hundred and seventy-five dollars, robs the banks or post-offices, the fellow who touches the widow and orphan." "i can't understand you," ventured alfred. "well, you can't understand the fellow who had no bad habits." "but the boss is not playing fair with the public," protested alfred. "well, who on earth ever did play fair with the public? i know you, with your ideas bounded by fayette county's limitations, don't understand these things. there's men who would not take advantage of any man in a personal business transaction, who will get in on almost anything that will worst the public. the public is a cruel monster; the public condemned and crucified christ; the public is behind every lynching. the public condemns and ostracizes a man, even though he has lived an upright life all his days, when some scalawag, for personal or financial reasons, assails him in a newspaper. when commodore vanderbilt gave utterance to the words, 'the public be damned,' he expressed the sentiment of four-fifths of those who have rubbed up against the public, as had the sturdy old man who acquired his estimate of human nature while rowing the public over the river. the public would ride across the river without paying him fare. the public will crowd into our show tonight without paying. the public will eat all the fruit that ripens, all the grain that grows, drink all the liquors malted and take anything they can get for nothing. i mean the public rabble, the mob, not the individual. the only time you can trust the public is when their sympathies are aroused over some great public calamity that brings death and desolation. then the public is of one mind, the public then shows to best advantage." "well, you are the funniest man i ever heard talk. now what are you going to do to make the public what you consider it should be?" "educate it; educate it. three-fourths of the public are suckers, one-fourth skinners. now, i don't mean to assert that one-fourth are dishonest men, but most of them are men a bit too fly for the others. you know there's not one man in a thousand that considers it cheating to give himself a bit the best of it. now you argue that the public is ignorant and that the only way to get it right is to educate it. well, the fellow who walked off with the boss's one hundred and seventy-five dollars is educated." "how do you account for his dishonesty" inquired alfred. "i don't account for it." it was arranged that spaff go to the boss, patch up matters between him and alfred. spaff requested alfred remain in the hall that he might be near. the door closed on spaff. alfred remained near it; he wished afterwards he had not. the transom was open and every word uttered in the room floated through it. spaff began: "say, boss, i've been talking to that fresh young nigger singer, and, while he don't know much, it's my opinion he knows nothing of the guy who done you for the capital prize. he's purty handy around here and i thought you better keep him. i've got him going; i told him if he left now everybody would conclude he was in on the capital prize trick. so i think he'll stick." "what the hell do i care whether he sticks or not? he may be straight but i doubt it. the only reason i want him to stay is that he will have trouble in finding the other guy; i'm certain they were to meet somewhere and split up the touch." spaff was heard to say: "no, i think you're wrong. i am sure this kid is not in on it. i know that fellow; he's slick, he's always been a sure thing man and he has been planning this touch for sometime. he simply used alfred to get an introduction." "well, he's a good one. he did not want to draw the prize, he argued; all the best people in town knew him and it would be difficult to deceive them. why, i thought he was a small town jay. he even cautioned me to have someone at the door to receive the money, he did not care to carry it about with him." after a pause he continued: "well, about this boy; what shall i say to him? i don't think it's a good play to let him go; not now, at any rate. you say he's straight. do you reckon he's on to the capital prize fake?" "well, i dunno," answered spaff. "if he is, and he's dirty, he could queer us in all these towns; he's been through here with two or three jim crow minstrel shows; these rubes imagine he's some pumpkins. why, i have to go out of the house every time he comes on. he's the rankest performer i ever saw; he can sing a little and that lets him out. why don't you cut his act down one-half at least? half of the audience, green as they are, wouldn't stay in the house if they were not waiting for their presents." "he comes on ahead of you and hurts your act," the boss assured spaff. that gentleman said: "well, we've got to give them something for their money and alfred does pretty good; if he only had the stuff he would be all right." the boss agreed to this. "yes, if he had something new. those gags he springs were told before the flood. lord, if i had the gall of some people i'd be rich. when he came here into this room and wanted money for that stuff he's telling, i got up and opened the door and planted a kick on him and says: 'now, leave, skip, git out of yere and don't let me see you around yere agin.'" "why, he never told me one word of this," and spaff's voice evidenced his surprise. "what do you say about keeping him?" questioned spaff. "oh, we've got to have someone, but watch him." when spaff came out of the room he found alfred some distance from the door. "now, i've had a hard time squaring this matter with the boss. someone has got to him and he is sore on you, or was. i just told him you were all right and that i would be responsible for you and he said: 'well, i'll let him stay on your account.'" alfred could not restrain his anger longer. whirling around, facing spaff, he said in tones neither low or slow: "you go back and tell that damn sneak that i don't want to stay with him. you tell him he is a liar if he says he ever kicked me. you tell him if he says i had anything to do with the disappearance of his capital prize money, he's another liar. you tell him i'll meet him outside the hotel and he'll take back everything he said to you." spaff began to look scared. "why, how do you know what he said to me," he queried in a voice that showed his fear. "i heard every word; the transom was open; i couldn't help it. i'm glad i did hear. i know where you all stand. i'm only a boy, but i'll clean up this capital prize swindle and i'm going after it tonight. 'watch me,' that's what the boss ordered you to do." poor old spaff was thoroughly frightened. he coaxed and pleaded with alfred to drop the matter, take his pay and he would endeavor to have his wages raised. at the first opportunity he slipped away from alfred, ran around the back way and up to the boss's room. alfred was seated at the supper table. the boss entered and, with a pleasant "good evening," seated himself opposite alfred, and familiarly inquired: "what they got for supper? they set a fairly good table here but the waiters are slow." alfred sulkily ate in silence, never deigning to look at or answer the questions of the boss. that gentleman rattled on, first on one subject, then another. finally, he carelessly asked alfred the title of the new song he sang the night before. never noticing the boy's rude behavior in not replying to him, he continued, dipping a half doughnut in his coffee: "i want you to tell that gag about noah being the first man to run a boat show; i think it's the funniest thing i ever heard. where did you get it? i always make it a point to be in the house when you tell that gag." alfred did not understand that all this was flattery; he imagined the boss was guying him. his face was hot, his voice trembled. leaning over the table, he sneered: "so you come in every night to hear the jokes that came over in noah's ark, do you? well, you needn't come in tonight, you won't hear them. when you get through with your supper i want a settlement with you and if you think you can kick me, come out of this house and try it." he left the table and passed out. instead, spaff came to him, handing him twenty-five dollars. "now, see here, young fellow, you're too hot-headed, you'll never get along if you keep this up. this man appreciates your work; he told me so. say, you didn't hear right. i was in the room, i didn't hear the things you did. come on, now, i'll get you a raise of five dollars a week." alfred walked away from the man. his baggage had been conveyed to the hotel from the theatre and his preparations completed. he left the "gift show." * * * * * "i'll never take another chance with a fly-by-night troupe. if i can't get with the best i'll stay right here in this town. i'll paint hulls, houses or anything; i'll go back to the tan-yard; i'll go to the newspaper office; i'll do anything, i don't care what it is or how badly i hate to do it. i wouldn't be caught dead with another troupe like the last one i was with." so declared alfred to lin and cousin charley. after alfred was out of hearing, cousin charley, with a laugh, remarked he had "heard that story afore. it won't be a month till he's off agin with some kind of a show. he can't git with a good one; they wouldn't have him with a good show. (cousin charley had assured alfred that very morning that he considered him the best actor he had ever seen). he'll be out with a fly-by-night troupe afore the next month. alfred's a gone goslin'. he's got no trade an' he'll hev to scratch to make a livin'. i sort of pity uncle john an' aunt mary, kase they think so much of the boy, an' it's a great pity for them. uncle john ought to beat the foolishness out of him long ago. he never touches him, no matter what he does. does he?" lin looked at cousin charley in a sort of pitying way as she asked: "how is hit thet all are agin alfurd? ye all like him, i no ye do, but durned ef ye evur lose a shot at him. no, his pap don't whup him eny more, he nevur did beat him tu hurt; hit wus sort of a habit tu take him intu the celler to skur him but hit nevur done him a mite uf good, he jus laffed an' made fun uf hit. ye kin do more with reasonin' with alfurd." cousin charley agreed with lin and declared that he always took alfred's part. "i told his father alfred would go off some day and then they'd all be dog-goned sorry they hadn't handled him different." "well, alfurd's not goin' off eny more till he goes rite; he's gettin' more sot in his ways every day, he's mos' like a man." alfred's family were greatly elated that he had settled down. staid old brownsville was stirred from center to sandy hollow. peter hunt, philosopher and photographer, leased krepp's bottom for the announced purpose of converting it into a skating park or rink. alfred was one of peter's right hand men. the creeks and rivers had furnished ample fields for the skaters of brownsville heretofore, but peter felt the time had come when the society people of the town, who did not care to skate with the common herd, should have a more exclusive place in which to enjoy this wholesome recreation. therefore krepp's bottom was selected. the proposed park was the talk of the town. dunlap's creek flowed in a circle, skirting three sides of the bottom land. levees three feet high were thrown up along the banks of the creek, a rope stretched along the west side. an opening in the levee admitted the water. two feet of water covered the bottom. the weather turned cold, ice formed, the park was opened, and three-fourths of the public walked in free. alfred felt that spaff was about right in his estimate of the public. the creek fell, the dry, clay land absorbed the water, the ice sunk and cracked in places. the waters of the creek flowed six feet below and the glory of the skating park was a memory of the past. later on a promoter endeavored to rent jeffries hall for a roller skating rink. george washington frazee, who learned of the man renting jeffries' hall for a skating rink, said: "huh! another dam fool 'bout skeetin'. jeffries hall won't hold water, an' if it did hit wouldn't freeze hard enuff to bear." for the winter the town went back to its time honored sport of sledding, "coasting" it is termed nowadays. sleds of all kinds were seen on the hills and streets of the two towns. even men engaged in the sport. the speed attained, especially on scrabbletown hill, was terrific. the big sleds, loaded with from four to eight persons, flew down the hills at the rate of a mile a minute. the sleds bore striking names, alfred's the "west wind." it was one of the speediest of the numerous fast ones. starting at the top of town hill, those on the brownsville side would speed to the iron bridge, even across it into bridgeport. those sliding scrabbletown hill would often be sent, by the speed attained on this steep incline, across the iron bridge into brownsville. thus the coasters of the rival towns would at times, pass each other going in opposite directions. the older men would sit in the stores and watch the sliders. the shoe-shops of mckernan and potts were the scenes of many heated arguments as to the fleetness of the different sleds. an old gentleman who had recently moved to brownsville from uniontown, endeavored to impress the shoe-shop crowds with the superiority of the sleds of the uniontown boys over those of brownsville. he related that a uniontown boy slid down laurel hill through uniontown and would have slid on down the pike to searight's only he was afraid he would 'skeer' somebody's horses. [illustration: brownsville's winter sport] shuban lee, ever loyal to brownsville and her sleds, related how alfred had loaned his sled to a show fellow he brought home with him from somewhere. "the show chap did not know much about sliding. alfred's sled was a whirlwind when it got to goin'. the show feller hauled the sled to the top of town hill. he started down the hill. the sled run so fast it crossed the iron bridge up to the top of scrabbletown hill. afore he cud git off she started back down the hill, across the iron bridge agin, up to the top of town hill an' back she started. half the men in town run out an' tried to stop thet sled but hit wus so cold they couldn't do hit. she just kept on a-goin' down one hill an' up tother." here the uniontown man, with a contemptuous snort, said: "i s'pose he just kept on slidin' till he froze to death?" "no," shuban answered, "he didn't freeze, he just kept on slidin' till they shot him to keep him from starvin' to death. an' i kin prove hit by ole man smith an' if you won't believe him i kin show you the feller's grave." chapter twenty this world would be tiresome, we'd all get the blues, if all the folks in it held just the same views; so do your work to the best of your skill, some people won't like it, but other folks will. jean jacques rousseau, a french-swiss philosopher, nearing the end of his days complained that in all his life he never knew rest or content for the reason he had never known a home. his mother died giving him birth, his father was a shiftless dancing master. rousseau claimed his misfortunes began with his birth and clung to him all his life. rousseau was one of the few persons who have attained distinction without the aid of a home in youth. no matter how humble the home, it is the beginning of that education that brings out all the better nature of a human being. the home is the god-appointed educator of the young. we have educational institutions, colleges, schools, but the real school where the lessons of life are indelibly impressed upon the mind is the home. we write and talk of the higher education. there is no higher education than that taught in a well regulated home presided over by god-fearing, man-loving parents whose lives are a sacrifice to create a future for their children. the parents, rather than the children, should be given credit for the successes of this life. alfred had separated himself from his home several times but never decided to leave it for any lengthy period; but now the time had arrived when it seemed to him the parting of the ways in his ambitious life was at hand. on the dead walls, fences and old buildings, were pasted highly colored show bills announcing the coming of thayer & noyes great american circus. alfred decided he would go hence as a member of the troupe. the humdrum life of the old town had begun to wear on his energetic feelings. there were social pleasures sufficient to make the days and nights joyous, but alfred was thinking beyond the days thereof. the circus had come and gone. "i will take your address. if anything occurs that i can use you i will write. you can expect a letter from me soon." with these words dr. thayer crushed alfred's hopes. alfred voted the show the best he had ever witnessed, but the concert, the after show that promised so much and gave so little, he condemned. after writing several letters and destroying them, deciding they did not fulfill all requirements, the following letter was mailed: brownsville, fayette co., pa. dr. james l. thayer: respected sir: i take my pen in hand to acquaint you with the effect your show had on our people. it is the opinion of all who take interest in actors and should know, that your show was better than george f. bailey's and it was considered the best we ever had. brownsville people are hard to please. they see so much it must be choice if it suits them. your circus suited all. i have heard many actors declare brownsville was the hardest town to please they ever tackled. an english sleight of hand man played jeffries hall three nights. he said they were a "bit thick." alf burnett, the humorist, compared brownsville to slush ice. bob stickney was the best one in your show. now comes the news that i hate to tell (and this was the sole reason that prompted the letter). your after-concert is a bad recommend for your real show. i reckon one thing that made it appear worse is we have a regular minstrel show on hand all the time. i'm at the head of it, and most of the people in town know our jokes and songs by heart and when your concert people told them they did not tell them right and our people noticed the mistakes, and of course you couldn't expect them to laugh at the jokes anyway. now you promised to write me. if you can do so, i can go to your show most any time providing you do not get too far away from brownsville. please send me where you're going to list. i am sure i can make a heap of improvement in your concert and i know you do not want people anywhere to call you an old fraud as they have done here. your most obedient servant, alfred griffith hatfield. p. s. please let me know what you can afford to pay a prime concert actor. between times i can help out in the circus ring if you have clothes fit to do it in. in due time this reply was received: fairmont, va. mr. hatfield: your letter duly received. you will find our advance route for the next ten days enclosed. you can join at any time it suits your convenience. your salary will be based upon the value and extent of services you can render this company. after a trial, if your ability is not what you represented it to be, your engagement will be ended without prejudice to you or expense to this firm. respectfully yours, thayer and noyes, per b. l. p. s. send your professional name and billing. alfred read and re-read the letter and immediately began making preparations to tempt fate once more. the preparations mostly consisted in surreptitiously secreting his wearing apparel in the old barn where node had labored so long on his great inventions. it was alfred's intention to leave home clandestinely. as usual with boys in his frame of mind he did not dare to trust himself to advise with anyone; like boys in general, he did not desire advice. approval was that which he most craved. uniontown was decided upon as the place to join the circus. alfred felt the leaving of home and family meant more to him than ever before. at times he was buoyed up by hopes of success. he would argue with himself thusly: i have promised to join the show. they need me; they will be expecting me. this is the opportunity i have been looking for. alfred spent all his spare time at home with his mother, sisters and brothers. his usual haunts in town were forgotten. family and friends noted the change and wondered thereat. lin was unstinted in her praise. lin asserted from the wildest, he had become the tamest boy in brownsville. "he'll eat out of your hand now," she assured mrs. todd. mr. todd jerked out a "huh" as he advised them to keep their eyes on the "devil ketcher." "he's just sittin' the megs for another outbreak. he's compilin' some devilment, yer ken bet yer bottom dollar. he kan't fool me twice." it was the day previous to alfred's intended departure. he had been at home all day. he gave his sled to brother joe. it was summer and the steel soles were greased to keep them from rusting. lin would not permit joe to haul it over the floor claiming it would grease everything it touched. to brother bill fell shinny clubs and bats, marbles and a kite. sister lizzie was the recipient of more than a quart of various colored beads taken from aunt lib's jenny lind waist. ida belle, the baby was remembered with a big dutch doll that rolled its eyes, the mother with an ornamental sugar bowl and lin with a pair of puff combs. a pair of skates and a bow and arrow were given to cousin charley. the greater effort alfred made to ease his mind, the more conscience stricken he became. try as he would he could not force the gayety he feigned. he clung to the baby sister every moment he was in the house. lin, in an adjoining room, heard him ask the child if she would miss her big "bruzzer" when he was gone. entering the room she found alfred in tears, the sympathetic child stroking his face. alfred endeavored to swallow the lump in his throat but he only sobbed the more. it did him good as ashamed as he felt. lin looked him over suspiciously as she, in a voice as commanding as she would pitch it, said: "look here, ye can't bamboozle me another minnit. what's on yer mind? spit it out afore it spills. get it out of yer sistum and yer'll feel a hull lot better. thar hain't a durned dud of yers in this house. air yu fixin' to fly the coop? if ye air, don't go off like a thief afore daylight. go away so you won't be ashamed to kum back. kum on now, let's hear from you! i'll durn soon tell you whar to head in." alfred made a full and complete confession. "so yer fixin' to run off and break the hearts of all at home, an' put a dent in your own. for a week ye been jumpin' to make yerself more dear to 'em afore ye hurt 'em. yer hain't learnin' much with all yer schoolin'. when do the retreat begin?" banteringly demanded lin. "tomorrow," feebly answered alfred. that night, the family were in the big room, mother sewing, the children playing about her. lin, seated behind the mother, repeatedly signaled alfred to begin his talk to the mother as per his promise. the boy looked another direction but lin never took her eyes off his face. her gaze became painful. finally he began: "muz, do you think pap would be mad if i was to go away while he is in pittsburgh?" the mother, without taking her eyes off her work, said: "i hope you're not going to uncle jake's again. you'll wear your welcome out, won't you?" "no, i'm going away on business. i'm tired and sick of the way things are going with me. i see nothing ahead for me and i'm going to strike out for myself." the mother put down her sewing and looked very seriously. lin, from behind her, nodded vigorously for him to go on. "look at dan livingstone," alfred continued; "he never had anything until he went off with capt. abrams. now see where he is and i don't know how many boys have gone away and all have done well. all i need is to get out of this town and i know i can do something for myself." "does capt. abrams want to take you with him," anxiously inquired the mother. "oh, no, he never said a word to me about it, but i know i could go with him if i wanted to." "well, where do you think of going?" questioned the mother. alfred hesitated a second. "well, first i'm going to try it with a circus but i don't expect to stay long. i'm just going on trial." noting the look of worriment on the face of the mother he continued: "i know i won't do. they almost tell me so in a letter and it's only to uniontown, twelve miles away. i won't be gone long," and he caught the baby up, tossed it up, and pretended to be very jolly. the matter was gone over and over with the mother who insisted that alfred remain at home until the return of the father. if he could obtain his father's consent he could go. lin endeavored to assist the boy by remarking: "well, if he's jes goin' for a trial, uniontown is so close to hum, you could walk back if ye hain't fit fer the work." the mother protested to the last. alfred had been so very liberal in bestowing presents to ease his conscience that he had but forty-six cents in his purse when the leaving time came. he was acquainted with all the old stage drivers on the line. it was his intention to walk up town hill, rest under the big locust trees at the brow of the hill until the stage coach arrived, the horses walking slowly ascending the long hill, he would get up beside the driver or crawl in the boot on the rear of the stage coach. he lolled on the grass as the stage approached. the driver was a stranger to him. he looked appealingly at the man but received no recognition. the heavy stage lumbered by. alfred ran for the rear end of it. the boot was bulging out with trunks and valises; there was no room for alfred. a broad strap that held the huge leather cover in place over the trunks dangled down within reach. grasping it as the four horses struck a trot, alfred was helped along at a lively gait. through sandy hollow by the old brubaker house, then a slow walk up the hill by mart claybaugh's blacksmith shop, through the toll gate, then into a trot on by the old school-house where his first minstrel show was given, on by all the familiar places. [illustration: leaving home] heretofore when traveling the pike alfred had a word and a smile for all as he knew every family along its sides. on this occasion he endeavored to conceal his identity. but once did the coach halt--at searight's half way to uniontown to water the horses and liquor the driver and passengers. old logan, the hostler at searight's crowed in imitation of a rooster, the passengers throwing him pennies. alfred with cast down head walked on to the next hill. when the stage rolled by he again grasped the strap and kept pace with the coach until the outskirts of uniontown were reached. a small colored boy directed him to the show grounds. through the main street of the town alfred trudged, carrying the large carpet sack formerly used with the eli troupe as a property receptacle for mrs. story's china tea set. arriving at the circus grounds, the afternoon performance was over. drawing near the tent he anxiously expected to find the show folks looking for him. he imagined they would all be expecting him. the huge form of dr. thayer loomed up. alfred hastened toward him. the doctor was engaged in an earnest argument with a mechanic of the town over the charges for repairs on a wagon. alfred walked up to the circus man. the doctor did not even notice him. he followed the two men around the wagon as they argued, alfred stationing himself directly in the big showman's path. their eyes met several times, still no recognition came from the circus manager. alfred finally accosted the big man with a "howdy, mr. thayer. i've come to work for you." the showman's surprised look showed plainly he did not recognize alfred. "i'm the new boy to work in your concert." motioning with his arm he ordered alfred to go back and charley would attend to him. without any idea who charley was or what he was, alfred started in the direction indicated by the jerk of the doctor's hand. approaching the connection between the main tent and the dressing room tent, a man lying on the grass warned alfred back. even after he explained that he was searching for charley, the man, without heeding the appeal, motioned the boy back. walking around to the other side of the tent, he stealthily approached the opening and darted in. he was barely inside the tent when a big, burly fellow seized him roughly and hustled him through the opening, demanding why he was sneaking into the ladies' dressing room. "mr. thayer hired me. he sent me here. he told me charley would attend to me. i'm looking for charley." the man asked: "what charley are you looking for?" "i don't know. mr. thayer told me charley would put me to work." the man laughed and led the way into the tent as he cautioned the lad to use the name of mr. noyes instead of charley. mr. noyes was too busy to talk to him. alfred's attention was divided between the performance and the novel scenes in the men's dressing tents; the latter were as interesting to him as the ring performance. the order and decorum pervading the organization was marked. charley noyes, a most competent director of a circus performance, the deportment of his employes was nearly perfect. even the property men were respectable and well behaved. the performance over, a heavy set man was packing a huge trunk with horse covers and other trappings. he had repeatedly requested the others to lend a hand. alfred assisted the man with his work until completed. in the interim alfred advised him why he was there. the man looked the boy over carefully saying: "where are you going to pad?" alfred had no idea of the meaning of the word "pad." afterwards, he learned that "pad" was slang for bed and sleep. he answered correctly by chance, "i don't know." "well, you can get in with me. it's a two o'clock call. i'm going to spread a couple of blankets under the band chariot. i sleep better there than in a hotel." the blankets spread, alfred's carpet sack served as a pillow for him. they were about to crawl in when the other asked alfred if he had been to "peck." "not within the last week." the man looked at him pityingly. there was a lunch stand nearby. the man, returning from it, handed alfred a half of a fried chicken and an apple pie. although alfred insisted, the man would not eat any of it. he ordered alfred to eat it all, remarking "you need it." alfred found himself the object of considerable sympathy the following day and not until someone asked him how it was he had been without food for a week did he learn that "peck" in show slang signified meals--eating. boy-like, he had worn his new sunday shoes. his feet were feverish and sore. even had alfred not been footsore, the snoring of the other would have made sleep impossible to him. how long he lay awake he had no reckoning of. it seemed to him he had only closed his eyes when he felt a yank at the blankets and a rough voice ordering him to get up. it was the lot watchman. the big band chariot was slowly ascending the foothills of the mountains. the east was ahead over the mountain. the curtain of night was being lifted by the first streak of gray dawn spreading over the sky. all were asleep in the wagon excepting the driver. halting his team he began winding the long reins about the big brakes. he was about to climb down when alfred inquired as to the trouble. the driver advised that the off leader's inside trace was loose and the lead bars dragging. alfred advised the driver to sit still. "i'll hook it up. how many links do you drop?" he asked as he pushed the horse into place. he was on the wagon in a jiffy. the driver was greatly taken with the boy. further up the mountain at the big watering trough, alfred assisted in watering and washing the horses' shoulders. it was only a day or two until alfred was permitted to handle the reins over the team, a favor this celebrated old horseman had never conferred upon anyone previously. never will alfred forget that journey up the mountains. every turn of the wheels of the big chariot, as they ground the limestone under their weight until the flinty pebbles shed sparks, made him feel more lonely. in the dim gray of the early day the distance seemed greater than when softened by the light of the morning sun. he had often from afar viewed the mountains over which they were traveling. as they ascended, he gazed long and wistfully towards home, a home that lives in his memory today as clearly as on that morning in the long ago. [illustration: on the band wagon] when the crest of the ridge was reached and the descent on the other side began, looking backwards, he imagined the world between him and home. right glad was he of the friendly advances of the old driver--they were friends. soon the band men began to awaken, taking out their instruments, arranging their clothing, and making preparation for the entrance into town. the baggage wagons had preceded the band and performer's wagons. there was but one animal van, charley white's trained lions, the feature of the show. the teams halted. the driver placed plumes in the head gear of the horses. the band men pulled on red coats and caps. as the horns tooted and the cymbals clashed they entered the town. alfred assisted the driver to unhitch his team. mr. noyes arrived, meanwhile. alfred volunteered to take charge of his team. he drove the handsome horses to the barn and saw that they were fed and watered. mr. noyes remarked: "you seem to be fond of horses. have you handled them before?" "all my life," proudly answered alfred. "well, you ride with me tomorrow. it will be more pleasant than in the band wagon. i want you to go in the concert today." he had no orchestrated music, but phil blumenschein, the bandmaster, was an old minstrel leader. the orchestra played over alfred's stuff two or three times and played it better than it was ever played before. in those days an orchestra furnished the music for the entire circus performance. there came a heavy rain. the attendance at the concert was very light insofar as the paid admissions were concerned but all connected with the circus were there to witness the debut of the new boy who had joined to strengthen the concert. no opera house or theatre ever erected has the resonance, the perfect acoustics of a circus tent when the canvas is wet and the temperature within above degrees. there was a chord from the orchestra. alfred ran to the platform in the middle of the ring. (the gentleman who announced the concert assured the audience there would be a stage erected). this stage was a platform about ten feet square resting flat on the uneven earth. as alfred stepped on it and began his song and dance, in which he did some very heavy falls, the platform rocked and reeled like a boat in a storm. every slap of the big shoes on his well developed feet made a racket, the sound twofold increased by the acoustics of the damp tent. alfred's voice sounded louder to himself than ever before, notwithstanding he worked his whole first number with his back to the audience. (in theatres the orchestra is always in a pit in front of the performers--in a circus concert the orchestra is behind the performer). alfred faced the orchestra; his back to the audience, his work made a hit, even more with the show folks than with the audience. dick durrant, the banjoist, taught alfred the comedy of the familiar duet, "what's the matter pompey?" this was in alfred's line and the act became the comedy feature of the concert. salary day came on sunday. the employes of the circus reported to the room of the manager, where their salary was counted out to them by the treasurer. when alfred's turn came he was asked: "how much does your contract call for?" "i have no contract. here is the letter under which i joined," assured alfred, passing the letter to the treasurer. glancing at it: "yes, i wrote that letter but you'll have to see mr. thayer." as alfred opened the door to depart he said, "you had best see mr. noyes." "how much are you going to pay me, mr. thayer?" "well, let me see, ten dollars a week will be about right, won't it charley?" "eh, no, pay him fifteen. he's worth it. he's the best boy i ever had around me," was mr. noyes' answer. charley noyes paid alfred the first salary he ever earned with a circus and it was so ordained that alfred should pay the then famous circus manager the last salary he ever received, years after the day charley noyes declared alfred the best boy he ever had around him. the once famous manager, broken in health and fortune, was seeking employment and it fell to alfred's lot to secure him an engagement with a company of which alfred was the manager. when the salary of the veteran was being discussed, alfred's intervention secured him remuneration far in excess of that hoped for. soon after this engagement ended, mr. noyes died very suddenly. the end came in a little city of texas. it happened that the minstrel company, owned by the one time new boy of the circus, was in waco. letters on mr. noyes' person written by alfred led the hotel people to telegraph the minstrel manager, who hastened to the city where his friend had died. ere he arrived, the masonic fraternity had performed the last sad rites. mr. noyes was the friend of alfred when he needed friends and it was his intention to send all that was mortal of him to his old home. telegrams were not answered and charles noyes sleeps in the little cemetery at lampasas, texas. as the thayer & noyes circus was one of the best, alfred has always considered his engagement with that concern as the beginning of his professional career. dr. james l. thayer and his family were highly connected. mr. noyes married the sister of his partner's wife. the families did not agree and this led to a separation of the partners, disastrous to both. chas. noyes' crescent city circus, and dr. james thayer's great american circus never appealed to the people as did the old title, nor was either of the concerns as meritorious as the thayer & noyes concern. in the prosperous days of the show the proprietors and their wives were welcome guests in the homes of the best families in the cities visited. the writer remembers that in the city of baltimore, the mayor, the city council and other high dignitaries attended the opening performance in a body. the company was the cream of the circus world: s. p. stickney, one of the most respectable and talented of old time circus men; sam and robert stickney, sons; emma stickney, his daughter; tom king and wife, millie turnour, jimmy reynolds, the clown whose salary of one hundred dollars a week had so excited the cupidity of alfred; woody cook, who came from cookstown, fayette county, only a few miles from brownsville, and who, like alfred had left home to seek his fortune; james kelly, champion leaper of the world; james cook and wife, of the cook family, were of the company. all circus people in those days were apprenticed, all learned their business. one of the latter day hall room performers would have received short shrift in a company of those days, when every performer was an all-round athlete; in fact, in individual superiority, the circus actor of that day outclassed those of the present. the riders were very much superior as they had more competent instructors. the only particular in which the circus performance has progressed is in the introduction of the thrillers--the big aerial acts, the mid-air feats. combination acts are superior in the present circus and in this alone has there been improvement. the circus people of old bore the same relation to the public as does the legitimate actor today. there was an aristocracy in the circus world of those days that could not be understood by the circus people of today. some twelve families controlled the circus business in this country for years. they were people of wealth and affairs. the robinson family was one of the oldest and most famous of their times. the elder john robinson left an estate valued in the millions. the numerous apprentices of this master of the circus were the most famous of all of their times. james robinson who was the undisputed champion bare-back rider of the world, was an apprentice of "old john" robinson. assuming the name of robinson, he held a place in the circus field never attained by any other. he toured the world heralded as the champion, yet he would never permit himself to be announced as such. he earned two fortunes. today at an age that leaves the greater number of men in their dotage, mr. robinson is healthy and active. he enjoys life as few old persons do. in the office of his friend, dr. j. j. mcclellan, he may be found almost any day, the center of a group of good fellows and none merrier than the once champion bare-back rider of the world. the stickneys were one of the greatest of the old time circus families. in the summer the family followed the red wagons and in the winter mr. stickney managed the american theatre on poydras street, new orleans. america's noted players all appeared in this theatre. young bob stickney was born in this theatre. he made his first appearance on the stage as the child in rolla, supporting edwin forrest. no more talented or graceful performer ever entered a circus ring than this same robert stickney. only a few weeks ago the writer attended a performance of that improbable play, polly at the circus. the grace and dramatic actions of mr. stickney in the one brief moment in the scene where polly rushes into the ring, were more effectively and dramatically portrayed than any climax in the play. when thayer & noyes' great american circus exhibited in baltimore a special quarter sheet bill was printed, the program of the performance. al. g. field was one of the names on the bill, in two colors. the agent mailed one of these bills to the show. it was not until the portly proprietor, dr. thayer, explained to alfred that his name was entirely too long for a quarter sheet, and that if he, alfred, desired to be billed, he must curtail the name. "i've just knocked your hat off," laughed the good natured showman. alfred thought little of the matter. he only regarded the name as a _nom-de-plume_. other bills were printed bearing the name of al. g. field; when nearing the end of the circus season the management of the bidwell & mcdonough's black crook company applied to thayer & noyes for two or three lively young men to act as sprites, and goblins, mr. thayer recommended young mr. field as a capable person to impersonate the red gnome; this name went on the bills. alfred never signed a letter or used the newly acquired name until years afterwards circumstances and conditions had fixed the show name upon him and it was absolutely imperative he adopt it. therefore in , by act of the legislature of ohio and the probate court of franklin county, ohio, the name of alfred griffith hatfield field was legalized, abbreviated on all advertising matter to al. g. field. it is so copyrighted in the title of the al. g. field greater minstrels with the librarian of congress. chapter twenty-one we all fall down at times, though we have nerve and grit; you're worth a bet, but don't forget-- to lay down means to quit. "columbus, ohio, is a long ways out west and i don't hope tu ever git tu see you all agin but i hope you won't fergit me, kase i'll never fergit you. i'd go with you all but i'm 'bliged tu keep my promise. i hope my married life will turn out all right but you kan't never guess whar you're goin' tu land when yu sail on the sea of matermony. "they say the reason men don't practis what they preach is bekase they need the money. well, if he practices what he preaches, he'll be a good pervider and that's all i'll ask of him. "i hope john will do better when you git settled in columbus an' i know he will. alfred's mos' a man grown an' he'll be a big help to his pap if ye'll jes' take him right. i jes' told john day afore yisterday--i ses, ses i--'alfurd's no child enny more and you ought not tu treat him like a boy.' i want you all to write me and tell me how yu like it. i s'pose when yu git out in ohio you'll all git the ager. uncle wilse's folks did and they shook thar teeth loose. they moved to tuscarrarus county. newcomerstown was thar post office. they wrote us they wanted to kum back home afore they was there a month. "it's bad fur ole peepul to change their hums. hits all right fur young folks kase they're not settled an' they soon fergit the old love fur the new, but i hope you'll like hit. john says the railroads kum into columbus from both ways an' the cars are comin' an' goin' all the time. if you live close tu the depot you won't sleep much kase you hain't used tu hit." lin's fears were not realized. alfred's home was far from the depot. it was in the south end, in fact, the south end was columbus in those days. those who guided the destinies of railroads were as wise in those days as these of the present. the site of coony born's father's brewery was selected as the most desirable location for a passenger depot. the good people of columbus (the south end) were more jealous of their rights than the people of today when a railroad is supposed to be encroaching upon them; therefore when it was proposed to locate a depot where the noise would disturb their slumbers and their setting hens, the opposition of not the few, but many, was aroused. to locate the depot in their midst was an invasion of their rights. not only would it disturb the quietude of their homes but it would be a menace to their business inasmuch as it would attract undesirable strangers. the business men of the south end had their regular customers and did not care to take chances with strangers. they admitted a depot was a necessity--a sort of nuisance--to be tolerated, but not approved. railroad people of those days were as inconsistent as those of today. they were spiteful. they built a depot outside the city limits, as near the line of demarcation as possible. north public lane, now naghten street, was the north city limits. the south end had won. they celebrated their victory over the railroads by a public demonstration. hessenauer's garden was crowded. the principal speaker, in eloquent low dutch, congratulated the citizens on the preservation of their rights--and slumbers. he highly complimented them over the fact that they had forced the railroads to locate their depot as far from the south end as the law and the city limits would permit. the new depot was connected with the city by a cinder path, nor could the city compel the builders of the new depot to lay a sidewalk. the depot people claimed the land thereunder would revert to the city. therefore, in the rainy seasons incoming travelers carried such quantities of the cinder walk on their feet that the sidewalks of high street appeared to strangers in mourning for the sad mistake of those who platted the town in confining the city forever to one street. every incoming locomotive deposited its ashes on the cinder path. the city could not remove the ashes as rapidly as they accumulated. the task was abandoned and to this day no continuous efforts are made to keep the streets of columbus clean. like the good fraus of the south end cleaning house, the streets are cleaned once a year--near election time. there was no population north of naghten street until after the erection of the depot. it is true there were a few north of ireland folks living in the old todd barracks, and many of their descendants to this day can be found on neil avenue; yet they had no political power at that time; in fact the south end people, with that supreme indifference which characterizes those who have possession by right of inheritance, did not even note the invasion of the city by the yankees and puritans from worthington and westerville. it was not until pat egan was elected coroner that the residents of the south end realized a candidate of theirs could be laid out by a foreigner. it was in those days that alfred was introduced to columbus. they were the good old days, when all thrifty people made their kraut on all hallowe'en and the celebration of schiller's birthday was only overshadowed by that of washington's; when the first woods were away out in the country and quail shooting good anywhere this side of alum creek. the state fair grounds (franklin park) were in the city. the state house, the court house, born's brewery, the city hall, and hessenauer's garden, all in the south end, were all the public improvements the city could boast of. others were not desired. those days only live in the memory of the good people who enjoyed them--the good old days when every lawn in the south end was a social center on sundays; where every tree shaded a happy, contented gathering whose songs of the fatherland were in harmony with the laws of the land, touching a responsive chord in the breasts of those who not only enjoyed the benefits and blessings of the best and most liberal government on earth, but appreciated them. the statesmen of those days, the men who made laws and upheld them, chosen as rulers by a majority of their fellow citizens, were respected by all. it was not necessary for an official to stand guard between the rabble and the administration. office holders stood upon the dignity of their offices. demagogues had not instilled in the minds of the ignorant that to be governed was to be oppressed. those unfitted by nature and education to administer public affairs did not aspire to do so nor to embarrass those who were competent. in the good old days of columbus, in the days of "rise up" william allen, allen w. thurman, sunset cox and others, that fact that has been recognized in republic, kingdom and empire, namely: that that government is least popular that is most open to public access and interference. the office holders of those days were strong and self-reliant. they formulated and promulgated their policies. they had faith in themselves. the voters had faith in them and faith is as necessary in politics as in religion. the glories of the south end began to wane. south end people in the simplicity of their minds felt they were entitled to their customs, liberties and enjoyments. sober and law abiding, they only asked to be permitted to live in their own way as they had always lived. but the interlopers objected. the yankees interfered in private and public affairs, legislation was distorted, and still more aggravating, the descendants of the puritans demanded that at all public celebrations pumpkin pie and sweet cider be substituted for lager beer, head and limburger cheese. a german lends dignity to any business or calling he may engage in. honest and industrious, he succeeds in his undertakings. in the old days all that was required to establish a paying business in the south end was a keg of beer, a picture of prince bismarck and a urinal. patronized by his neighbors, his place was always quiet and orderly. but little whiskey was consumed, hence there was but little drunkenness. when william wall invited george schoedinger into john corrodi's, george called for beer. wall, with a shrug of his shoulders to evidence his disgust, said: "oh, shucks! beer! beer! take whiskey, mon, beer's too damn bulky." as there was no prohibition territory in those days there was no bottled beer. whether keg beer was too bulky or not relished, brewery wagons seldom invaded the sections wherein the interlopers dwelt. the grocery wagons of george wheeler and wm. taylor were often in evidence. both of these groceries in the north end did a thriving jug and bottle trade. the germans bought and imbibed their beer openly. the grocery wagons were a cloak to the secretiveness of those whom they served, therefore those who patronized the grocery wagons were greatly grieved and rudely shocked at the sight of the beer wagons and the knowledge that their fellow citizens drank beer in their homes or on their lawns. this became an issue in politics and religion. many went to church seeking consolation and were forced to listen to political speeches. preachers forgot their calling; instead of preaching love, they advocated hatred. the german saloon, being lowly and harmless, must go. in their stead came the mirrored bar with its greater influence for the spread of intemperance but clothed with more respectability outwardly. public officials were embarrassed, cajoled and threatened. the malcontent, the meddler, the demagogue, had injected their baneful innovations into the political life of columbus. it is related the indians would not live as the puritan fathers desired they should. they would not accept the dogmas and beliefs of the whites. at thanksgiving time, a period of fasting and prayer, the puritan fathers held a business meeting and these resolutions were adopted: first, resolved, that the earth and the fullness thereof belong to god. second, that god gave the earth to his chosen people. third, that we are those. they then adjourned, went out and slew every redskin in sight. politically, the same fate was meted out to the peaceful citizens of the south end. the sceptre had passed from the hands of the sturdy old burghers of the south end. in their stead came a crop of office holders who, striving for personal popularity, catering to the meddler and busybody--a class who had no business of their own, but ever ready to attend to that of others. from a willing-to-be governed and peaceful city, discontent and confusion came. every tinker, tailor or candle stick maker, every busybody in the city took it upon themselves, although without training, ability or experience, to advise how the city should be governed. in the new order of things, representatives were elected noted only for their talking talents, the consequence of which was that every official considered that he was entitled to talk and talk on every subject whether he understood it or not. there was a custom among the warriors of rome that when one fell in battle, each soldier in his command cast a shovelful of earth on the corpse. thus a mighty mound was formed. and so it was in the new order of things in columbus. when a question of moment came, every official endeavored to shower his eloquence upon it until it was buried under a mass of words. the busybodies who so greatly interfered with public matters were from the grocery wagon sections and were addicted to chewing cloves. those from the west side chewed tobacco. all ate peanuts. special appropriations were requested by john ward, city hall janitor, to remove the peanut hulls after each talk fest. and thus it was that peanut politics and peanut politicians came to be known in columbus. peanut politics like all infections, spread until the whole political system became affected. if the depot had been located in the south end there would be no north end today. do you remember the north end before the depot was located there? do you remember wesley chapel on the site of the present wesley and nicholas block. worship was never disturbed by the hum of business. in the north end in those days there was tom marshall's red bird saloon, jack moore's barber shop, and that old frame building, hickory alley and high street, no. , a floor space of twenty-five by forty feet. they turned out one hundred and fifty buggies a year. later, as the columbus buggy company, a buggy every eight minutes was the output. that was the beginning of the largest concern of its kind in the world. the columbus buggy company and doctor hartman, the foremost citizen of columbus, have done more to bring fame and business to columbus than all other concerns combined. their advertising matter, the most expensive ever used, is distributed to all parts of the world; hence, the man abroad hailing from columbus is not compelled to carry a map to verify his statement that columbus is on it. the columbus of that day had more street railways than the columbus of today. in fact, every man that had a pull had a street of his own. columbus has more streets than any city in the world, comparatively. it is true some of them are not as long as the names they bear, yet they are on the town plat. probably it was this ambition to own a street that influenced others to own street railways. we always spoke of "old man" miller owning the two-horse high street line. luther donaldson owned the one-horse line on state street. doctor hawkes owned the one-horse line on west broad street. doctor hawkes owned several stage lines diverging from columbus. he was the most serious of men. alfred was in his employ. his duties called him to towns on the various stage routes. hunting was good anywhere in those days. alfred was provided with a rickety buggy and a spavined horse. he provided himself with a shot gun and a dog. [illustration: the first home of the columbus buggy co.] returning from mt. sterling one raw autumn day, the game had been plentiful. the old doctor met alfred near where the hawkes hospital (now mt. carmel) stands. the doctor driving a nettled horse, hurriedly advised alfred that business of importance demanded he return to washington c. h. there was a fine bag of game under the seat in the buggy, also a double barreled shot gun and a hunting suit. how to explain their presence to the doctor was perplexing, although he had not neglected the business entrusted to him; in fact, he was an hour ahead of the time. alfred feared the doctor would be displeased. the doctor, quickly alighting, ordered alfred into his rig. "doctor, i have a bunch of quail under the seat. just let me get my gun out and you can have the quail if you want them; if not, send them out to father's." the old doctor knitted his brow but said nothing. however, the quail were sent to the father's house. another day, starting on a trip to the country, the doctor standing on the steps of the office, looked at alfred and asked if he had forgotten anything. "no, sir, nothing. i have everything i usually take with me." "where's your gun?" asked the doctor. "out home," replied alfred. "now doctor, i have done a little hunting but i always start early and i never neglect your business." the doctor muttered something about hunting being a frivolous sport and it should not be engaged in on your employer's time. he never permitted anyone to waste time. the hawkes' farm, embracing all the land on the west side near where the mt. carmel hospital is now located, was covered with stones. it was a fad of the doctor's to pass an afternoon on the farm, gathering stones. preparing to leave for aetna one morning, alfred called at the office to receive instructions. it was late when the old gentleman put in an appearance. he had had a bad night and desired alfred to accompany him to the farm. arriving at the farm, it was not long until he had alfred picking up stones. the greater part of the day was thus spent. alfred's back ached. he thought it the most peculiar fad a sane man ever indulged in. the doctor was as deeply interested as though engaged in some great undertaking. a dozen boulders were placed in the buggy, as heavy a load as the old vehicle would stand up under. driving to a point where the doctor had quite a pile, the stones were unloaded and another load collected. rabbits were numerous. the next visit to the farm alfred carried his gun. it was but a few moments until a cotton-tail jumped up in the path of the buggy. alfred killed the rabbit. it was not long until four of the big-eared bunnies were dead on the buggy floor. the old doctor began to show interest in the sport. when alfred made a move to lay away his gun, the doctor requested that he continue the hunt. nor was it long until he advised alfred that he would accompany him to mt. sterling and requested that the gun and dog be taken along. the doctor without expressing himself as being at all interested, followed alfred in the field. the only interest he seemed to take in the sport was when the hunter missed; then, knitting his brows, he would follow the birds with his eyes as they flew away. dr. hawkes was the most unimpressionable of men. he had no conception of humor. he rarely smiled and never laughed outright. he assured alfred that he would employ a man who had been in the penitentiary in preference to one who had traveled with a circus. the prejudiced old doctor was not aware that alfred formerly followed the "red wagons." a contract had been entered into to convey a number of young school girls to their homes in the country. the driver failed to report. an hour passed. the old doctor was greatly worried. the team was the best in the barn and more than anxious to answer to the driver's command. alfred climbed to the seat. old miles, the barn boss, was in doubt as to entrusting the horses to a driver who was not familiar with them. "hol' on, boy. everybody kan't handle dis team." "turn them loose, miles, i'm on my way," alfred shouting "all-aboard." the doctor looked on in doubt. gazing up at alfred he began questioning him as to where he had learned to drive four horses. "oh, when i was with a circus," replied alfred. "i reined six better ones than these." "you have a precious load. i'm really afraid to trust them to you. it would be an awful thing if you should not be able to handle the team. i'll send old joe with you." "it's not necessary," alfred replied. the young ladies aboard, the whip cracked, they were off; around the state house square, up high street on a lively trot. the old doctor stood on the corner with as near a smile on his face as alfred ever noticed. in the evening he complimented alfred meagerly on his proficiency as a whip. alfred laughingly reminded him that they did not teach you stage driving over at the "pen". uncle henry, a blacksmith who shod the doctor's stage horses, asserted the reason the doctor preferred those from the "pen" was that he could hire them cheaper. james clahane was facetiously dubbed "the duke of middletown" by his friends, and that meant everybody who was intimate with the good-natured irishman. there must be something ennobling in the blacksmith calling. it not only strengthens the muscles but the nature of a man. when doctor hawkes projected the horse car line on west broad street, he solicited clahane to buy stock. the old blacksmith had his hard-earned savings invested in west broad street building lots. the doctor argued the street car line would not only pay handsome dividends but greatly enhance the value of abutting property. clahane, very much against his judgment, invested considerable money in the street car line. the cars were not operated a month until clahane questioned the doctor as to when the road would strike a dividend. it was considered a good joke by all, save the doctor. burglars cracked the street car safe, securing over four hundred dollars of the company's money. the news spread quickly. clahane, minus coat, with plug hat in hand, (it was a hot morning), approached the office. several gentlemen, including the doctor, stood on the steps viewing the wreck within. clahane, while yet the width of broad street away, shouted at the top of his voice: "egad, dhoctur, yese hev got yere divident." if the old doctor realized the humor of this dig he never evidenced it. the world declared the doctor cold and uncharitable, but alfred never enters mt. carmel hospital that he does not lift his hat in reverence as he halts in front of the marble bust that so faithfully portrays the serious face of doctor hawkes. in those days heitman was mayor, sam thompson chief of police, lott smith was the 'squire of the town, and 'squire doney in the township. chief heinmiller ran the fire department and ran it right. oliver evans had the exclusive oyster trade of the city, handling it personally with a one horse wagon. the postoffice was near the neil house. the canal boats unloaded at broad street, and columbus had a fourth of july celebration every year. alfred was one of a committee of young men laboring, to demonstrate to the world that the birth of this nation was an event, and incidently, to attract attention to a section of the city that had been overlooked in the way of street improvements. the large vacant field opposite the blind asylum was selected as the proper location for the fourth of july celebration. the fact that the brass band, lately organized by the officers of the blind asylum, would be available for the exercises, had great weight with the committee, in selecting the location. parsons avenue, then east public lane, was the muddiest street in the city. those who drove their cows home via east public lane will verify this statement. the city council had been appealed to personally and by petition. finally, to partially appease public outcry, a very narrow sidewalk was constructed from friend, now main street, to mound, one short square. this very narrow sidewalk aroused those of the neighborhood as never before, excepting when the pound was established and citizens prevented pasturing their live stock on the public streets. among the attractions of the fourth of july celebration were lon worthington, tight-rope walker; billy wyatt, in fire-eating exercises; a greased pig; ed delany, who was to read the declaration of independence and alfred a burlesque oration. there was universal dissatisfaction over the narrow sidewalk and many independent citizens refused to walk upon it. they waded in mud to their knees, and proudly boasted of their independence as citizens. even ladies refused to use the sidewalk, asserting it was so narrow two persons could not pass without embracing. there was an old soldier who bore the scars of numerous battles and was looking for more. on the glorious fourth, to more strongly emphasize his disdain for the narrow sidewalk, he rigged himself out in the uniform he had worn throughout the war. although it was excessively hot he wore not only his fatigue uniform but his heavy blue double-caped overcoat. he paraded up and down along the side of the detested sidewalk, never stepping foot upon it. when his feet became too heavy with mud he scraped it off on the edge of the walk as he cursed the city council. he consigned them to----, where there are no fourth of julys or sidewalks. strains of music foretold the coming of the grand parade, headed by the blind band, marching in the middle of the street, their movement guided by a drum major blessed with the sight of one eye. on they came, four abreast, taking up the narrow street from field fence line to narrow sidewalk line. from the opposite direction came the son of mars. he was large enough to be the father of that mythical warrior. the four slide trombone players leading the van were rapidly nearing the violent soldier who was taking up as much street as the four musicians; in fact, after his last visit to ed turner's saloon, the old soldier actually required the full width of the street. as the band and soldiers neared each other, it was evident there would be a collision. on the old "vet" marched, oblivious of everything on earth excepting the sidewalk. people yelled at him. one man who knew something of military tactics shouted "halt!" the old veteran shouting back, to go to where he had consigned the city council and their sidewalk. "get out of the way; let the band by!" waving his mace as an emblem of authority, jack nagle, the policeman, ran towards the old soldier. "get out of the way! get out of the street! get on the sidewalk! can't you walk on the sidewalk?" "walk on the sidewalk," shouted the old soldier, "walk on the sidewalk? huh, what in hell do you take me for, the tight-rope walker?" the fourth of july celebration was successful. in obtaining street improvements, east public lane was paved with brick twenty years afterwards, thus alfred gained a reputation as a politician. years later, george j. karb, a candidate for sheriff, requested alfred and several of his friends to make a tour of the northern part of the county in his interest--a section noted for its piety and respectability. there were mayor george pagels and bill parks and jewett of worthington, fred butler of dublin, tom hanson of linworth, and numerous other deacons and elders to be seen. karb requested that alfred select the right people to accompany him. w. e. joseph, charley wheeler and gig osborn, made up the committee that was to present the merits of the candidate for sheriff to the voters of the linwood and plain city section. karb was furious when he learned that fred atcherson had volunteered to carry the party in his big packard machine. he swore they would lose him more votes than he could ever hope to regain; an automobile was the detestation of every farmer. to complete the campaign organization the committee decided to wear the largest goggles, caps and automobile coats procurable. the first farmer's team they met shied off the road, upsetting the wagon, breaking the tongue and crushing one wheel. the committee gave the farmer an order on fred immel to repair the wagon if possible, otherwise deliver a new wagon to the bearer, charging same to george j. karb. this experience cautioned the party to be more careful. another farmer's team approaching, they halted by the roadside a hundred yards from the passing point. do what he would the farmer could not urge his team by the automobile. charley wheeler became impatient and sarcastic. "what's the matter? you going to hold us here all day? didn't your crow-baits ever see a gas wagon before?" "yes, my team has seed gas wagons and gas houses afore," sneered the farmer, "but they hain't used to a hull pack of skeer crows in one crowd. when we put a skeer crow in a corn field, one's all we make. some damned fools make a dozen and put 'em all in one automobile. if you'll all get out and hide, my team will go by your ole benzine tank." hot and dusty, the party halted in front of a hotel. the village was larger and more prosperous than any yet visited. a number of men were threshing grain a few hundred yards away, the steam threshing machine attracting farmers from all the country about. one a peculiar man, more refined appearing than the others, had once been a college professor; overstudy had partially unbalanced his reason. he was versed in the classics. he took an especial interest in alfred. bill joseph is the luckiest man that ever tapped a slot machine. when traveling he often steps off the train while it halts at a depot and pulls his expenses out of a slot machine. on this day he was unusually lucky. the hotel had a varied assortment of drop-a-nickle-in-the-slot devices. joe tapped them in a row. the hotel people looked upon him with suspicion. but when he carried the winnings into the bar, ordering the hotel man to slake the thirsts of the threshers, they were sort of reconciled. the old college professor, unlike the others, demanded something stronger than beer. his neighbors, who evidently had him in charge, endeavored to persuade him to go home. [illustration: on the crowd cheered] "wait! hold a minute. i want to talk to this man field. he is a scientific man. his father laid the atlantic cable. his family is noted the world over. i want to talk to him. the field family are noted scientists." one of those who seemed most intimate with the professor was an old soldier, very deaf. "what did you say his name was?" he inquired. "field," replied the professor. "f-i-e-l-d." "field," repeated the old soldier. "field. well, i want nuthin' to do with _him_. field was my captain's name in the army, an' he was the damnedest beat i ever knowed." the old professor stuck to alfred quoting latin. he quoted a striking climax from one of bryan's speeches, a quotation bryan has been using in his chautauqua lectures and political speeches for years. the old professor observed claudius evolved this idea years ago. alfred had no idea of who claudius was, or how long ago he lived. however, when he located him four hundred years back, the old professor said "huh, four hundred years ago? h-ll! four thousand years." alfred did not delve into the classics further. alfred presented the claims of geo. karb for the office of sheriff and concluded his talk by inviting all to call on karb when they happened in columbus. "and when election day comes around, i hope you will all see your way clear to cast your votes for him, even though you are opposed to him politically. we must not adhere too strictly to our political prejudices in selecting officers to look after our personal affairs. and that's what a sheriff should do, and that's what geo. karb will do. therefore, i ask you to cast your votes for geo. j. karb for sheriff of franklin county." the crowd cheered. the old professor took it upon himself to reply. first, he thanked all for the honor they did his community by visiting them. "we have too few scientists visit us and i hope mr. field will come again when he can enlighten us on many scientific matters of which we are in doubt. as to his candidate for sheriff of franklin county, we know he is deserving or mr. field and the eminent gentlemen would not commend him. and i know that every voter here would be glad to vote for mr. karb if we lived in franklin county." the facts are, the committee in their zeal, were electioneering in milford center, union county. joe was pryed off the slot machines and a solemn compact entered into that the part of the electioneering tour over the franklin county line be forever held and guarded as a sealed book. chapter twenty-two and far away--up yonder, in the window o' the blue, the dreamed-of angels listen to an echo glad and new-- thrilled to the gates of glory, and they say: "heaven's love to you, brother of the light that makes the morning!" "if john kin do better in columbus, hit's yo're duty to go." thus linn advised the mother. columbus was a big city but it was not home. the mother was discontented and longed for the old town back yonder. alfred had promised to abandon his circus ambitions. he had just concluded a season in the south with the simmons & slocum minstrels, a famous troupe of those days. e. n. slocum was a columbus man. alfred had received an offer to cross the ocean with haverly's minstrels, a very large company. haverly had invaded london previously and the success of that venture aroused great hopes for the success of the second company. the mother's strenuous opposition to alfred's acceptance of the engagement was backed up by uncle henry hunt, who was on a visit from burlington, iowa. uncle henry was born in elk county, ky. his mother died when he was very young. his father married soon after the death of the first wife. the younger sister and himself did not appeal strongly to the step-mother. she was deeply interested in church work, and had little time to devote to the half orphaned children or her home. a plantation and a hundred and fifty slaves engaged all the father's time. the boy and girl ran wild on the place and it was little wonder they often came in for censure and even more severe punishment. the sister seemed more aggravating to the new mother than the boy. reprimands became more frequent, followed by bodily punishment. during the father's absence in louisville, the step-mother's abuse of the sister became so aggravating to the brother that he assaulted the step-mother. the boy, fearing the wrath of the father, determined to run away. he had relatives, a brother in newark, ohio. walking and working, he reached newark, footsore, weary, lonesome and homesick. he felt he had reached a haven of rest. the wife of the brother was the best man. she ran the husband, she ran the home. ragged and miserable looking, his reception was anything but cordial. the recital of his wrongs, the abuse of his sister by the step-mother, instead of creating sympathy, brought censure. the brother's wife was a most devout church member and that a boy of fourteen had descended to the depths of degradation his condition denoted, was most abhorrent to her. the boy realized that he was an unwelcome guest. it was not long ere the brother, influenced by the wife, informed him that he must go back to his home, to the old plantation in kentucky, that he must submit to the authority of the step-mother, become a better boy, that his behavior, had disgraced the family, and that he, the brother, could not harbor him longer. the brother's wife assured him the prayers of herself and family would go up for him nightly. they gave him no food, they gave him no money. when the door of his brother's house closed upon him, all there was of love in his being for kith or kin went out of him, save for the memory of the dead mother and the living sister. he worked on a farm barefooted; he slept in an out-house without sufficient covering to keep him warm; he carried a clap-board to the field that he might protect his feet from the frost while he husked corn. he apprenticed himself to a blacksmith, learned the trade and came to columbus. he established a shop at a crossroads in the country. it became known as hunt's corners. it is now the corner of cleveland and mt. vernon avenues. uncle henry, through influence, secured a contract from the penitentiary. he accumulated money, moved to burlington, iowa, became one of the prosperous, progressive business men of that beautiful city. that uncle henry's heart was hardened towards relatives did not change his generous disposition towards friends. alfred liked the rugged old blacksmith whose good nature and wholesome hospitality were the admiration of all who were fortunate enough to be his guests. he entertained as few men can entertain. the host of a home is a difficult social role to fill. there are no rules, no book-lessons that teach it. it is an inborn trait and comes only to a man who loves the companionship, the good-fellowship of human beings. uncle henry was noted for the good things to eat he so abundantly provided. however, had he served the plainest food to those whom he welcomed, his hearty hospitality would have made it a feast. [illustration: uncle henry] uncle henry soothingly addressed the mother: "sis," (he always addressed her as "sis,"), "alfred's not going to england. he has walked many dusty roads, like myself, and he's all the better for it, but you can't walk back from england. i've told him so. alfred's going to stay right here in this country. he's all right. he's going with a circus. he's a better circus manager than plenty of them that's making money. when he gets a little older, hard behind the ears, we're going to get up a company and start him out right. i've talked it all over with grimes and two or three other friends. now you and john just let that boy alone. he'll come out all right." the mother said: "alfred has promised me he will not go with another circus. it keeps us worried all the time. i'm afraid something will happen him." "yes, something will happen him, and you take it from me, it will happen here or there, and it's more liable to happen here than there. say, sis, come on, be a sensible woman. never drive your boys away. never coax them to lie." "why, i haven't coaxed alfred to lie," quickly answered the mother. "say, sis, you've been coaxing that boy to lie since he was able to paddle his own canoe. your coaxing him to do that, he will never do. that is, stay at home and paint wagons, houses or boats. give him his way. he'll have it anyhow, you see if he don't. if he wants to start a grocery, i'll loan him the money. but, he'll never make a groceryman. suppose they'd tried to make a preacher out me," (and all laughed), uncle henry said, "yes, you laugh at the very idea of it. let me tell you something, and i hope alfred's high-falutin' preacher uncles and others won't get red in the face when they hear of it. if you all keep caterwauling alfred around, he wouldn't amount to three hurrahs in halifax." "he may work for doctor hawkes forty years longer and he will be no better off than a living. there's no hope for a boy in working for a man like doctor hawkes. the doctor's all right but he never assisted a human being to better himself. he's like all other rich men. he just uses men to pile it up for himself, and any man that can't pile it up for himself, or don't make a big try to do so, needs shingling. i never had any relatives to pull me back, and i never had any to put me forward." "where is your brother and his wife?" someone asked uncle henry. "wheeling cinders," came quick as a flash. "oh, uncle henry, i am surprised." "well, the reason i say that, is, they told me that people that did certain things would sure go there"--and he pointed downwards--"and they did those very things so what can i say when you ask me where they are?" * * * * * peter sells and alfred were close friends. the sells bros. show had opened early--april , , . it rained or snowed every day during their engagement in columbus. the show was to appear in chillicothe a few days after leaving columbus. peter sells came into the stage office and arranged to go to chillicothe. he had returned from kentucky to confer with his brothers. alfred accepted his invitation to accompany him to chillicothe. the after concert, with no performers to present it, had been omitted for three days. alfred advised ephraim sells that could he find wardrobe a concert could be given that afternoon and night. the wardrobe was secured. the announcer made much of the "great minstrel comedian" who would positively appear in the concert for this day only. nat goodwin and his company, who were to appear in the opera house that night, were in the audience. ephraim, allen and peter sells, and alfred were seated on a bench in front of the hotel. allen sells was endeavoring to persuade alfred to remain with the show. while the dicker was pending, a young clerk from a store door, yelled to a passer-by on the opposite side of the street: "were you at the circus?" the other yelled: "yes." "how was it?" "bum, but the concert's good. that al. g. field that was here last winter in the opera house, is with them. the concert's the best part of the whole thing. i guess the minstrels are busted, or field wouldn't be with such a bum circus." the sells brothers appreciated the joke. the argument ended abruptly by the engagement of alfred. ephraim sells was exacting in all his dealings. severe with the drunkard, he endeavored to assist all temperate and deserving employes, advising men to secure their own homes. "own your home. you will never accumulate anything without a home. establish a home, raise a family, be somebody." there are many men living in columbus today who owe all their possessions to ephraim sells' advice. the sells brothers shows were larger than the thayer & noyes. in fact, the sells shows had the advantage of a menagerie. the circus performance was not so meritorious as the first circus alfred was connected with. the sells brothers, with the exception of peter, were not good showmen; that is, they were not producers, although good business men. had the sells brothers possessed the talent for originating and producing displayed by james a. bailey, or alfred t. ringling, their organization would have been second to none, as they had the opportunities but did not take advantage of them. they were undoubtedly exhibiting the finest menagerie in the country, the collection of animals, with the exception of a giraffe, was most complete. peter, the advance agent, returned to the show. he severely criticized the appearance of the show, particularly the lack of decorations. nashville was a two days' stand. ephraim gave alfred orders to buy all the decorations, banners, flags, etc., necessary to convert the interior of the tents into a bower of beauty. nashville stores were ransacked. printed calico or other goods with the national colors emblazoned on them were the only decorations available. wagon loads of these goods were purchased. side poles were festooned with the gaudy colored calico, and lengths of it hung in front of the reserved seats, on the band stand, the entrance to the dressing tents. the decorations were the wonder and admiration of the circus folks. drivers, razor-backs, car porters, cook tent, side show people came again to gaze upon the riot of color presented by the decorations. it rained as it only rains in nashville. the surrounding country is fame's eternal camping ground. here sleep men from all the states of the north and south. it is the bivouac of the dead. the hills have trembled with the tramp of armies. blood has flowed as freely as the rushing waters of the murky cumberland. hills now green with nature's garb were once stained with the blood of those who struggled for the mastery. but no battlefield near nashville ever presented the sight that did the hill on which stood sells brothers tents in the soft haze of that october morning. running rivulets of red percolated in a hundred gulleys from under the circus tents. the gaudy red calico was now white, but all the plains below were red. thousands came to view the sight. one negro spread the news that "the varmints wus all loose and had et up all de circus folks case de blood was leakin' out de tents in buckets-full." another surmised "de elephans had upset the lemonade tubs." the decorations had faded white, the hills were red, ephraim and lewis made the air blue. lewis sarcastically suggested alfred communicate with peter advising we had decorations, but they ran away, and we didn't have time to go down in the hollow and dip them up. one morning the startling news went around that the old man had fired the principal clown. in those days the old clown was best man with a circus. he was the entertainer--the leading man. he must be eloquent, nimble and a comedian. every circus had it's popular clown. it was the days of dan rice, ben mcginley, pete conklin, johnny patterson, walcutt, den stone, john lowlow, and others. therefore, when alfred was ordered--not requested--to prepare himself for the important role of principal clown, he was no little taken aback. "i have no costumes, i have no gags, i have no make-up," were alfred's excuses. after all the boyhood day dreams, after all the preparations in his mind, after all the yearnings, all the ambitious hopes of a boy's lifetime, here was the coveted opportunity to become a clown in the circus. and, now when the opportunity to immortalize himself, to earn a salary as great as jimmy reynolds, and eventually buy a farm, he shied. a performer from chiranni's circus in south america dug from the bottom of his trunk as funny a clown costume as ever joy donned. when made up, all pronounced alfred as funny appearing as any clown. "he has a beak like dan rice and feet like dr. thayer," were a few of the side remarks. alfred determined he would not use the jokes of the clown who had just left. the clown in those days was given unlimited opportunities. the tents were smaller--his voice reached every auditor. sam rinehart, good old sam, was the ringmaster. those of jimmy reynold's jokes alfred could not bring to memory, sam remembered. therefore, the new clown was a success, with the circus people at least. jimmy reynolds' gags were new around the show, and if alfred was not receiving jimmy's salary he was telling his jokes. alfred introduced local talks, which pleased the audiences greatly. [illustration: alfred as the old clown] all efforts to engage a clown were terminated by the manager making an agreement with alfred, installing him as principal clown, a vocation he followed many summers. lin's prophesy was literally fulfilled: "you kin clown h-it in summer and nigger it in winter." on that first day alfred, nervously awaiting his cue to enter the ring as a clown, cautiously peered through the red damask curtains at the dressing room entrance. a boy on a top seat nearby caught sight of the white-painted face. in an ecstacy of joy he clapped his hands, shouting: "oh, there's the old clown, there's the old clown." sam rinehart, sotto voice, standing near the band stand, remarked: "if that kid only knowed how dam new he is he wouldn't call him the _old_ clown." of all the roles enacted by alfred, that of the circus clown was most enjoyed. with thousands around him, in sympathy with every mishap or quip, at liberty to introduce any business that would amuse, with constantly changing audiences, alfred enjoyed his work as greatly as did his auditors. "alfred will come to town sum day a real clown in a circus, and the whole country will turn out to see him. litt dawson, the congressman, won't be so much when alfred gits to goin'." this was another of lin's prophesies. alfred came back home a real clown in a circus. the whole country turned out. no circus ever attracted the multitudes in such numbers. hundreds turned away at both performances. alfred's only regret was that lin was not present. two children had come to her. one was named john, the girl mary, in honor of alfred's father and mother. lin had trouble with the school-marm. the children, as children often did in those days, brought home a few insects in their hair. lin pursued them vigorously with a fine-toothed comb. to more quickly exterminate them, lin gave the head of each child an application of lard and sulphur. the teacher sent the children home with a note advising lin the preparation on their heads was offensive to her, the smell could not be tolerated. lin led the children back to the school, tartly informing the school-marm that her children were "sent to school to be larnt, not smellt." when alfred visited old loudon county he fully expected to meet lin and her family. when informed the big, hearty, wholesome woman had paid nature's debt and that nearly her last words were a message to his father and mother, the pleasure of his visit was greatly marred. the sells brothers and the barnum show were having opposition in indiana. the late james anderson, of columbus, who for years was the superintendent of doctor hawkes stage, carriage & transfer company, was the manager of sells brothers show. ben wallace was the liveryman who furnished the hay and oats for the circus. anderson and wallace became acquainted. a few days later anderson informed alfred that he and the tall young liveryman in peru had formed a partnership to organize a circus. they offered alfred a much greater salary than sells brothers were paying him, and also a winter's work organizing the show. a contract already signed with the duprez and benedict minstrels was cancelled, an office opened in comstock's opera house, columbus, ohio. every performer, every musician, etc., with the wallace show that first season was engaged by alfred. neither wallace or anderson knew what their show was to be until rehearsals began in peru. both were pleased. a bit of heretofore unwritten history: after alfred had refused several offers, after all the best shows had their people engaged, mr. anderson, returning from cincinnati, called on alfred. the first word he uttered chilled alfred's blood. "call everything off, cancel all contracts, the show don't go out." alfred had antagonized sells brothers and others by engaging people who had been with them for years. he had burned the bridges behind him, as it were. mr. anderson, in explanation, advised that he had been disappointed in money matters. men that were to assist him had gone back on their promises, the printing firm demanded a deposit, he saw ruin staring him in the face. it was useless to argue the matter with anderson. it was nearly morning when the men separated. at eight o'clock alfred was at the office awaiting mr. anderson's arrival. anderson was still more dejected than the night before. "what amount of money do you require?" asked alfred. "three thousand dollars." "will that see you through and put the show out?" was alfred's next question. "with what i've got i can get through on that." "well, i'll let you have it." ben wallace is a money-getter and would win success in any business. however, the president of the wabash valley trust company, the owner of the hagenback-wallace shows, with the finest winter quarters of any show in the country, with hundreds of acres of the most productive farming land in miami county, ind., will never know until he reads these pages the narrow margin by which the show was saved, insofar as anderson was concerned. lewis sells was a peculiar man in many respects and one must thoroughly understand his composition to appreciate him. his educational advantages were limited. from a street car conductor to an auctioneer, showman and capitalist, were the gradations of his career. he was conservative and sagacious, a faithful friend, and, like uncle henry, and most men who have tasted of the bitter and prospered by their own exertions, a candid hater. the after years of his life were made unpleasant by a heartless robbery perpetrated by those near him. the loss of the money, some thirty thousand dollars, was as nothing compared to the chagrin over the fact that those who committed the theft were enabled to cover their work so completely the law could not reach them. he fretted that they robbed him at the end of his long and successful career. for several months alfred filled the position of general agent for the sells brothers combined shows, to the complete satisfaction of all the brothers and the disappointment of many subordinates. it is not wealth nor ancestry, but honorable conduct and a noble disposition that makes men great. peter sells was a great man. he would have graced any profession or calling. in all his life he was affable and congenial. when he was prosperous he was not imperious or haughty. when he was oppressed he was not meek. suffering as few men have suffered he refused to wreak that vengeance upon the destroyers of his home, man is justified in--take a doubled-barreled shot gun and inform those who have wronged you that the world is not large enough for both. this was the advice of one who stood by peter sells in all his troubles. another took him to the country, engaged in shooting at a mark with a forty-four smith & wesson, intimating that he could settle all his troubles by dealing out the punishment those who had broken up his home deserved. peter, with a calmness that was most impressive replied: "i'll commit no crime. there comes a time in the life of every human being that their life is lived over. it is in that hour when the coffin lid is shut down. just before the funeral when earth has seen the last of you, your life is lived over in the conversation which recounts your deeds upon earth. i will do no forgiving, but i will do no killing." in comparison with the loss of a wife, all other bereavements pale. she has filled so large a sphere in your life you think of the past when your lives were entwined, of the days when life was a beautiful pathway of flowers. the sun shone on the flowers, the stars hung overhead. you think of her now as you thought of her then in all the gentleness of her beauty. you think of her now as the mother of your child. no thorns are remembered. the heart whose beat measured an eternity of love to you lies under your feet but the love of her still lives in your being. you forget the injury, you forget the disgrace, you forget all of the present, only remembering the happiness of the past. you know she lives in a world where sunshine has been overshadowed by clouds, yet you love her all the more, although to you she is even further removed than by death. such were the last days of peter sells. it is well the old way of satisfying honor is giving way. yet with all its brutality it had the merit of protecting the home. only those who were close to peter sells knew of the burden he bore, the weight of sorrow that cut short a life that has left its impress of nobleness upon all who were privileged to share his confidence and friendship. chapter twenty-three in the land of the sage and the cottonwood, the cactus plant and the sand, when you've just dropped in from the effete east there's a greeting that's simply grand; it's when some giant comes up to you, with a hand that weighs a ton, and cries as he smites you on the back; "why, you derned old son of a gun!" texas, quoting col. bailey of the _houston post_, "is a symphony, a vast hunk of mellifluence, an eternal melody of loveliness, a grand anthem of agglomerated and majestic beneficence. texas is heaven on earth and sea and sky set to music." with ample room to spare, texas would accommodate either austria-hungary, germany and france; and if it were populated as thickly as is belgium it would have a population of over , , . the state of texas could accommodate comfortably the people of all the european nations. texas was wild and woolly when alfred first toured it with a wagon show. weatherford was away out west; dallas was in its swaddling clothes and houston was a village. hunting was good just over the corporation line and there was no closed season on anything. charley gibbs and henry greenwall owned the state. charley highsmith was a schoolboy; he had never owned a dog or looked along the barrels of a double-barreled gun. mike conley was setting type in a printing office run by hand, and bill sterritt was the printer's devil, excepting when ducks were coming in. ben mccullough was the only railroad man in north texas, and george green the only republican in the state. jake zurn had not left germany and jim hogg was a cowboy. a pair of texas ponies, an open buggy, a doubled-barreled shotgun, two dogs and an invalid, were alfred's constant companions on that tour of texas. the invalid who was touring texas for his health, was a relative of the managers, a german, refined and scholarly, a high class gentleman. this was the introduction: "alfred, mr. smith is not well. the doctor advised that he live in the open. he is my guest and i want him to ride with you. i am sure you will like him. i want this trip to benefit his health. you have the best team with the company. you can make the route in half the time it requires the show to drive it. sleep late in the morning." despite this advice, the invalid and alfred were well on their way by daylight almost every morning, nor did they make the routes in half the time the show did. it was more frequently the reverse, particularly if the shooting was good. the invalid was the wellest sick-man companion ever toured with. his cheeks were sallow, low in flesh, but the spirit was there. it was a case of the invalid looking after the nurse. the vast plains were covered with cattle--texas steers. the invalid marvelled at their numbers. while alfred was scouring the prairie with dog and gun the invalid would stand erect in the buggy, on the road side, computing the number of texas steers within sight. how the cattle men separated their droves, claiming their cattle, was a wonderment. cowboys and texas steers was a theme on which the invalid never tired talking. texas steers were a hobby with him. he would talk with cowboys for hours, collecting information. many nights the circus people in making long drives between exhibiting points were compelled to sleep in their wagons, tents, or anywhere they could find shelter. this sort of life soon brought bronze to the invalid's cheeks and strength to his body. pidcock's ranch, embraced several thousand acres of land, a house with four rooms and porch or veranda. all the house was given over to the ladies. alfred explained to the manager of the ranch that he had in charge an invalid and requested the ranchman to do the best he could for them in the way of sleeping quarters. the ranchman arranged a comfortable bed on the porch for the invalid and alfred, advising they would be compelled to sit up until the ladies retired. all had long retired ere the invalid put in an appearance. the invalid invariably found congenial company--cowboys, cattlemen or rangers. each night finding his way to bed he would awaken alfred to explain something new as to texas steers. the invalid had dispatched two cowboys thirty miles for refreshments. the invalid did not part from his guests until late. alfred's wife had sent him a birthday present, a pair of night-shirts worked with red braid, and he was very proud of them. the invalid on retiring commented again on the beauty of alfred's hand-painted night-shirts and the immensity of the droves of texas steers. sleeping in the open on the porch, their slumbers were deep. awaking late, alfred's face felt drawn up. it was as though it was puckered out of all shape. placing his hand on a substance as large as a hulled hickory nut, it was with some little difficulty peeled from his face. a dozen other lumps of similar size were scattered over his ample countenance. glancing at the invalid whose face was adorned with a full set of whiskers, alfred discovered they were liberally sprinkled with the whitish-grayish substance that adorned his own face and the front of his decorated night garments. prying loose another lump, alfred, holding the substance at arm's length, scrutinizing it closely, endeavoring to analyze it. a "cluck-cluck" caused him to look aloft and there, on a beam, sat ten or twelve contented "dominicker" hens. he could discern but half of their bodies--that part that goes over the fence last. rudely awaking the invalid, alfred brushing, picking and pinching the white and greenish bumps from face and night-shirt, indulging in language not proper even on a texas ranch, he slowly worked his way to the watering trough (the only bathing facility), followed by the invalid, who was parting his whiskers to free them from the hidden lumps, meanwhile endeavoring to console alfred: "never mindt, alfred. never mindt. your shirt vill vash all right, und my viskers, too," parting his whiskers and dumping a few more deposits, he remarked: "it's purty badt i know, but, alfred, it might a bin wusser. 'ust s'posin' dem schickens roostin' over us hadt been texas steers." * * * * * "the sooner a man goes into business, the sooner he will be able to retire; that is, if he is baked done. if he ain't, he better let somebody do business for him. my boy, it's better to go into business too young than too old. if you happen to spill the beans, you've got the vim to pick them up again." "well, uncle henry, if i have good luck this season, i'm going to make a break for myself." "good luck, huh? if you're lookin' for luck to help you, you'll be so near-sighted you can't see a business chance across a narrow alley. if luck got you anything you might. there ain't no luck coming to any man that waits on it. every man that's got any get-up in him always has bad luck. he brings it on himself, then he just beats luck out. there ain't no good luck. it's grit and judgment agin dam-fool notions. and grit and judgment wins out nearly every time. i'd rather drive a bad bargain than drive a dray. you can drive a dozen bargains a day. you can drive only one dray. one of your bargains may buck, the other eleven win out. a minstrel show is alright, but, mind, it's a lifetime job, going into business. you ought to know what you're doing. but, i'd thought you'd go into the circus business." "well, i would, uncle henry, but i haven't got the capital. it takes more money than i ever hope to possess. besides, i want a business wherein i can make a reputation for myself." "you better go into a business where you can make money. the reputation will make itself. if you can't make money, you can't make reputation." "but it's my ambition to have the biggest minstrel show in the country." "well, you do that which you feel would be the most agreeable to you. when i went into the grocery business in burlington, everybody behind my back predicted i would lose out. everybody told me to my face i'd win out. make up your mind to stand on your own judgment." sam flickinger, editor of the _ohio state journal_, wrote the first mention of the al. g. field minstrels. he gave alfred desk room in the job office of the _journal_, of which he was manager and editor. the first advertising for the al. g. field minstrels was printed in the job office of the _ohio state journal_. the dates and small bills have been printed in that office, or the successors of it, ever since. almost every one of alfred's friends advised him to abandon the idea of entering the minstrel business. his family were all opposed to it. this was the manner in which alfred's declaration as to going into business seemed to be received by his friends. col. reppert of the b. & o. assured alfred he would send him a ticket to any point he might require it from. billy mcdermott, probably fearing the colonel might not get the ticket to him, presented alfred with a pair of broad-soled low-heeled walking shoes. there was one staunch friend whose words were always encouraging. "you're right, old boy. i wish you all the success you so richly deserve. never mind the knockers. you're in right. you'll make it go." thus did bill hunter of the penna. r. r. encourage alfred. alfred often declared bill a level-headed man, one who would be heard from later. frank field was the city passenger agent of the penna. r. r. frank and bill were very kindly disposed towards show folks. they carried a troupe on their own account over the penna. lines. they were security for the fares to the amount of a couple of hundred dollars. the troupe stranded bill held the musical instruments. the instruments were taken to the city ticket office, concealed under the counter. bill and frank were "stuck." they endeavored to dispose of the horns to alfred. alfred joked bill frequently, advising him to organize a band, and learn to play one of the horns. this "guying" did not alter bill's attitude towards alfred's enterprise. he was even more optimistic as to its success. bill would slap alfred on the back, saying: "never mind the salary you are leaving. you'll make more money with this minstrel show in a year than you would on salary in two." alfred from the first day he began his minstrel career sought to introduce new ideas; not to do things as they had been done. he was the first to uniform the parade. the costumes were long, light-colored, newmarket overcoats, black velvet collar, stylishly patterned. they were very attractive overcoats, contrasting effectively with the red broadcloth, gold-trimmed band uniforms. the company rehearsed in columbus and opened at marion, ohio, october , . the opening day was a dismal, rainy, fall day, just verging on winter. alfred's good friends gathered in the union depot at columbus to bid the minstrels godspeed, although they traveled on another line. bill hunter was at the depot to see them off. the genteel appearance of the troupe, especially the overcoats, were favorably commented upon. bill shook hands with each member of the company as they entered the car. when the last man was aboard, when the last good-bye had been spoken, barney mccabe remarked to those assembled: "i don't know what kind of a show alfred's got, but they have the finest overcoats that ever went out of this depot." bill, winking at barney, said: "i'll have 'em all before two weeks. if he makes money with this troupe, he can ketch bass with biscuits." another of alfred's innovations was a large amount of scenery and properties. each piece of baggage was marked with bright letters, "the al. g. field minstrels." the afterpiece, "the lime kiln club," was quite a pretentious affair for a minstrel company in those days. the stage setting, representing the interior of a lodge, required antiquated furniture such as could not be hired in the one night stands. therefore, the minstrels carried all this furniture, a large sheet-iron wood stove with lengths of stovepipe. not until the last trunk was loaded onto the baggage wagon, did alfred leave the depot that first morning. walking slowly along the street, keeping pace with the heavy wagon, proud of the new trunks with the plainly painted names on each, the furniture for "the lime kiln club," with the stove and stovepipe atop of all, the wagon passed up the street. while passing a building in course of erection, the workmen ceased their labors to gaze at the wagon. a plasterer with limey overalls gazed at the wagon intently until it passed by. turning to his fellow workmen, pushing his hands in his pockets deeper, and shrugging his shoulders, he sympathetically remarked: "hit's mighty cole weather fur flittin'. i allus feel sorry for pore folks as has tu move in cole weather." looking down the street from where the wagon came he continued: "i wonder whar the folks is. walkin' to keep warm, i reckon. i hope they hain't any children." thereafter, alfred ordered the odd furniture, stovepipe and stove loaded in the bottom of the wagon. a heavy rain interfered with the attendance the opening night. in the excitement, alfred did not realize that he had lost money. it was only after the second night--upper sandusky--that he figured the first two nights were unprofitable. chas. alvin davis, of alvin joslin fame, and his manager, were visitors the second night. the receipts at bucyrus were very light, and to pile up troubles for the new minstrel manager, a boy connected with the theatre stole from alfred's clothes in the dressing room all his private funds. the empty pocket-book was found in an ash-barrel at the rear of the boy's residence, yet the police did not feel it was sufficient evidence to warrant the arrest of the young scamp. the fourth night, at mansfield, rain, hail, sleet and snow, such as ohio had never experienced at that season of the year, (october ), made the streets impassable. the minstrels played to a very meager audience. after all bills were paid the company had thirty-seven dollars in the treasury. several friends in columbus assured alfred that if he ran short he could draw on them. alfred had learned six weeks was the most lengthened period any of his friends gave him to keep the company afloat. "he's ruined. all his savings gone, he will be worse off than when he began life." this was the comment of one of his dearest friends. leaving mansfield at midnight, arriving at ashland, alfred, that he might not have the night lodging to pay, sat in the depot until daylight, then sauntered to the hotel. thirty-seven dollars in the treasury, cold and snowing. alfred debated in his mind as to whether he should telegraph his friends in columbus for assistance. his decision was: "no, i will not humble myself. i'll pull through some way. besides, i have invested my own money in this concern. if i lose it, it's gone. i can earn more. if i borrow money and lose, i'm in debt." he didn't know he could do it. he wasn't sure he could pull the show through. he had heard and seen the sneers and smiles of incredulity. he remembered uncle henry's advice: "if you haven't got the stuff in you to stand alone and fight for yourself, you're wasting time trying to do business. being smart is only half of it. being game is the other half. the biggest persimmons are atop of the tree. you've got to climb to get them. there are times when you'll have to hold on by your finger tips. but if you're not game enough to take the risk, you don't deserve what's up at the top. the cowards are standing under the tree waiting for the persimmons to fall. there's so many of them they have to fight harder to get those that fall to the ground than the game fellow that climbs the tree. men will pull you down, tramp on you, in their endeavors to climb over you. it's the selfish idea of many men they can build up more rapidly if they tear down. they'll block your game, they'll lie about you, they'll not only throw you down but they'll sit on you, and hold you down, until you gather force to squirm from under. you'll never suffer as much when you have the least as you do when the grit has leaked out of you. the man who climbs the tree from the bottom to the top is never licked. if they pull him down he will start from the bottom again. poverty cannot ruin him. it's only a check. he has less fear than those who have had a ladder placed against the tree for them to climb up. believe in yourself. take everything that belongs to you. take your licking but don't sell out to cowardice. when your grit's gone you're done for." a thin, a very thin partition between the room he occupied and that of two of his principal people, alfred was compelled to play the role of eavesdropper again. "he won't pull through. i am sorry i joined the show, i throwed away a good engagement to accept this one. i'm stuck again. this thing won't last a week. i'm going to get away at the first opportunity." it was one of a talented team of musicians. they not only did a fine specialty but doubled in the band. the one talking was the manager of the act. alfred held a contract with the trio. he had fulfilled all the requirements of it and they owed him considerable money, advanced for hotel bills during rehearsals, railroad fares, etc. he lay on the bed debating with himself what to do, enter the room and throw the talker out of the window, or have him arrested. "i heard field tell his treasurer he had no money. i'm going to skip. take my word for it, we're all up against it." the other replied: "well, i owe the company a lot of money. i'll stick until i see how it goes." alfred was on fire. he would die rather than fail. the following day was sunday. this would entail extra expense. basing his calculations upon receipts in other cities, he feared he would not have funds to carry the company to akron, the next exhibition point. he accidently met a columbus man, a minister, reverend messie, the pastor of the church where alfred's family worshipped. he had recently officiated at the wedding of alfred's sister; he felt he had met a friend from home. he decided to lay his troubles before the good man but weakened at the beginning. instead he inquired as to whether the minister was acquainted with a banker in the city. the minister accompanied alfred to a bank and had alfred requested him, to make a favorable talk for him, the good man could not have said more. "this is mr. field, a friend and neighbor of mine. he has not acquainted me with the nature of his business with you, but he is responsible, owns property in columbus and bears an excellent reputation." the banker invited the minstrel into his private office. alfred made a statement of his affairs, dwelling strongly on the robbery at bucyrus, exhibiting newspaper clippings to substantiate his statements. "let us see what your liabilities are. going over them, there were none. nearly all of the company were indebted for money advanced. i can't see where you are in any financial trouble. you have no debts following you, have you?" "none," answered alfred. "well, what is the trouble?" "it's like this," the minstrel explained. "we've done no business since we opened. i have lost money at every stand. i have but thirty-seven dollars on hand. it's a big jump to akron. i am sure, i'll require a little money, not much. if it hadn't been for that touch at bucyrus i'd be all right." "you'll do business here. it's the best minstrel town in ohio. primrose & west did fairly well, although our people didn't know them. hi henry packed the house." "i fear people do not know us," sighed alfred. "well, i'll introduce you--they will know you." alfred had ended every statement with the wail that if he had not been robbed in bucyrus he would be all right. "the bank closes at noon. come around, take lunch with me, i'll see you to akron. don't worry. i fear you're a bit shaky. you are just starting in business, you require confidence." "if it hadn't been for the touch at bucyrus, i'd have been all right," ruefully remarked alfred. the president and alfred made a round of the business houses of the town. "this is mr. field, the minstrel man, one of our people. his home is in columbus. i just bought four seats. the seats are going pretty fast. i want you to be there tonight. have you got your tickets?" no one seemed to have taken the precaution to buy seats in advance although all declared they were going. rarely did the callers leave a place until those called upon had reserved their seats. it was not long until the seat sale assured alfred it would not be necessary to negotiate a loan. "i would have helped you out if you had needed the money," declared the banker, "but i knew we could hustle a bit and fill the house." the gentleman was a good story-teller. alfred was in a rare good humor. he had a fund of stories new to the banker. the fact of the robbery in bucyrus was detailed to every business man they called upon. all sympathized with alfred. "bucyrus is a tough town," several remarked. "you'll never get your money," another declared. "be more careful if you ever go there again." when about to separate, the banker in a kindly manner assured alfred that he was only too glad to have been of service to him. he spoke encouragingly of the future. "if you have a good show, you are sure to pull through. i wouldn't carry a great amount of money on my person hereafter if i were you. be careful. do not have a repetition of the bucyrus affair. how much did they get from you over there?" "sixty dollars." the words were scarcely uttered until the banker bursted into a fit of laughter. alfred had never been accused of destiny, but he could not realize what there was in the admission to so excite the man's mirth. had the gentleman known what sixty dollars meant to him at that time, it would not have seemed so funny. from the fact that alfred had dwelt so strongly on the theft of his money, with the constantly repeated statement that "if it had not been for the robbery, he would have been all right," the moneyed man had gained the idea he had lost several hundred dollars; hence his mirth. at akron the minstrels did capacity business. warren and youngstown were equally satisfactory as were new castle and steubenville. wheeling was the first city wherein opposition was encountered. wilson & rankin's minstrels were billed at the opera house, the field company at the grand opera house. when the wilson & rankin party started on their parade, the other company followed in their wake. wilson shouted to the bystanders in front of the mcclure house, "war! war!" this opposition embittered george wilson and for years the two companies waged a relentless war, which never ceased until mr. wilson disbanded his company. carl rankin, who was a columbus boy and an old friend of alfred's called on alfred. he advised that he was dissatisfied with his surroundings and a tentative partnership agreement was entered into for the next season. however, the arrangements went no further as mr. rankin's health failed him rapidly and it was not long until minstrelsy lost one of the most versatile performers that ever adorned it. since the conversation overheard in ashland, alfred had not spoken to the manager of the musical act. the telegraph wires were carrying messages daily seeking an act to take the place of the dissatisfied one. at zanesville, just before the matinee, (zanesville was the first city wherein the al. g. field minstrels appeared in a matinee), alfred called the manager of the musical act to his dressing room. "mr. turner, it has come to me that you intended leaving this company. therefore, i have engaged an act to take your place; you can leave after tonight's performance, or as soon thereafter as it suits your convenience." "why, mr. field, i did not intend to leave your company. who so advised you? i never told anyone i intended leaving." "now bob, don't deny it. i heard you say you were going to leave the company, that you had no confidence in the stability of the enterprise. your talk came at a time when i was feeling pretty blue and it hurt. judging from your talk you are an undesirable man to have around and i certainly am glad to dispense with your services." the man threatened legal proceedings. alfred was obdurate. the man was tendered his salary. he refused to sign a receipt. alfred ordered the treasurer to give him his money without his signature to a receipt. the other two members of the act protested vigorously. they presented their case in this manner: "we were working for bob. he owned the act. we like the show; we like you. it's the middle of the season. we are liable to be idle for months. we don't think we should be discharged for the threats of bob. we can't control his mouth. mr. field, if you discharge every performer who indulges in idle talk, you won't have anybody around you." "boys, i do not propose to discharge anyone for idle talk but i won't keep a traitor in this camp. you remain with the company. i will pay you the same salary you have been receiving just to play in the band and sit in the first part." with varying success the first season progressed. but never a salary day that the "white specter" did not perambulate. every obligation met promptly, a few folks began to take notice of the new show, persons who had held their faces the other way. the manager was forced to practice the greatest economy. there was a few weeks around christmas time when his shoes leaked. after christmas he purchased two pair of shoes, preparing for future contingencies. smallpox was raging through minnesota and wisconsin, many cities were quarantined. at lacrosse, winona, rochester and eau claire, the people would not go to the theatre; hence, the show was a big loser. at hudson, wis., a big lumber camp in those days, the gross receipts were the least the company ever played to--just sixteen dollars--a few cents less than the receipts of alfred's first show in redstone school-house. alfred requested the manager of the opera house to dismiss the audience. the manager refused to listen to the proposition. he contended it was saturday night, and that many would drop in. they failed to drop in or to be pushed in. however, alfred has always felt grateful to that manager. no audience was ever dismissed by the al. g. field greater minstrels in all the years of their existence, although an engagement in atlanta, ga., was curtailed. the company opened to an over-flowing house. the advance sale for the remainder of the engagement was gratifying. henry grady, the famous journalist and orator, after delivering a speech that electrified not only the boston audience that listened to it, but the nation, had died. atlanta and the entire south was stricken with sorrow. the minstrel manager was intimately acquainted with mr. grady. mr. grady was one of the promoters of the piedmont exposition. peter sells was one of mr. grady's admirers, and as a courtesy to him had loaned the exposition a flock of ostriches; which was one of the attractive features of that most memorable exposition. alfred was entrusted with the details pertaining to the transaction. mr. grady had been very courteous to alfred. there never was a man who knew henry grady that did not admire his charming personality. therefore, when mr. de give suggested the engagement of the minstrels end and the theatre be closed out of respect to the memory of mr. grady, alfred promptly acquiesced. the closing of this engagement was a sacrifice that alfred felt greatly at the time. it meant pecuniary loss that was embarrassing to him, yet there never was a moment he regretted his action. it was the beginning of friendships that have endured all the years since. not only the success attending his annual visits to atlanta, but the associations are of that pleasant character that make a stranger feel he is in the home of his friends. capt. forrest adair, one of atlanta's foremost citizens, journeys each year to the annual banquets celebrating the birthday of the al. g. field greater minstrels. he is as well known and as greatly respected by every member of the organization as by alfred. the first season the profits were not great, although on the right side of the ledger. the opposition of family and friends continued. "abandon the minstrels, go back to a salary." alfred was considered bull headed, contrary, without judgment, etc. however, nothing swerved him. he announced to all he would continue in the minstrel business. george knott, (doc.) and gov. campbell were the agents of the al. g. field minstrels the first season. gov. campbell's folks once resided in woodville. the citizens united in their endeavors to have him bring his minstrels to the town. there had never been a minstrel entertainment presented in the town previously and none since. the hotel man had undertaken the building of a hall. all sorts of inducements were held out in the letter received by alfred. terms were satisfactorily arranged, a date scheduled and the minstrels billed to appear in woodville. a narrow-gauge railroad, a train with a disabled engine and a disgusted minstrel troupe arrived at p. m., six hours late. charles sweeny, the stage manager, came swiftly into the dining room, leaning over alfred, he whispered: "there's no stage, no scenery, no seats. just a bare hall. no reserved sale. there's--" only thus far did sweeny get in his enumeration of his troubles until alfred was searching for the manager. he hurriedly inquired of the hotel man as he left the dining room, without his dinner, as to the place of business of the manager of the theater. the hotel man gazed at him in blank surprise. alfred, in his impatience, did not await an answer. rushing up the principal street of the village, he inquired of several persons as to where he could locate the manager of the theater. finally the postmaster, in answer to his impatient questions, said: "you will not find any particular manager as he ain't got to that yet. he's just built a room and thar's nuthin' in it. he's at the hotel down yonder." it began to dawn upon alfred that the landlord of the hotel was the man he was looking for. "lord, young man. if i'd known you was lookin' for me, i'd told you quicker, who i was. i'm no theater manager." "but you wrote me you had a theater. i am here with my company ready to give a performance and you have neither stage nor scenery in your hall. how do you expect me to put the show on?" "why! don't you carry your stage and scenery?" the man asked, in candid surprise. "certainly not. and you should know it. you haven't even got a seat sale on." the hotel man began to get excited. "what the hell have i got to do with selling tickets? if you don't carry your own tickets you're a purty cheap concern. i don't propose to be brow-beaten by you. if you don't like the place the road runs both ways out of it." and he walked away from the minstrel man in high dudgeon. seats were borrowed from the court house, the methodist church, the hotel, anywhere they could be secured. a half dozen carpenters were working on the improvised stage until the minute the curtain went up. the dining room of the hotel was converted into a dressing room. after supper was served the minstrel trunks were placed in the dining room. pickles, crackers, ginger snaps, etc., were all in place on the table for an early morning breakfast. the minstrels ate the tables bare, ransacked cupboards and sideboards in kitchen and dining room, feasting and frolicking during the performance. the bar adjoined the dining room. the minstrels blackened and in their stage attire, they said to the peg-legged barkeeper: "these are on me; i've got on my other clothes; i'll settle after the show." the dressing, or dining room, was about twenty yards from the stage of the hall. as there was no stage door, (only a front door in the hall), the minstrel men were obliged to enter by a window. the sash taken out, leaned against the wall. in the piano chorus of a most pathetic ballad, both window sashes fell over. the crashing glass brought the entire audience to their feet. the hall owner stepped over the low footlights onto the stage, brushing the semi-circle of surprised minstrels to one side. disappearing behind the curtain, he reappeared in an instant, bearing in either hand a window sash with shattered bits of glass sticking here and there. crossing the stage, at the instant the interlocutor announced the singing of the reigning song success, "there's a light in the window for you," placing the sash in front of the stage, he seated himself. the stage, or platform, was very low. the sash stuck up several inches above the footlights. harry bulger, in one of his dances purposely kicked them over again. down they fell among the musicians. mr. hall-owner was again to the rescue, this time triumphantly bearing the sash to the rear of the hall. alfred looked after the front of the house as well as his stage work. remaining at the door until he had barely time to make up, he requested the hall owner to take tickets until he returned, and not to permit any to enter without tickets. the hall man promised not to permit any to enter without tickets. alfred sang a song, "hello, baby, here's your daddy," the title of it. the dozen end men, during the chorus, drew from under their chairs large dolls with blackened faces. each burlesqued a person handling a baby awkwardly. as alfred took his seat his eyes went anxiously to the door. it was closed. no one entered all the while he was on the stage. at the end of the baby song, it was customary for alfred to cast a big ugly doll, with the words "here's your daddy," into the audience. one of the company dudishly attired was seated in the audience to catch the doll, leave the house, pretending to be greatly embarrassed. the audience usually howled. the baby was flung in the direction of the member of the company. unfortunately, it had to pass over the head of the manager of the hall. jumping up, reaching into the air much as an expert baseball player does in pulling down a hot one, he pulled the baby down. holding it upside down, he flung it towards alfred. anxious to save the scene, with all his force alfred flung it towards the young man of the company, who stood waiting to play his part. but again the hall man jumped between and caught the baby. by one foot he swung it about his head a couple of times; the head and arms of the rag doll flew towards alfred, striking the stage at his feet. the man holding the legs and all that part of the baby below the belt, waved it aloft. meanwhile the audience was encouraging him with shouts of approval. concluding his stage work, hastening towards the door, not even delaying to change his costume or remove the black from his face, he vigorously beckoned the hall man to him. walking towards the door, alfred poured forth a torrent of peevish abuse: "why, you wrote me all sorts of letters that people were crazy mad for a minstrel show and there's not fifty dollars in the house." the landlord doubted this statement. "not fifty dollars in the house, huh? why, there's men in thar," and he jerked his head towards the audience, "there's men in thar with three hundred dollars in thar pockets right now. don't you think you're in a poverty-struck place. our people have all got money." thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, jingling keys and coins. "i mean the tickets do not represent fifty dollars so far. i'm in good and deep and you are the cause of it." "i find nothing to do business with. i ask you as a last request to watch the door for me. you leave the door and every jay will walk in." "oh no, they won't," interrupted mr. hall-man. "they won't get in this hall without paying." "why, what in thunder is to hinder them? the whole town could walk in without paying one cent." [illustration: he waved the key] "i'll be durned if they could," ejaculated mr. hall-man, and he waved the key of the door triumphantly at alfred. the man had actually locked the door. when opened, there were some dozen seeking admission. many left in disgust. there was a bill for lights of glass, and numerous drinks at the bar presented to alfred. the glass he settled for, informing the hotel man he did not pay bar-bills. the barkeeper could not recognize any one of the performers in their street attire. he assured alfred "the hull pack of niggers with you jus' drank and drank and only a few paid. the bill don't amount to much, so far as enny one of the men is concerned; but one gal, one nigger gal, jus' treated right and left. if we could get what she owes, i'd let the rest go." the barkeeper referred to harry bulger. alfred's great desire was to present his minstrel show in his old home town, brownsville. the stage in jeffries' hall was too small to accommodate the minstrels. therefore, one of alfred's boyhood friends, levi waggoner, arranged to play the minstrels in the skating rink. levi was one of the boys who had stood by the old town through all its changes and become one of its substantial citizens. awake to every business opportunity, he had not only seated the floor space of the rink but builded circus seats against the rear wall. alfred was not in the old town an hour until it became imperative that he should seek protection from his friends. he delegated one of the company, one who was noted for his staying qualities, to represent him. every man met, no matter how old, claimed to be a schoolboy friend of alfred's. "there goes another old friend of alf's" became a by-word long before night. "spider" pomeroy, six feet six then, when a boy, (he has grown some since), celebrated alfred's return more uproariously than any one person in the town. alfred supplied him with a ticket early in the morning. by noon "spider" had obtained six tickets, always claiming he had lost the other one. when the doors opened, "spider" ran over the small boys in his way, brushed the ticket taker aside, entering without a ticket he perched himself on the top of lee wagoner's improvised circus seats, his legs doubled up until his knees stuck up on either side above his head like a grasshopper. he sat through the first part. the minstrel with the staying qualities was laboring with a monologue. "spider", after his strenuous day, was sleeping off his exuberance. at the dullest part in the monologist's offering, "spider" let go all holds. the skating rink was built on piles, over the river's bank. one walking on the floor, their footsteps awakened echoes. when "spider" hit that floor--and he hit it with all his frame--legs, arms, feet and head, all at one time, it sounded as if the building had collapsed. all were on their feet looking towards the back of the rink. as "spider" lit, the monologist shouted: "there goes another old friend of alf's." it came in pat. the audience grasped it and the monologist established a reputation for originality. "there goes another old friend of alf's" is a common saying in brownsville until this day. the property man that first season was a german, new in the minstrel game. he is now a capitalist and probably would not relish the disclosing of his name. chas. sweeny, the stage manager, was a stickler for realism. in the burlesque of "the lime kiln club," one climax was the sound of a cat fight on the roof. the cats were supposed to fall through the skylight. every member of the lodge was supposed to have his dog with him--colored people are fond of dogs. when the cats fall into the lodge room, every dog goes after them. fake, or dummy cats were prepared for the scene and used during rehearsals. the first night sweeny ordered gus, the property man, to procure two live cats. gus, stationed on a very high step-ladder in the wings, at the cue was to throw the cats on the stage. gus was heard to remark: "you all better hurry or send some von to manage one of dese cats." the cat fight was heard on the roof. the glass in the skylight was heard to break. the cats were, with great difficulty, flung by gus. they clawed and held onto him. the long step-ladder was rocking like a slender tree in a gale. one cat left the hands of gus, alighting with all four feet on sweeny's neck, with a spring that sent it out over the heads of the orchestra to the fourth or fifth row in the parquet. the cat left its marks on sweeny's neck and the scars are there today as plain as twenty-seven years ago. as gus flung the second cat the exertion was too much for him. he followed on the step-ladder, overturning brother gardner and the stove. three dogs pounced upon gus as he rolled over and over on the floor. three of the largest dogs had followed the first cat over the heads of the orchestra, and a stampede of the audience was in progress, the dogs and cats under the feet of men and women, who were jumping on chairs or rushing towards the exits. the curtain went down without the humorous dialogue that usually terminated the scene. "mr. president: i moves you, sir, dat no member ob dis club hyaraftuh be admitted wid more'n three dogs." alfred put his shoulder to the wheel wherever and whenever a push or a pull was required. night after night, he assisted the stage hands in hustling effects from the theatre to the train. on one occasion the train was scheduled to leave in a very short time after the curtain fell. alfred, without changing his stage clothes, busied himself assisting the stage hands. gus, the property man, flung alfred's clothing into his trunk, not observing they were his street apparel instead of stage costumes. the trunk was sent to the depot. when alfred prepared to follow he was minus everything except a large pair of shoes, thin pants, long stockings and undershirt. there was no time to be lost; grabbing up a large piece of carpet, alfred wound it around himself and started for the depot on a run. doc quigley, arthur rigby and several of the company stationed themselves along his route to the depot, hiding in the shadows of doorways. one after another shouted: "good-bye, al, good-bye old boy. you've got the best show ever. come back again. your show's great." [illustration: "good-bye al, old boy"] "all right boys, good-bye. i'll be with you next season," shouted the hustling minstrel as he sped for the train. alfred was completely deceived. he imagined the compliments were coming from the towns-people. the german property man, whose mistake was responsible for alfred's grotesque appearance, was stationed by the jokers behind a fence near the depot. as alfred hove in sight with the old rag carpet flapping around his form, gus shouted: "goot bye, mr. fieldt. goot luck. your show iz great. kum unt see us agen. i hope your show will be here nexdt season." "it will be, but you won't be with it, you dutch son of a gun." alfred had recognized the voice. chapter twenty-four into the city during the day, back to the country at eventide, courting the charm of the simple way, casting the tumult of greed aside. "he is the happiest man who best appreciates his happiness. happiness comes to him who does not seek it." "well, you've got there. i was opposed to your goin' into the minstrel business. it's not good to argue agin anything a young man sets his mind on. i figured if you got knocked out, you'd be able to come back agin. i'd rather seed you in the circus business, but say, boy, if this show of yours ain't a jim dandy. are you making any money?" "well, i have made money, uncle henry, but i'm investing it in my business as fast as i earn it. you see the minstrel business is changing. the basis of minstrelsy will always be that which it is and has been, but you can't hand them the same things they've been accepting the past forty years and expect them to enjoy and buy it. the farce comedy, the musical show are virtually minstrel shows. based upon music and dancing, they produce about the same stuff the minstrels do." "well alfred, we hear a great deal about the old black-face minstrels. some people say they like them best." "that's true, uncle henry. you can't gainsay it. some people like the old-fashioned cooking the best. but the public, the majority demand something different. even if they eat the same sort of food they ate when younger, they demand it be served differently. let me call your attention to this fact: every manager that has endeavored to present an old-time, black-face minstrel show in late years has failed. the old-time minstrel show, like the one-ring circus, is pleasant to dream of, pleasant to talk of, but not profitable to present. two friends were responsible for my decision to put on a simon-pure, old-time minstrel show. i engaged the best talent procurable, costumed the show in conformity with the ideas of my friends. it was the least profitable of any season since my first year; or it would have been had i continued. i changed my entire show in the middle of the season, going back to the black-face comedians, white-face singers. "the minstrels in all climes have sung their songs of love and war. even in the days of the ancients there were minstrels who sang the news of the times to the gaping multitudes in the streets and market places. in fact, david, with his harp of a thousand strings, whose voice charmed king saul and his court, was the first minstrel. i can fully understand why a minstrel, an american minstrel, singing a plantation melody to his dusky dulcinea, should have a blackened face, but why a man blackened as a negro should sing of 'my sister's golden hair,' or 'mother's eyes of blue,' is too incongruous for even argument's sake." [illustration: david, the first minstrel] "well, alfred, how is it the other managers do not adopt the style of your entertainment." "uncle henry, i am not my brother's keeper. i had opposition with one of those so-called old time minstrel shows a short time ago. our company was making money every night. they were barely paying expenses. and yet the greater part of their press work was devoted to informing the public that we were not genuine minstrels, our singers wore white wigs, flesh colored stockings and satin suits. they were really advertising one of the attractions of our exhibition. we copied that notice and had it sent broadcast over the sections where the companies conflicted. i watched the press closely and but one paper that came under my observation endorsed their idea." "now, alfred, let me tell you something. i've had all i wanted to eat and drink; i've worn good clothes; i've helped the poor; i've kept my family right; and i've seen enough of this world to convince me the only way to have money to burn is not to burn it. to have money to spend when you are old, is to save it while you're young. i was so poor when i was young, i had my lesson. say, son, it's a sad thing to be poor when you're young, not wanted in your brother's home. but it's dreadful to be poor when you are old and not wanted anywhere. you can't make a living. you are dependent upon charity. now don't fool yourself and say with your income you can't save. if you can live you can save. george m. pullman, marshall field, john d. rockefeller, and a thousand others began saving on less than your income. now, alfred, don't think because the fool in your business has spent money recklessly, don't think that's an excuse for you to spend. i know minstrel people. i know them backwards. don't be like them. the only things to do in this world, day after day, are the things you ought to do. you can't do too much for others, but don't depend upon them to do for you. a poor, old man is the saddest sight on earth." "it's true i felt mighty sore that my folks threw me on the world so young. but you bet i am proud of the fact that i can buy and sell the whole kit of them. i help them, i give them, i don't begrudge it to them; but, while i can't entirely forget the bitterness of those boyhood days, i can't help but feel a bit proud that i am independent of them in my old days. and to hear some of them talk, you'd think they made me. well, they did, but they didn't intend to. while they were sitting around praying for prosperity, i was sweating. sweating, it's a good thing. it takes all the bad diseases out of you and a good deal of the cussedness. say, alfred, you never knowed a skin-flint that sweat. stingy men never sweat. i admire all good people but i would rather see a man give another a meal, than talk over his victuals and eat them alone when he knows there's someone next door hungry. did you ever notice when a man thinks he's a genius he lets his hair grow long and when a woman gets out of her place, to be something she oughtn't to be, she cuts her hair short. every crank puts some kind of a brand on themselves. you don't have to talk to them to find out what they are. "i sold whiskey when i was in the wholesale grocery business. everybody in my line sold it. you remember the best stores in columbus sold it. you couldn't hold a first-class trade if you didn't sell it. i never sold it to people who had no shoes. i never sold it to young men nor to old men in their dotage. there was never preacher came to me to talk religion or anything else while i was selling whiskey. but as soon as i sold out the whiskey business, they began runnin' after me. one of them kept a-comin' and a-comin'. he kept tellin' me how to live, how to spend the rest of my days. get a library. a library was the greatest thing a man could have. it kept your mind at rest; you could seek refuge in your library at any time when in trouble. i promised him to get a library. i had one built expressly. i had two barrels of old crow whiskey that i kept when i sold the store. i filled a sufficient number of quart bottles to fill the shelves of the library, labeled the bottles, and waited for the next visit of the gentleman who induced me to invest in a library. he congratulated me on taking his advice. i told him i never had any learning to speak of; when i should have been at school i had to be at work; perhaps i should have consulted him about stocking the library. he expressed a desire to examine it. when i threw the doors open and the rows of bottles of old crow came into his view, he never flinched. i told jim if he fainted to be handy with a pail of water. but he never backed off. he put his glasses on his nose, read the labels and 'lowed while my library was large it was not greatly diversified. thereafter the good man was more deeply interested in me than ever before. at first he called once a day. it was not long until he called three times a day regularly." [illustration: uncle henry's library] jim describes the scene thusly: "uncle henry, lolling in the big, easy chair, sleepily. enter the gentleman who recommended the library. 'good morning, brother hunt, i hope you are feeling well'; uncle henry, with eyes half-closed, never waited to hear more. he languidly motioned towards the sideboard, closed his eyes, looked the other way. uncle henry's idea of a gentleman was one who turned his back while you were pouring out your liquor." uncle henry was known to every showman in america. he maintained a field whereon the circuses pitched their tents. he owned the billboards. no circus visited burlington that did not find him an interested friend. i have heard that uncle henry could drive a good bargain in a trade. i never knew him as a buyer or a seller. i only knew him as one who knew how to give. i only knew him as one who found it more blessed to give than receive. his qualities of good more than overbalanced his imperfections. his was a character that left its impress on the community in which he was known. he was loved by those who were welcomed in his hospitable home. there have been men of more renown than the hardy old blacksmith, who, from a barefooted boy made his way without education or friends, and that he was influenced in his feelings by his early hardships was only the man that was in him, over-balancing the better nature of one who, when a friend was a friend, who, when against you, was always in the open. he was as honest in his dislikes as he was in his admirations. when the sands of his life were ebbing fast on that sunday afternoon in midsummer, the last of earth, the last sounds that fell upon the ears of uncle henry were the rumbling of the wheels of a circus moving over the paved streets from the train to the show grounds. * * * * * they have got a newspaper fixed and the worst roast ever read published today. mailed copy. if you want a good lawyer, advise. joe kaine. alfred read and re-read this telegram. he was having the most strenuous opposition of his business career, fighting one of the most unprincipled of men, the head of a company that had attained great popularity although on the decline at the time, and soon thereafter went the way of all such concerns--those of the minstrel kind at least. it was known to alfred that the opposition had engaged a noted press agent and that this agent had been on the route of alfred's company. alfred answered the telegram, requesting a synopsis of the article. it was at the time the notorious hatfield gang of west virginia, were the subjects of unusual newspaper exaggeration. the write-up that had stirred kaine was in substance: "prominent minstrel man's real name leads to conjecture he was once one of the notorious hatfield gang. doubts as to his braving the laws of west virginia. "it is reported though his company is advertised, it will not appear in any of the cities in this state. the depredations of the notorious hatfield family has made the name feared wherever it is known. officers have been on their track for years. the majority of the desperate family seem to be secure in the fastnesses of their mountain hiding places. so completely terrorized are the mountaineers by this family that no arrests have been made of any of the gang lately. however, should the member of the family now masquerading under an assumed name enter the state he will be arrested on sight and made to stand trial for past deeds of the family. however, it is not believed that the man will run the risk of entering the state. it is rumored he is on his way to canada." kaine supplemented his first telegram with a second one advising alfred that the evening paper would publish any statement he telegraphed, and to make the denial strong. alfred wired him: engage counsel who will answer for me. i am prepared to give bond in any amount. al. g. field. he further telegraphed "devil anse" hatfield and several others of the family: will be there. meet me on arrival. another telegram read: get this in newspapers, but not as coming from me. another telegram went forward later as a news item: "it is reported here that a dozen armed men from kentucky and west virginia are secreted on the cars of the al. g. field minstrels, to resist arrest of one of their number who is reported with the minstrels." of course all this was false. when the minstrel troupe arrived, hundreds were at the depot. alfred was one of the first to leave the train. the officers and many others were aware of the falsity of the published statement, but hundreds were deceived by the sensational reports. the owner of the paper wherein the reports originated assured alfred they had been imposed upon and the columns of the paper were open to anything he might dictate for publication. introducing alfred to his city editor, the owner of the paper remarked: "i have requested mr. field to prepare a statement for publication. we want to do what is right by him." the matter was submitted to the editor. he reminded alfred that it did not answer the article published by them but was a boost for his minstrels. alfred replied: "i realize the matter published was false, but the dear public has gained the idea that i am a desperado. they will only remember this a day or two. if i endeavor to contradict the published reports, it will keep it in their minds. this matter i submit will benefit me. a denial such as you have in mind will not do me any good." while this advertising was not the sort alfred desired, he was bound to make the most of it. the theatres were packed to their capacity during the three or four weeks the opposition worked the press with the silly matter; although many newspapers treated it as a joke. for a few weeks alfred was a living curiosity, pointed out by some as a desperado to be shunned, sought by others to be idolized. surely, human nature is past understanding. it is dangerous to try to blacken the character of your opponent as it invariably places one's own under the spotlight and they'll find spots you were sure were never visible. * * * * * ed boggs, now secretary to the governor of the state, was at the time engaged in the drug business and managed the opera house in charleston, w. va. the gross receipts were the largest in the history of the opera house. alfred carried his share of the money in a satchel after the show. boggs accompanied him to the ferry. there was no bridge spanning the river in those days. boggs' store was on the corner of water street near the ferry landing. the ferry boat was on the opposite side. boggs suggested they step into the drug store and smoke a cigar until the boat returned. alfred, arriving at his private car--the wife was a visitor--the first question propounded was: "where have you been to this hour of the night? where's your satchel?" alfred nearly fainted. he rushed out on the platform of the car. the ferry boat had left on the last trip of the night. alfred was not clear in his mind as to where he had left the satchel, whether in the drug store or on the boat. he floundered along the banks of the river, endeavoring to locate a skiff that he might recross the river. his fears were that he had left the satchel on the forecastle of the ferry boat where he stood smoking while crossing the river. the kanawha is a narrow stream as it flows by charleston, yet it seemed an ocean that night. alfred's slumbers were neither lengthy nor soothing. one hour previous to the scheduled time of the ferry boat's arrival on her first trip of the morning, he stood on the shore gazing across the river. when the boat was within four feet of her dock, alfred leaped aboard, and began inquiries. the captain said: "i was at the wheel. if you left your money on the boat you might as well stay on this side. there was a rough crowd aboard after the show. that money's split up and partly drunk up by this time." mr. boggs had not arrived. the clerk searched the drug store. he urged the minstrel man to assist in exploring the mysterious recesses behind the counters. no satchel was found. mr. boggs was late coming to the store. "he always gets here before this," the clerk asserted. alfred could not restrain himself longer. he fairly ran to the residence of mr. boggs. the servant brought the message: "mr. boggs was not well this morning. he would probably not go to the store until afternoon." "jumping jupiter, holy moses," and other expressions were suppressed by the highly wrought-up minstrel, as he stood on the doorstep. say to mr. boggs: "mr. field must see him, if only for a moment. must see him at once." "howdy, al, i thought you were on your way to huntington." "no, our train does not leave until eight-thirty. i only have twenty-five minutes. are you going to the store?" alfred tried to look unconcerned as he asked the question: "did i leave my satchel in your drug store last night? i feel sure i did." boggs gazed at him in blank amazement. "your satchel with all that money in it? you don't mean to tell me you left that satchel somewhere and are not certain where?" "oh, i am pretty certain i left it in your store." "well, if you left the satchel in my drug store it is there yet." "i am pretty sure i did." "but you're not certain," persisted boggs. after every corner and nook of the store had been searched, alfred went behind the counters. again he looked under them. boggs did not seem to be greatly interested in the search. he seated himself at a desk as alfred rose from his knees, from exploring a dark corner, and inquired in an unconcerned tone, "find it?" alfred was irritated. he did not reply. the ferry boat whistle sounded. the bell was tapping. alfred looked at boggs. he was still at the desk. "good-bye, i'm going. i guess the hatfields haven't exclusive privileges in west virginia. i think i'll join them to get even. i either left that satchel in this drug store or on that boat. that's a cinch." boggs raised his eyes. "well, if you only knew where you left your satchel you'd have a better chance to recover it." "well, i'm going," replied alfred, moving towards the door. "good-bye," boggs shouted. alfred was on the front steps. "hold on," boggs yelled, "i'll go over the river with you." alfred was looking across the river. boggs was by his side. they had walked several yards towards the ferry boat. boggs inquired as to what excuse he would make to his wife. alfred turned his head. boggs was carrying the satchel in his hand farthest from alfred. as the latter reached for the grip, boggs laughed as he pulled away, saying, "i won't trust you with it." boggs discovered the satchel after alfred left the drug store. he awaited the return of the ferry boat and endeavored to have the captain make an extra trip to relieve alfred's suspense. the captain refused, saying: "if a man is that careless with money, he ought to worry." * * * * * in the early days of alfred's minstrel career he became acquainted with dan d. emmett, the originator of american minstrelsy (the first part). emmett was living in chicago at that time. [illustration: dan emmett] years afterward alfred learned that mr. emmett was living in retirement in his old home, mount vernon, ohio. he called on the aged minstrel. mr. emmett pleaded that he be permitted to accompany the minstrels on a farewell tour. his request was granted. at the time there was no intention of advertising emmett. he was simply to accompany the troupe as a guest of mr. field. about this time several persons were claiming the song "dixie." alfred furnished the _new york herald_ with irrefutable proof that to emmett belonged the honor. that paper sent a man from new york city. he spent several days at the home of emmett. the feature story and the subsequent proofs published by col. cunningham, editor of the _confederate veteran_, forever settled the controversy as to the authorship of dixie. emmett's memory, in his last years, as to dates was defective. the story of dixie was often related to alfred by emmett and, from other information, alfred is of the opinion that dixie was sung in the south long before its new york production. emmett was the musical director of bryants' minstrels. dan bryant desired a walk-around song and dance. emmett, on saturday night was commissioned to have this number ready for monday night's performance. he labored all day sunday. dixie was produced on monday night and made an instantaneous hit. this is the accepted story as to the production of "dixie." it is well known to all of emmett's intimates that he was a slow study and a very indifferent reader but once he memorized music, he required no notes thereafter. it is not probable emmett turned out dixie in one day or the company learned and produced the song with only one rehearsal. all minstrel people admit this. dixie was produced in new york in . prof. arnold, of memphis, (of montgomery, ala., then), claims that emmett visited montgomery in january, , and sang dixie, the words, however, a little different from those used in new york later. in presence of mr. field, prof. arnold called emmett's attention to this. emmett's reply was that the air of dixie--the melody--had been played by him for a year prior to his writing the words of the song. it is alfred's opinion that emmett first sang the song in the south else how could it in those days become so suddenly popular. it is an authenticated fact that the troops from alabama first sang dixie as a war song of the south. there are gentlemen living in both eufala and montgomery who assert that dixie was sung in those cities early in and that it attained great popularity. however, the memory of emmett will be preserved to future generations as the author of a song the common people love to sing. * * * * * "i have bought a farm." the wife looked incredulous. the past four years alfred had optioned as many different farms, always dissuaded by the wife to give them up. in fact, the wife did not show the husband's enthusiasm as to the bucolic life. "i've bought a farm: bienville, a part of the old goodrich tract ceded to that family by the government for services in the revolutionary war, opposite 'high banks' on the olentangy river, where the ruins of the old fort are. it is a place of historic interest. the river, the best bass stream in ohio, skirts the east side of the farm. there's a lovely brook running through the farm, and the largest virgin forest in the county. why, the timber in that woods will sell for more than i paid for the whole farm. but i will not cut a single tree down, only an occasional shell-bark hickory tree to smoke our meat. uncle jake always smoked his meat with hickory wood and he cured the finest meat in fayette county, generally a little too salty; we must look out for that." "the bottom land is a farm in itself. there are two orchards, an old one and a young one. the old one is about run out and i'll cut it down when the young one comes in. the wood will be fine to burn. dry apple wood makes the hottest fire." "dried apples? what are you talking about--burning dried apples?" but alfred was not to be interrupted. "the hill land is not so good but i'll bring that up. i've bought a book on liming land. i won't have a great deal of stock to begin with. it's my intention to begin with a few of each species and breed up, that's the way doctor hartman does. "the hill land is not productive now and the bottom land will have to supply the farm until we get the hills tillable. there's only one thing that troubles me. the bottoms overflow every time the river rises. as you know, the olentangy rises every time it rains." "well, for heaven's sake, you haven't bought a farm like that, have you? now, al, you are just like your father. your mother often told me he could make money but always had a plan to spend it and his investments always proved failures. why don't you let this farm business go? you've got enough on your hands without a farm." alfred never noticed the interruption. "chickens are very profitable. poultry raising is one of the most profitable things about a farm, and the average farmer does not give his chickens any attention. i expect you to look after the chicken end of the farm. all the profits will be yours." even this liberal offer did not interest the wife greatly. "the first thing i am going to do is to build a dyke or levee along the river bank to protect the bottoms from overflows. this must be done this winter. mr. monsarrat is at work on one on his place. he went to the expense of hiring regular dyke-builders, civil engineers and all that sort of thing. i'll just hire farmers and their teams. i've got onto a man that built all the dykes down toward chillicothe. he knows just how to construct them. i'll hire him to superintend the work. of course, i'll be on the ground all the time to look after the details." "when will you have time to attend to matters of that kind? now, al, you're just hatching up a lot of trouble for us. why don't you rest? you have been working all these years to lay by a few dollars and now you are contriving to spend them. we know nothing of farming. we will be worried to death." "now don't get excited, tillie. hold your horses. i've thought the whole matter out. now listen to me. you can't farm in winter, can you?" and alfred waited for his wife to answer. the wife deigned no reply; she either considered the question too deep or too silly. alfred answered his own question: "no, you can't farm in winter. this is november. i've fixed it that by the time we are ready to farm we will be all prepared. i've subscribed for three farm journals, a poultry paper and a dairying book. the farm journals are published in new york, los angeles and denver. this will educate us up to farming methods in all sections. what they don't know in one section, we will learn from another. you leave it all to me. country life will make another woman out of you and pearl will like it. it will be good for you all. it's the dream of my life realized and i do hope you will enter into my plans and be the help you have always been. i'm going to have a horse and phaeton for your exclusive use. i don't want you to do anything. just sort of look over things. you need not read the farm journals unless you are interested. you read up on poultry and the dairy. they go together. all i'll ask you to do is to look after those two things, the poultry and the dairy. i'll take care of the farming." bob brown, (no relation to bill brown), editor of the _louisville times_, one of alfred's warmest friends, published a feature article, a brief history of alfred's career, touching on his newspaper experiences, however, omitting the cow-doctor experience. the article concluded with a lengthy write-up of alfred as a farmer. the paper was carried in triumph and read to mrs. field and pearl. bob predicted the success for alfred in farming that he had attained in minstrelsy. several illustrations in bob's write-up exhibited alfred in farmer's garb, feeding cattle, sheep and hogs out of his hand. the wife observed: "why, you haven't got sheep, hogs or cows as yet; have you imposed upon mr. brown?" "no, certainly not. bob is an up-to-date newspaper man. newspapers that wait to print things as they are, get left. newspapers that print things as they are to be, are the live, up-to-date, always read journals. bob knows i'll have things just as he represents them." bob brown's write-up was greatly appreciated by alfred even after emmett logan informed him that bob had written him confidentially that he, alfred, had turned farmer, but he did not know what for, as he felt certain alfred could not plant his feet in the road and raise dust; in fact, he did not think alfred could raise a parasol. alfred was advised that a club, of which he was an honorary member, would entertain him--that it would be a farmer's night. alfred well knew there would be great fun at the expense of the farmer. he would be the butt of all the jokes the busy brains of a dozen or more keen wits could devise. therefore, he studied for days that he might in a humorous way parry the jibes. nothing humorous in connection with the farm could be evolved from his brain. he was too ambitious, too enthusiastic a farmer to ridicule any phase of his newly adopted calling. therefore, when the chairman concluded his introduction in these words: "and now, gentlemen, we have a farmer as our guest here tonight. it has been the plaint of the farmer from time out of mind that he had not representation; that he had not voice in affairs that had to do with his vocation. the newly made clod-hopper is respectfully informed that he can air his grievances to the fullest extent and that, unlike others, we will not pass resolutions of acquiescence in his views and then repudiate them. we will file them in our archives as a memento of the fact that another good man has gone wrong. alfred, it is the fear of all your friends in this club that the minstrel show will not make enough money to run the farm." [illustration: alfred as a farmer] alfred replied to the introduction: "gentlemen, the introduction honors me; to be a farmer has been the dream of my life. beginning life on a farm, i ask no more pleasant ending than to live the last days of my earthly time on a farm. "the facetious remarks of the toastmaster do not explain my reasons for engaging in farming. it is true, financial consideration did not govern me in this matter, although i do hope to make the farm self-supporting. if i do not, i shall not feel that i have made a bad investment. "in seeking the quietude of the farm, i was actuated by that yearning that comes to all men who have led a busy life--to turn back the years and try to live the days of patches, freckles, stone bruises and laughter; to live those days again when there was only one care in the world, not to be late for meals. "i want to go way back yonder in my life to a house half hidden from view by the locusts and maples, where the bees hummed and swarmed. i want a scent of the honeysuckle as the maples and locusts budded forth in what seemed to me the morning of the world--springtime. i want to follow the path down by the big spring, through the hazel bushes, where the cotton tail jumped up just ahead of you and the redbird sang his sweetest song. i can follow the path in my mind as the hunting dog follows the scent, down to the old rock hole where the clear, cool waters of the creek formed an eddy, in which the chub and yellow perch lurked and jumped at the bait as they never did anywhere else. "i want to feel that ecstacy that only comes to a boy when the bottle cork you used for a bobber goes under water, when something is pulling on the line like a scared mule, bending double the pole cut in the thicket on your way to the creek. i want to throw the pole away, roll up the tangled line, hide it away in the corn crib, and sneak back to the house the opposite direction from the creek, that the folks wouldn't suspect i had been fishing on sunday. "i want to go back yonder in my life where the hills meet the sky in a purple haze, where you feel yourself growing with the trees, where the smell of new earth calls you to the woods, where the dogwood is budding and the may-apple peeps up through last year's leaves at the new leaves budding out on the grand old maples above. "i want to go so far back from the worries of city life that the crowing of the cock and the cackle of the hen will tell me it is morning, instead of the clanging of bells and blowing of whistles. i want to go back yonder where the setting sun, instead of the city lights, will tell me it is night. i want to hear the cricket and whip-poor-will as we heard them in the evenings long ago, as we listened with bated breath to the jack o'-lantern legends that stirred our childish fancy until the croaking of the frogs sent us to bed to dream of uncanny things. "i want to live in the happiness of an autumn when the frost was on the pumpkin and the fodder in the shock; when the hickory nuts falling on the ground called the squirrels; when the stars gleamed bright enough to afford you light to bring a 'possum out of a tree with the old flintlock musket--how you cherished that gun. and when the snow hid the roads and paths like the white coverlet on the big bed in the spare room and the big backlog crackled and burned on the hearth, and the red apples glistened in the firelight, and the popcorn imitation of a snowstorm was more realistic than any artificial one that you have since witnessed. "how you shivered as you undressed in the room above going to bed, but how soundly you slept after you got warm. i want to go back to one of those hallowed sunday mornings in summer when the hush of heaven seemed to fall on earth; when the quiet that spread over hill and vale seemed to announce the spirit of god in some unusual sense; when the peace of heaven seemed so near you felt its happiness. "while living the old days over--the days way back yonder--i want to live in the love of my friends of today. whilst i cherish only a memory of the friends of the old days, i hold, after my family, the love and esteem of my friends of today above all things in this life. "gentlemen, come down to the farm. visit with me and endeavor to live the life of a boy again, if only for a day." [illustration: bill brown as a farmer] alfred's response was not what the assemblage expected. congratulations were showered upon him. the speech was reproduced in newspapers all over the country. printed copies of it were circulated. the sentiment expressed therein seemed to have struck a responsive chord in the hearts of all men who love to live close to nature. it does not seem possible that any one would have the hardihood to endeavor to controvert the sentiments set forth in alfred's tribute to the "back to the farm" life, yet there appeared in all the papers that had given publicity to alfred's speech, a diatribe from bill brown, headed "the truth," as follows: pittsburgh, pa. i have read with much interest al. g. field's address on "the farm." if you will pardon my profanity for a minute, i will say "damn the farm." our paths through the woods on the farm must have been different. al. pursued the cotton tail through the level and green grassy meadows, getting pleasure in pursuit, and which left no traces of his going; i pursued the ever ready pole cat through hollows, over logs and stone piles, which left nothing but bruises, but i found more pleasure in pursuit than possession. al. had patches, freckles and laughter; i had rags, bruises and tears. al. took the path down to the spring through the hazel bushes; i took the stony road to a mudhole through thorns and blackberry bushes. al. caught nice yellow perch with a cork bobber; i caught suckers with a paper bobber, for there were no corks used on our farm. al. fished on sunday; i went to church at o'clock, sunday school at , church again at : , and perchance prayer meeting in the evening. al. smelled the new earth from a two seated surrey or horseback; i smelled the new earth from the back of the harrow or plow. al. watched the dogwoods bud, and breathed their fragrance as they budded; i felt the dogwood switches drop on my poor back and bare limbs. al. had to be told when it was dark and when it was morning. i knew when i was told to quit work that it was dark and bed-time, and knew that it was daylight when i was yanked out of bed to walk two miles before breakfast to bring in a lot of cows. al. had a nice "coverlit" over his bed, and turned into a nice feather bed and rested in peace. i rolled myself up in a worn-out horse blanket, and turned into a tick filled with straw, shivering until i got to sleep and kept on shivering. oh yes, i cherish the days on the farm and will never forget them. but a more pleasant recollection to me is the day that i left the cackling of the hens, the braying of the donkey, the bellowing of the cows, and the old plow standing in the furrow, where i hope it still stands. the new stack of hay might have brought fragrance to al's sensitive nostrils, but to me it seemed as well suited as a reservoir for perfume as for a monument in a cemetery. i want to live in the love and esteem of my friends of today; i cherish the memory of the old friends, and i value their love and esteem, but the memory of the old straw pile back of the barn still clings to me closer than all these, and e'er i get ready to go back to the darned old farm, i will make myself a pair of wooden bills and perch myself on the stake and rider fence, prepared to take my turn with the hennery. "visit me," he says, "and endeavor to live the life of a boy over again on the farm." not for bill, and i can but repeat what i said in my profane way, again and again. al. can have the farm, but as for me it's first "back to the mines, bill." with sad memories of the milk pail, the fork and curry comb, i am, sadly and sorrowfully yours, bill brown. insofar as alfred's knowledge goes, bill brown's pessimistic views of farm life were not accepted by any save alfred's immediate family. alfred carried a copy of his address, "a glimpse of nature, or back to the farm" in his pocket. mrs. field preserved bill brown's screed. as one prediction of bill's after another came to pass, she would say to alfred: "there, see there? even mr. brown knew what would come of this farming business." the dyke was constructed and would no doubt have answered the purpose intended had it not been constructed of clayey soil that disintegrated and floated away with the muddy current the first freshet. chickens were the first purchases. rhode island reds, alfred asserted, were superior as farm chickens. they were good layers, good setters and good mothers. one hundred hens and two roosters were the basis of the poultry plant. alfred had read that one hundred hens properly catered to would produce on an average five dozens of eggs a day. eggs were fifty cents a dozen. he figured that fifteen dollars a week would be pretty good. of course, he had forgotten that farm hands eat eggs. two dozen eggs were brought to the city and delivered to the home of alfred, where the family rests up in the winter from the farm labors of the summer. "of course, it's not what i expected," he consolingly admitted to his wife, "but you can't move chickens from one place to another and have them do well. howard park says so and he has had a heap of chicken experience. they will do better when you get out there. you will feed them properly and regularly. their laying streak has been broken up. we must train them to lay while eggs are expensive and lay off when they are cheap." alfred insisted pearl keep a "farm book," entering on one page the expenditures opposite the receipts. after two months alfred declared the book a trouble and worry. "just spend what you have to and let it go at that. howard park says everybody has the same experience when they first go into farming." there were two entries on the two pages of receipts, nineteen pages of expenditures: february th--credit by dozen eggs $ . march th--one bull . alfred bought the bull from a neighboring farmer. "registered jersey, worth at least $ ; i got him for $ ," boasted alfred. "the man needed the money." it was learned later that the bull had been accidently shot by trespassing hunters and permanently disabled. when alfred was put wise to this, he sold the bull for beef. [illustration: "i want a rooster for every hen"] in the grocery bill, (alfred furnished everything), there was a charge of four dollars and thirty cents for eggs. alfred argued to his wife it was for hatching eggs for the incubator; that he had instructed mrs. roost she must raise four hundred chickens at least. but mrs. roost, over the telephone, advised that farmers must have eggs to eat and she always cleared her coffee with eggs, and our hens were not laying and that most of them had the roup, and you can't expect eggs when you only got two roosters for a hundred hens. alfred called up mrs. reed and advised that he must have more roosters. "how many do you wish?" she inquired. [illustration: al. g. field, ] "well, we are not getting any eggs. i want a rooster for every hen. i'm bound to have eggs." the wife changed her mind as to rhode island reds. she declared the only person she knew that had good luck with rhode island reds was mrs. mott and she just lived with her chickens. "now, mrs. goodrich has barred plymouth rocks and they are the chickens." alfred ordered a flock of barred plymouth rocks. someone recommended to alfred black minorcas. charley schenck had a pen he wished to dispose of. alfred figured that since they had experienced so much bad luck with one breed they would soon strike a winner by having several kinds. therefore, when s. s. jackson presented alfred with a pen of india games, you could look out upon the chicken lot at any time of day and see three or four cock-fights in progress at the same time. the hands were kept from their work, attracted by the gameness of the cocks. a beautiful litter, (as alfred termed them), of top-knots, van houden chickens, were the next addition to the poultry yard. when cautioned that he would soon have a polyglot lot of poultry, alfred, for the first time, weakened on the chicken proposition; more for the reason that he was disgusted with their polygamous propensities. although living in one herd, he imagined that each breed would live to itself. alfred dubbed them "mormons." pearl and mrs. field had become interested in the little chicks. as hen after hen came off, her brood was carried to the house and endeavors made to raise the chicks by hand. they had some forty or fifty, when rats, or a "varmint" penetrated the coop and twenty-four were killed in one night. the sorrow caused by this loss of their pets was partly compensated for by the closer ties formed with those spared. each one was named. when either pearl or aunt tillie passed out of the kitchen door, the chicks would fly to meet them. stooping down to feed them, they would fly on the shoulders of the two women. one of the grocery bills rendered contained an item, "four dollars for chickens." mrs. mott had also sold mrs. field quite a number of chickens. alfred supposed these chickens were for breeding purposes. one sunday the table was without chicken. mrs. field explained she had no one to go after them. "i'd have shot them for you if you had advised me you wanted chickens killed." "chickens killed?" repeated both pearl and aunt tillie, "well, i'd like to see you or anyone else kill _our_ chickens. why, there's betty, biddy, snooks, dick and kelly; they're just like humans. you don't imagine for a moment we will kill any of _our_ chickens, do you?" and alfred bought chickens for the table all summer. alfred promised his wife that he would look after the farming part. the chickens and dairy came under her charge. he therefore, sat down to his desk and wrote out minute instructions as to fields to be planted and designated the crops to sow in each field. he ordered a hill field, near the barn, sowed in buckwheat. the farmer meekly intimated that ten acres of buckwheat and five acres of oats seemed rather disproportional. "never mind, follow my order," haughtily commanded alfred. "none of us care for rolled oats and we all like buckwheat cakes." alfred discharged his regular farmer; he claimed the man got up too early; he got up at four o'clock and threshed around making so much noise nobody could sleep. the hills had not been plowed in years. the land was shaly, easily washed. it rained from the day the family moved onto the farm until late in june. seeds of all kinds from the fields above washed down into the bottoms below. beans, potatoes, egg plant, rye, peas, beets and cow peas grew in the bottom as only noxious weeds and wild crops grow. from this conglomeration sprang the noted bean that bill brown and alfred are forming a company to distribute. the rain continued. the weather being cool, fires were necessary. nothing but wood was used as fuel. the wife protested the heat for cooking was not sufficient. it just dried the juices in the meats. a heating plant was put in. kerosene lamps did not produce sufficient light, so a lighting plant was installed. springs and well were unhandy. alfred installed a water plant. alfred swore you might just as well live in the city if you had all city fixin's. the walks in the yard and across the lawn were inches thick with mud. pearl and mrs. field, by the light of the wood fire, would read bill brown's life on the farm, while alfred watched the barometer. the women began to talk about moving back to town. alfred was as miserable as life could make him. day after day the rain fell in torrents. the dam that formed the lake wherein alfred intended raising fish in summer, and a skating pond in winter, and also to furnish ice, broke, flooding the cow stables, washing out the sweet corn patch and the garden floated. alfred was unmercifully berated that he had dragged his family to the country, destroying their happiness and spending all his money for--what, for what? just to gratify a whim, a boyish illusion. alfred felt he must do something to turn the tide. the rain kept falling. he started to the city on his mysterious errand. returning he proudly hung above the mantle piece this motto: "it hain't no use to grumble and complain, it's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice; when god sorts out the weather and sends rain, why, rain's my choice." the rain ceased. the sun shone, the grasses grew. happiness came into the family. ere the summer was over, farm life had so ingratiated itself that they did not relish the idea of moving back to the city. bill brown is ever kind. he sent a half dozen guineas, advising they were "chicken-house sentinels." they multiplied more rapidly than any fowls known; that the hen laid forty and fifty eggs in one nest. mr. field and all the hands followed those guineas all summer, nor did anyone find a guinea egg. after months of seeking guinea eggs, an old lady familiar with guineas advised alfred that all of bill's guineas were cocks. it was true; they were all shriner guineas. alfred procured a few suffragettes and guineas are now the most prolific fowl production of the farm. [illustration: home, sweet home] chapter twenty-five it's curious what fuss folks makes 'bout boys that went away years ago from home. there's young bill piper that used to keep recitin', do you know what he's done? he's gone to actin', there's some that actually pay to go an' hear bill talkin', public in a play. why, he couldn't chop a cord o' hickory wood in a year; he may fool the folks out yonder, but he ain't no hero here. i am glad to have uncle tom visit us. he is a good man. it is true his calling made him very narrow when a younger man, but he was always kind hearted, and under his austerity there's a lot of man. i am doubly glad he is to visit us. i want him to carry back to my old home, to those who predicted a much different career for me, a few things i would like them to know. [illustration: uncle tom] "what are you going to do with polly?" inquired the wife. polly was a bird purchased in new orleans; warranted to be one of the best talkers ever imported; talks french, english and spanish. the bird came up to the guarantee and even surpassed it. she can cuss in two or three languages not specified in the guarantee. the wife suggested we carry polly to sister's. "but uncle tom will visit there and it would come out that the parrot belonged to us. besides, it would be disreputable to have polly's profanity charged to sister's family." janet wolfe, a teacher of languages, was also a guest of the family. she and the uncle spent a great deal of their leisure talking to polly. janet was particularly interested in polly's spanish and french. one morning the two were standing near polly's perch. polly was unusually talkative. in answer to a sentence of janet's purest south end french, polly rolled off sentence after sentence of new orleans french market french. janet turned red, then pale. she hurriedly inquired as to whether uncle tom understood french. when assured he did not, she elevated her hands in thankfulness. uncle tom adhered to the custom of family worship. one morning uncle tom's prayer was very long. polly, evidently--like others of the family--was hungry, but, unlike them, did not have the politeness to conceal it. stretching her wings to the fullest width, craning her neck, in a bored tone she squeaked: "o-h h-e-l-l. give us a rest." there was no suppressing the laughter. polly laughed too. uncle tom smiled faintly. alfred pretended to chastise the bird, raising the feather duster over her. polly began a tirade that all the family understood. it must have sounded to uncle tom something like this: "go to hell-go-to-hell-all-of-you. get-to-hell-out-of-yere-dam-you, dam-you-all. polly's-sick-poor-polly. chippy-get-your-hair-cut-hair-cut. oh-hell." many were the arguments and interchanges of opinions as between alfred and uncle tom. the younger man never mentioned the old days at home, he was more anxious to have the uncle refer to them. many years had elapsed and alfred surmised the uncle had forgotten events that were ineffaceably impressed upon his own memory. the uncle and nephew, held many long conversations. one night while alone the uncle took alfred aback a bit, when he very abruptly inquired as to whether he was satisfied with his profession--his life. "i can see you are well fixed and financial success has come to you. but, are you satisfied with your life? would you live the same life over again?" "uncle in the main, i am satisfied with my life. there are many things that i would prefer to forget and there are many things i hope to remember. as a boy, i was ambitious to become a circus clown." the uncle smiled. "this at first, was a boy's whim, an illusion. that ambition was based entirely upon a desire to acquire sufficient money to make me comfortable. it was a boyish fancy at the beginning but some of the happiest days of my life were when i wore the motley and endeavored to spread gladness as a circus clown. "to see others enjoying themselves, to hear and see folks laugh, is one of the greatest pleasures to me in this life. but i am sorry i did not become something other than a showman." the old minister looked at alfred in amazement. "i will always retain most pleasant recollections of the many friends that i have made in the show world, but, uncle thomas, i feel that i could have done something better for myself if i had only been as bent upon it as i was upon show life." "why, alfred! you surprise me. what do you think you should have gone into? a mercantile business?" "no, i never had any taste for that. of late years i have often wished i had been enabled to enter the legal profession. i believe i would have made a success as a lawyer." "oh, as a politician?" "no, no, uncle, i abhor politics as i know them. i mean a lawyer. one who was respected by all the people in the community where he practiced. i have often thought i would like to be a sort of lawyer and farmer. i never was satisfied with myself until i became the owner of a farm." "well, if you are dissatisfied with your business, i cannot understand why you have been so successful." "now, uncle tom, you misunderstand me. i am not dissatisfied with my business. i had ambitions as a boy, i have ambitions as a man." "are you ashamed of your calling?" this was a leading question. alfred felt the inquisitor was digging pretty deep. "no, uncle, i am not. i shall always respect the calling of a public entertainer. i thank god, and pat myself on the back often, that not one dollar i possess was wrung from a human being that they were unwilling to part with. i respect myself all the more that not one penny of the little that i have saved is tainted, that is in the latter day application of the term. in my professional work i have carried gladness. i have endeavored to make two blades of grass grow where one grew before. i have injured no man by my profession, but have made many happy. why should i be ashamed of it? of course, i often wish that i had entered a field where i could have enjoyed more opportunities; where i could have extended myself as it were. i would like to live in a larger world." "why, alfred, i am again surprised. you travel the world over." "yes, but uncle, it's the narrowest world you ever dreamed of. a crowd's no company. the loneliest moments i pass are when in the largest gatherings. i was cut out for a showman, but i ought to be a stationary one. if you and father and all my other relatives had only headed me for the law, perhaps i'd be a different man." "alfred, what was to be could not be changed. you have everything to be thankful for and little to regret. you have a faithful helpmate in your wife. your father is a great consolation to you. he tells me of the lovely traits of your character. if i had my children around me as he has, if i could live in their love as he does, i would sacrifice all else in this world." "why, uncle tom, aren't you satisfied with your calling?" "if you refer to the ministry, i answer 'no.' the salaries of the ministers of this country do not average five hundred dollars a year. and yet, as a class, they are the best educated the hardest working, poorest paid, underfed profession i know of. with less culture, less mental power, there are men in all walks of life that are paid three times the salary even our most eloquent and useful ministers receive. and yet, no matter how great the good a minister may have accomplished, if he makes the slightest allusion to the matter of money, it discredits him. that i have worn the livery of christ all my days will buoy me up, and that i am proud of my service in the army of the lord lends happiness. i have endeavored to maintain the character i have assumed in meekness and sincerity. but the character of a minister is the most assailable of that of any of the professions. the slightest slip, the one misstep, and he is lost. like samson, shorn of his hair, he is a poor, feeble, faltering creature, the pity of his friends, the derision of the public." "well, uncle tom, yours is not the only profession that's held back by popular prejudices. it's one of the peculiarities of the littleness of human nature. it's a sure sign of a dwarfed mind to have your actions criticized and misconstrued. there's not a great calamity, a pestilence, a plague, a drought or a famine, a galveston disaster, a johnstown flood, a poor family's poverty, that the theatrical profession are not appealed to first and are first to respond. but if a theatrical man interests himself in public affairs his motives are impugned." "i am surprised at this, alfred. it sounds so very much like the restrictions placed upon ministers. does it hamper you in your affairs?" "not in the least. that is, not now. there was a time when i was younger that i felt the sting pretty keenly. now it has a different effect. you remember bill jones in brownsville? he had a boy named bill. young bill was under discussion by the cracker barrel committee in oliver baldwin's grocery. andy smith had just remarked that 'bill jones's boy is a durned fool; he don't know nuthin'; he don't know enough to gether greens; he don't know enough to slop hogs.' just then he noticed the boy's father sitting behind the stove. old bill had overheard andy's talk. andy endeavored to square himself. in an apologetic tone he said: 'but, taint' your fault, bill; tain't your fault; ye ain't to blame. you learnt him all you know.' you can't tell anything about human nature and the better plan is to make yourself as agreeable to those you respect and love and to keep others at arm's length. when you feel that folks have any objections to you, beat them to it. they soon come over." "do you remember a boy that was raised in brownsville, worked in snowden's machine shop? do you remember he worked his way up? he entered the ministry. he became a very good preacher, quite eloquent. there was a movement inaugurated by some of his boyhood friends to have him brought to brownsville to fill the pulpit of a church. the women of taste were sort of running things. the brownsville boy who had become a preacher was turned down. do you remember why? well, his parents were very humble people. the taste of many of the members revolted at the idea of the pulpit of the church being filled by one whose father worked around the town in his shirt sleeves. do you remember the trade of his father?" "no, i have forgotten." "well, he was a carpenter." the uncle did not perceive the application at once. after a moment he nodded his head a half dozen times, very slowly as he framed the question: "what became of--?" "he is living in retirement with his children in houston, texas. he became a noted man in the ministry of that state. he never visited his old home after the slight put upon him by the taste of a part of the congregation." "well, alfred, your experience has been of great value to you. you have met all manner of people." "yes, and in all walks of life. and my estimate of them is, that human nature is about the same in all men, although some of them possess the faculty to a greater degree than others of concealing it. the first president i ever met to talk to was general grant. i had always read of him as the silent man of destiny; but he did about all the talking for all those about him the few moments i was in his presence." "i met ben harrison, but that was before he was president. it was during a political campaign in indiana. he seemed to me to be about as cool and level-headed a man as i ever met. i stood beside him on a car platform. in petersburg, va., after he was elected president, he came out of his private car in response to the cheers of the crowd. i feel sure he intended to make a short speech, as the multitude seemed to demand it. the president was bowing his acknowledgments to the large gathering, when someone, with that bad taste that always crops out at the most inopportune moment, yelled 'hurrah for cleveland.' a great many others, with bad taste, laughed. harrison flushed to his temples, bowed and backed into the car. "i met cleveland twice. once in that old club in buffalo, n. y. cleveland was sheriff at that time. he was in the prime of manhood, sociable and full of animation. he did not talk much but was a good listener and a hearty laugher at the stories george bleinstein related. i met him again after he was out of the presidential chair. his health was shattered. he was endeavoring to recuperate in that most sensible way, hunting and fishing. his limbs were in such condition he could not endure the exercise and did not get the benefit he anticipated from the outdoor life. "i met rutherford b. hayes many times while he was governor of the state of ohio, and once after he became president. he was the most democratic of men, plain and approachable. "of all the presidents i have had the good fortune to meet mckinley was the most lovable to me, probably because i was better acquainted with him than the others. mrs. mckinley and her sister owned the opera house in canton, ohio. mrs. mckinley's brother, mr. barber, was the manager for them. i met mckinley in columbus, canton and washington. he was always the same. he never mentioned politics at any time i was in his presence; always talked upon commonplace subjects, inquiring after friends or conditions of business over the country. mckinley had the good taste to remember his friends. "it was the custom of the president and his wife, while in washington, to call up the home of mr. barber in canton, on the long distance telephone daily. alfred happened in canton on new year's day. he wished the president a happy new year over the phone. the president, in turn, invited him to call at the white house when visiting washington. alfred, after the phone was hung up, remarked to barber: 'the president is too busy with politicians to bother with minstrels.' barber afterwards repeated alfred's remark to the president. later, alfred visited washington. the president sent a messenger inviting him to call at the white house, nor did alfred have long to wait when his card was sent in. after a hearty handshake the president invited him to have a cigar. the first question he asked was as to the health of an old columbus liveryman--brice custer--a democrat at that. "the most interesting near-president i ever met was your old fellow-townsman, james g. blaine." "oh, i knew blaine well as a boy," uncle tom said. "i never met him after he left brownsville. where did you meet him?" "i visited augusta, me., with my minstrels. i sent a messenger inviting him to attend the entertainment. in reply he invited me to call at his residence. to my surprise he seemed to be familiar with my career. he inquired after many of the older men of brownsville, particularly john snowden, bobby rodgers and others. he could not remember my father but he remembered grandfather, uncle william and uncle joe's father. his memory as to the older inhabitants of the town was most remarkable. he gave me much information as to the early history of brownsville. he advised when he regained his health he intended visiting the valley again, renewing old friendships. the cheeks of the famous american were sallow and flabby. his general appearance was that of one who was desperately struggling to fight off the finish. although he talked hopefully of the future and outlined his precautions for guarding his health, it was not long afterwards until he 'crossed the bar.' "blaine was a wonderful man. do you remember the last speech he made at his old home? it was in the midst of a heated political campaign. several noted orators accompanied him. the issues of the campaign were discussed by the speakers who preceded him. blaine was introduced; the applause was long-continued. speaking slowly at first, with distinct enunciation, he said: "'ladies and gentlemen, neighbors, friends, all: i am here tonight in the interests of that great political party of which i have the honor to be a member. i came here to make a political speech. i came here to discuss the questions in which this section is so vitally interested. i see many familiar faces. i see many in front of me tonight who have always held views opposed to mine, politically; but our opinions on public questions have never marred our friendships and never will insofar as i am concerned. i always hope to retain the respect and good-will you bear me, evidenced by your presence here tonight.' "'when i gaze around me, i note the silver tops of many men whose hair was as black as the raven's wing when we trod these old hills together. i note cheeks even whiter now than the hair that shades them--cheeks then flushed with the bloom that only comes to youth. i know many of you here tonight expect me to discuss the issues of the day. i hope you will excuse me when i inform you i cannot bring myself to do it, that word of mine might cause pain to one friend--that would destroy all the pleasure that has come to me from this meeting of old friends here tonight--it is a pleasant feeling to the wanderer that he is again in the home of his fathers, in the home of his friends.' "he continued relating incidents of his boyhood. i venture to say it was the most effective political speech ever delivered and not a word of politics in it." "alfred, your experiences are valuable, and i believe you are filling the mission god intended you for. i feel when i talk to you my little world growing smaller. i have lived in a little world all my life. the only information i get of the big world comes through well-meaning, but often prejudiced, persons. i do not know man as i should. i believe to know god you must know man. alfred, i am told intemperance is the curse of the theatrical profession. are many of your people drunkards?" "very few of them. we do not tolerate a drunkard one day. it would be an insult to permit a drunkard to go before an audience. theatrical people with their peculiar temperaments and manner of life, are easily led astray but i do not believe, comparatively speaking, there is nearly so much intemperance among theatrical people as some other professions." "how do you manage the members of your company?" "we endeavor to dissuade them from all practices that will interfere with their duties. we take a great deal of pains with the younger ones; particularly as to the drink habit; do all we can with advice, and endeavor in every way to have them lead sober, moral lives. the general manager of one of the largest railway systems in this country, after twenty-five years' experience, has arrived at this conclusion. 'do all possible to rescue the man starting in on a drinking life. bump the old soak and bump him hard; bump him quick. never temporize with a man who has broken his promise as to the liquor habit. if he gets bumped hard, it will either cure him or cause him to drink himself to death. in either way society is the better off.'" "what a load of sin the saloonkeeper carries, the man that sells the drunkard rum. if all the saloons could be closed--uncle tom, have you given the subject, or this sin, or whatever you may term it, serious study? the saloonkeeper may have it within his power to curtail, to lessen the evil effects of drunkenness, but it's high time the fellow on the other side of the bar came in for his share of the censure. don't you know that if every saloon in the land was closed, under existing conditions, drunkenness and the increased consumption of whisky would go on. statistics bear this out." "well, what is your remedy for the evil, alfred?" "i have no remedy. i have a safeguard--high license, the sale of whisky placed in the hands of reputable men." "but, alfred, there are no reputable men in the whisky business." "uncle tom, you admitted a few moments ago you lived in a little world, you did not know men. i am not entering upon a defense of the saloonkeeper, but human nature, is human nature. bad taste is bad taste. it's bad taste for a minister of the gospel to make statements that can be controverted so readily that his veracity is made questionable. if i were a minister, i would inform myself, visit the saloons. i would go into the neil house, the chittenden, the lowest dives in the city; not as a sneak or a spy, but in my duty, my profession, my calling as a preacher, as a man with the determination to do good unto my fellow men. i would go as he, in whose footsteps preachers profess to follow, did. i would shake hands with the business man, the bum. i'd pass them my card or have someone introduce me. i'd invite them to visit my church. i'd make them feel i was a friend, not an enemy. i would endeavor to instill into their lives the truth. i'd preach that god is love. i would make myself a welcome visitor everywhere i went. the presence of a good man with a desire to do good has a beneficial effect upon men in every walk of life, in church or saloon. "uncle thomas, if the clergy do not realize it, they should. they are widening a breach, a chasm between the people and the church, that will be difficult to bridge over. they are positively bringing their calling into disrepute. let nothing be done through strife or vain glory but in lowliness of mind, is a divine injunction they seem to have forgotten." "alfred, i am surprised at your arguments. i want to ask you: did you ever know an honest saloonkeeper, an honest man who made or sold whisky?" "there are thousands of them. thomas daly, one of the largest distillers in this country, belle vernon, fayette county, penn., is a man who stands as high morally as any in his section. "martin casey, who lately passed away in ft. worth, texas, a wholesale dealer in liquors, was a friend of mine for thirty years. he was a friend of your nephews, jim and clarke. he was beloved in the community where he lived and died. no charity, no public or private work for the betterment of mankind, was without his support. the widow and orphan did not appeal to him without receiving. in fact, it was not necessary for the poor to appeal to martin casey. his friendship would have honored any man. "you will say these men were too far away. tom swift, a saloonkeeper, stood as high among those who were intimate with him as any man in this city. joe hirsch is another, and there are hundreds of others." "then, alfred, you are against temperance?" "no, sir. i'm for temperance. if there is anything i can do to ameliorate or decrease the evil effects of intemperance, i will willingly take my place in the ranks and add my strength to the fight. ninety men of a hundred are in sympathy with those who are battling for the alleviation of the evils of intemperance. but there are not ten men in a hundred that have faith in the means employed. the only practical temperance work that has come under my observation was that of father matthews and francis murphy." "well, alfred, what do you think of sam jones, and billy sunday?" "sam jones is dead and nearly forgotten. as to billy sunday, i have made it a rule not to talk about a business competitor. talk is advertising. billy sunday is running a show. it's bigger than mine, but it's not as good because it's not an honest show. it's run under the guise of religion. religion, as i understand it, is your life work from day to day and not the inspiration or the evolution of a week, a month or a year. billy sunday has four or five advance agents, or promoters. i employ only two. billy sunday has promoters the slickest in the business: men who have had the experience of years in all sorts of schemes. his show is a sad reflection upon the ministers and church members of any city that falls for his methods. the preachers simply admit that they are not equal to the labor they are engaged in. they must have a buffoon, a mountebank, whose methods are repugnant to those who believe in the religion that is taught by the bible. billy sunday creates excitement that carries some folks off their feet for the time being: no lasting results obtain. those that will remember billy sunday longest are those people who give up their money to him. billy sunday's show has the gift show scheme distanced before the start." uncle tom enjoyed his visit to columbus greatly. on his last sunday he occupied the pulpit of the evangelical church on east main street. he advised alfred the day previous that he would preach a special sermon--text, i cor., chapter , verse : "i had rather speak five words with my understanding that by my voice i might teach others also, than ten thousand words in an unknown tongue." after elaborating upon the text, he reached the pith of his sermon: "a man out of place is only half a man. his nature is perverted. he becomes restless and discontented and his life is made a failure, while the same person might have made a success of all his undertakings if he had been properly placed. as a rule, that which one likes best to do is his forte. no man can be wholly successful in this life until he finds his place. some men glide into their proper sphere as naturally as the birds of the air fly, or fish in the deep swim. others never ask the question of themselves: 'what is my place? what shall i do that i may be content to labor and succeed in the world?' every man should ask himself: 'what is my place? how shall i decide it? how shall i fill it that my life shall not be a failure?' it may be difficult to answer this question. the answer may not always be from the heart, that is, influenced by sincerity. ignorance or lack of ambition may prompt an answer and failure follow. though difficult to answer, the question must be answered by all. 'what is my right place in the labor of this world? how shall i find it? how shall i succeed in it?' but few men can be really successful and discontented--contentment is success. "education and civilization will have found their highest value in this world when every man has chosen his proper work; work for which he is fitted by nature and inclination. how many boys have had their aspirations checked, their longings silenced, by loving but misguided parents and friends? how many boys, who might have attained eminence in a calling they were fitted for, have been forced to fill a place that was repugnant to their natures? there is not a day we do not see natural ability checked by occupations that are not congenial to those engaged in them. we can hardly conceive of a man or boy forced to do work they loathe. parents may feel they are fulfilling a highest duty when they choose a profession or a calling they believe the best for their children, but against which the whole nature of the boy revolts, and for which they have no natural ability. if instinct and heart ask for a blacksmithing trade, be a blacksmith; if for carpentry, be a carpenter; if for the medical profession, be a doctor; if for music, be a musician. there is nothing like filling your place in the labor of this world successfully. if you cannot fill a higher position acceptably and successfully, be content to choose a lower one. there's nothing more creditable in this world than filling a small place in a large way. it is better to be a first rate brick mason than a second rate lawyer. choose your calling in this world. prosecute it with all the vigor in your being. with a firm reliance in god and confidence in yourself failure is impossible." neither uncle tom nor alfred, in their conversation referred to the sermon at dinner. several complimented uncle tom on his sermon. as alfred looked across the table at the uncle, they both smiled. alfred thought of another sermon he had sat under years previously, and it's his opinion the uncle had the same thought. uncle tom sleeps in a little church yard in virginia near the people he loved so well, and that his views broadened in his last years only made him more beloved by those for whom he always faithfully labored, believing in the right as he saw it. he was an honest man, a consistent christian. chapter twenty-six not hurrying to, not turning from the goal. not mourning for the things that disappear in the dim past, nor holding back in fear from what the future veils; but with a whole and happy heart, that pays the toll to you and age, and travels on with cheer. uncle madison, stage driver, soldier, planter, historian, a gentleman of the old school; versed in the classics and current events, most positive in his deductions. he fought every day and year of the civil war for the cause of the south. he had labored every day since appomattox to better the conditions he had been active in unsettling. the soul of honor, as courtly as a king, as keen as a flint, as blunt as a sledge, as tender as a child. [illustration: uncle madison] it was telegraphed all over the country that a. p. clayton, mayor of st. joe, mo., and alfred, were behind the bars in pittsburgh, pa. bill brown telegraphed w. e. joseph, masonic temple, columbus: "clayton and field in jail here, will you help to get them out?" the answer was: "if clayton and alfred are in jail, it's where they belong. w. e. joseph." uncle madison read of it in the newspapers. he reared and charged. "bill brown nor no other man could put him in jail without suffering for it." alfred's explanation did not satisfy uncle madison. "it's only bill's way of having fun with his friends. no one that goes to pittsburgh but bill plays some sort of a joke on him. we are glad to get off so easy. we expected him to steal our clothes or have us indicted for bootlegging. why, there are a number of people in the west--good people--who will not go east via pittsburgh, fearing bill's practical jokes." pet clayton, imperial potentate of the shrine, was _compelled_ to visit pittsburgh in connection with his official duties. clayton carried alfred with him as protection. alfred, in his haste, forgot his dress suit. arriving in pittsburgh only a few moments before the ceremonial session, bill insisted alfred wear one of his (bill's) dress suits; that it was the rule of the temple that all must wear dress suits to gain admission. bill is wider than alfred, "thicker through," but not quite as tall. there was too much space everywhere excepting in the length of legs and arms of bill's dress suit, as it encompassed alfred. no coaxing or lengthening of the suspenders or pulling at the sleeves could make alfred look other than ridiculous. after walking from the ft. pitt hotel to the temple, the suit began to "set" to its new conditions. the legs, seat and sleeves, were drawing up at every breath. bill, in introducing the visitors, kindly made apologies for the condition of clayton, and the appearance of alfred, explaining that clayton had just come from louisville, where he was booked for one night only, but there was more to inspect than he had ever tackled before. he also assured the nobility that alfred owned a dress suit but they would not permit him to take it out of columbus; that the suit alfred wore was one he had kindly loaned him and he hoped that if anything happened alfred those assembled would respect the clothes. when alfred arose the next morning to prepare for the automobile ride the local people had tendered the visitors, his clothes were missing from the room. bill brown and the committee were waiting. "slip on your overcoat; that will hide bill's old suit. you won't be out of the automobile until you return. this hotel will make that suit good. how much did it cost you?" "sixty dollars; well, we'll make them buy you a hundred dollar suit." every out of town guest, (shriners) had lost something from their rooms. harrison dingman was tugging at an odd pair of shoes, a number eight and a ten, to get ready for the automobile tour. bill brown was everywhere consoling the losers, making notes of the losses pretending he wanted to bring suit against the hotel. alfred and clayton were hustled into an automobile under brown's tender care. as the auto sped on, clayton remonstrated as to the high speed at which the machine was traveling. brown was describing the carnegie technical school. clayton, seemingly not interested, bluntly informed bill he would not ride further at the speed we're going. "i'm too damn good a man to get killed by one of these machines," declared clayton. brown pretended his feelings were injured. halting the auto as he climbed out backwards, he remarked: "i don't want to annoy you, gentlemen. the educational institution we are now passing is one of the most noted in the world. i supposed you'd be interested in it. it is one of which pittsburghers are justly proud. we take a young man from the home, pass him through this school and turn him out versed in any profession or trade." clayton said something about an institution in st. joe that took a hog from the pen every minute, passed him through and turned him out every minute, ready for the table. clayton referred to st. joe's slaughter houses. after brown left the auto there was no slacking of its speed. both alfred and clayton remonstrated with the chauffer. he claimed they were not traveling nearly so rapidly as the machines containing the other guests; that he did not know their destination and must keep in sight of them. as clayton was insisting that the auto be halted, a policeman threw up his hands, commanding the chauffer to halt, advising all they were arrested for exceeding the speed limit. clayton quickly informed the officers that we were guests, not the owners of the machine; that we had protested since we entered the park at the high speed; that we were not to blame and should not be arrested. "i'm not here in pittsburgh to break laws that i instruct my officers to enforce. i am the mayor of st. joe and i won't stand for this arrest." "st. joe, st. joe," mused the irish policeman, "well, uv course, i have no authority to turn yez loose. there may be a st. joe but i haven't heered uf it. there's so meny new korporations springing up around yere, i exshpect coryopolis will be havin' a mayor next an' he'll come in the city an' want to have immunity fur any crime he may commit. no, you nabobs wid dese automobiles must be held in check. ye kilt two shill-dren and a hog out uv wan family last week." [illustration: "it's done every day in st. joe"] clayton led the officer behind the machine. alfred overheard him offer the cop two dollars and to set them up to turn the pair loose. "it's done every day in st. joe," clayton confided. the officer shook his head and remarked: "i'll have tu take yez down. get in!" and he pointed with his club to the open door of the machine. "climb in! i'll let yez talk to the sargent." the mayor of st. joe and the meek minstrel re-embarked. the officer sat up beside the chauffer, clayton slinging it into him every foot of the way to the station. there was a crowd outside the door. "phwat are they pinched fur?" inquired a ward politician who had a pull, and consequently got a reply from the cops. "exceedin' the spheed law in the park," replied the officer. "they're from out of town, are they?" "yis," answered the cop. "the big one claims he's the mayor of st. joseph's academy, er some other place. the other one has thryed to hide hisself in his overcoat." they were in front of the sergeant's desk. alfred whispered to clayton: "give a fictitious name." clayton was arguing the case with the sergeant. "my name's clayton. this is mr. field, al. g. field, of minstrel fame. he lives in columbus, ohio, right near you. he is the potentate of aladdin temple, columbus." [illustration: "it will cost us fifty dollars and costs"] "hold on, pet, hold on," pleaded alfred, "i--i--" "never mind, alfred, never mind. now, i'm the mayor of a city. i know just how to handle these matters." "well, don't give them my name and pedigree. handle it without that," requested alfred. "put them both together in cell twenty-three and send for the bertillon officers. i think you'll find their mugs in the hall of fame." clayton advised alfred the hall of fame had reference to the rogue's gallery. clayton clamored for an opportunity to telephone the chief of police, the director of public safety, or some other high mogul. "if i was in st. joe, i'd be out of here in two minutes," he excitedly declared. "of course you would," assented alfred, "but you're not in st. joe. you're in jail in pittsburgh, a shake-down town, and it will cost us fifty and costs, you see if it don't." "not on your life it won't. let me get this fellow on the phone. what's his name? i met him last night. i'll tell him something," said clayton. "do you know him?" meekly inquired alfred. "know him? hell? why, i'm well acquainted with him. i had fifty drinks with him last night." "well, telephone him quick," urged alfred. "hello, hello! this is clayton, clayton, c-l-a-y-t-o-n, clayton. i met you last night. (ha-ha-ha). how do you feel? (oh, all right). where am i at? no, no! pet clayton, mayor of st. joe, imperial potentate of the--hello--gurgle--gurgle," and pet hung up the phone. "well, don't that beat the bugs! now this fellow knows me but he says he must see me. he only met me last night, he isn't familiar with my voice. i told him who i was but he said i might be all right, but he would come out and investigate." "it seems to me bill brown would come back looking for us. you're the guest of honor." this reminder riled clayton up. "i'll attend to mr. brown's case. i put him where he is. i'll show him something next session of the imperial council." just then the jailer thrust a thin loaf of bread part ways between the bars. alfred and pet gazed at the bread as it stuck there. in a moment the man sat a thin can of water beside the bread. clayton endeavored to bribe him to go to a restaurant and bring some real refreshments. "phwat wud yez like to eat?" "oh, old crow or joe finch's 'golden wedding.'" "oh, yez'll git none of those things out here. they wudn't know how to cook them if they had 'em. yez'd better have some corned beef and cabbage. no, this is friday, yez can't get that. salt mackerel is the bhest i can do for yez the day." clayton pinched off a crust, with the remark: "i'll eat your bread but damned if i drink your water." clayton swore he could buy the police, the police station, the police department or anything else in pittsburgh, but he wouldn't be shook down. he had endeavored to bribe everyone he came in contact with, but all refused to accept, even the policeman. pet confidentially informed alfred, as they sat in the dark, dismal cell, that he knew there wasn't a straight man in pittsburgh; that being mayor of st. joe he had got next to all the grafting cities in the country. "i will admit to you, and you are the first man i ever breathed it to, there is a little, very little, grafting going on in st. joe." pet had pittsburgh people sized up right, but he applied st. joe prices and they were rejected. the old janitor seemed to be taken up greatly with the two prisoners. "yez belongs to some kind of a sacret society, don't yez?" he inquired. clayton straightened up to his full height. "yes, we belong to the ancient arabic order nobles of the mystic shrine of north america." pet rolled off the lengthy title so rapidly the old fellow was astounded. resting his hands on the cell bars, he gazed admiringly at clayton fully a half minute, ere he asked: "are yez pope of it?" later it developed the janitor was a captain of police, also a shriner. he played his part well. when bill brown and mccandless arrived they almost came to blows. bill swore they were disgraced. bill endeavored to borrow the fifty dollar fine from both clayton and alfred. failing, he borrowed, or pretended to borrow the amount from mccandless. clayton and alfred were liberated, loaded into an auto, the chauffer ordered to drive slowly to the work house. when clayton and alfred stepped on to the veranda, the doors were flung open. on each side of the long tables there was a row of red fezzes. under each a shriner. there was a welcome, and such a welcome as could only be extended by those who at one time or another have been the victims of bill brown's practical jokes. to those who are not intimate with bill brown, his sense of humor may appear forced. but his pranks are only the over-flowing exuberance of a great, big, fun-loving man--a big body--but scarcely big enough to contain a heart so filled with love for his fellow man. alvah p. clayton thanked the committee, thanked bill brown, thanked the police for their kindly consideration in placing him in jail. he stated that visiting the city in his official capacity, he had concluded the duties that called him to pittsburgh, that he carried on his person money and valuables representing thousands of dollars. he was compelled to remain in the city all day and he felt much safer in jail than loose on the streets of pittsburgh. we love men like bill brown and pet clayton because they are lovable men. happy is the man who has that in his soul that acts upon the dejected mortal as april showers upon violet roots. bill brown has a motto worked on brass, with steel fish-hooks. it hangs over the mantelpiece in his home, and reads: "i am an old man; my troubles are many, but most of them never happened." alfred has added to this motto: "they mostly happened to others." uncle madison never could understand why alfred was indifferent as to his arrest. he never could appreciate the sense of humor that influenced alfred to go to jail for a joke. uncle madison, while on a visit to alfred, read in the columbus papers of the different classes of people composing its citizenship. "you have the upper class, the middle class, the lower class." when uncle madison was asked if the people of virginia were not designated by classes, he replied: "no sir! no sir! we only have one class of people in virginia--the high class. all the others are republicans." uncle madison declares this is the age of shriek and frenzy, the over-zealous, ambitious politician who gets his ideas from history, going back a little further than most people read, puts them forward as his own. "the majority of folks, in this the best of countries, believe that the founders of it, knew just about what they were doing when they made out the plans and specifications. if you will read the writings of jefferson, you will find them as applicable to present conditions as they were the day they were written. "alfred i hope you won't be bamboozled by the ravings of demagogues, who constantly preach about the wrongs of the people. you'll find the wrongs that influence them are their own imaginary wrongs. the founders of this country provided for the righting of all wrongs. we can right any wrong at the ballot box. we do not require any new-fangled, or rather old-fangled, ideas warmed over. the man who advocates the so-called referendum, the initiative, and particularly, the recall, is a traitor to the true principles of government as established by our forefathers. we have lived and thrived for more than a hundred years under the best form of government ever devised. if we want to preserve it, if we desire to perpetuate our institutions, the demagogue, the mountebanking politician must be squelched. they ruined every republic of the ancient world and if we don't throttle them they'll ruin ours. "the self-seeking demagogue starts out with the captivating doctrine, the rule of the people, but his end will be the dangerous despotism of one man rule--the rule of himself. could you or any reasoning man who has followed the demagogues of this country, for a moment doubt that any one of them, on the slightest pretext or opportunity would make a despot that would shade those of the old world? "the initiative, the referendum and the recall lend themselves to the demagogues' schemes, and they call it progressiveness. nothing in government could be more reactionary. it was tried in greece and it failed. it was tried in ancient rome and it failed. the political party that's 'agin' the recall, the referendum and the initiative, will win and it deserves to win. "socialism, in theory, is a most beautiful dream, an illusion. socialism, as it is practiced by the discontented and turbulent, is about as near anarchy as we can get. see what they have done wherever they have obtained a foothold. it's un-american; it's unpatriotic; it is against all that a patriotic american citizen holds most sacred. despite the demagogues who have brought about these conditions, those who love this country, respect its laws and appreciate the advantages it offers to every man willing to work, will triumph. the evolution will never come to revolution. "the romans, two thousand years ago, experienced the same troubles we are having. there is a fable comparing the corporeal body to the body politic. once upon a time the feet became discontented and struck. they refused to be walked upon longer. the legs noted the dissatisfaction of the feet. although they never had cause for complaint before, they said: 'well, we will quit also. we will refuse to carry the body around longer.' the stomach said: 'well, i can't digest food if you refuse to work, so i'll just quit also; besides, i've been working all these years for that aristocrat, the brain. i am down under the table doing the work while the brain is enjoying the wit and gaiety. i want to be up where he is. the brain has been the master long enough.' the brain became stubborn: 'all well and good for you. if that is the manner in which you look upon your duties; if you feel that you have been imposed upon, go your way. i refuse to think for you further.' "the feet stubbed their toes; their course was irregular; they stepped on broken glass; they swelled up as large as watermelons. the legs, illy nourished, not clothed, became weak and rheumatic, gave way altogether. the stomach, not receiving food, began to ache and cramp. the brain was suffering from the ills that had befallen the stomach, the limbs and the feet. the misery became general. the entire body was suffering, and its sufferings had weakened it greatly. "after a while they all concluded their only hope to live happily was that one should depend upon the other. it was decided the brain should run things; but the ills brought upon the body had caused so much suffering that it required a length of time until all recovered the condition they were in before the strike--as we will call it. all agreed the brain should have all the powers as before but must consider the other parts of the body as of greater importance than heretofore. this the brain had learned, and further that they were all necessary parts of one great body. and thus they all concluded to go to work together. after the brain put food into the stomach, clothes on the legs, healed the wounds of the feet, it found its sufferings had ceased. the brain learned it must take good care of all parts of the body or it would suffer. neither one could long exist without the aid of the other. "god needs all kinds of people in this world. some represent the brain, others the stomach, more the feet and legs. as abraham lincoln said: 'god must love the common people: he made so many of them.' "along comes the demagogue. in his zeal to gratify vainglorious ambitions, he endeavors to convince the common people that confusion and agitation will right their wrongs. "they quote from abraham lincoln. let me ask you to compare their speeches and appeals with those of abraham lincoln. do you remember any speech of these modern demagogues in which they have told the common people that they were living in the best country in the world? that they, the common people, had it in their power to relieve themselves of their few wrongs? do you ever remember one of them telling the dear common people that good government was essential to prosperity? that it was a higher honor to be governed in a republic like ours, than to live in any other country? "every human being begins life under control and there is not one in a thousand that ever should live, only under control. three-fourths of the people in this world never knew they were counted until they get into a mob. "the demagogues array their hearers against wealth. they leave the impression that all who are so fortunate as to possess a little more of this world's goods than the poorest, are dishonest; that it is dishonorable to be of the moneyed class. they never tell the people it is but natural and necessary that some should be richer than others. these conditions have always prevailed and could only be changed by a gross violation of rights, held inviolate since the beginning of civilization. since the world began, industry and frugality have been rewarded by wealth. "these demagogues never tell the people that the opportunities are ever open that have made others rich. they never tell the boys growing up that ten or twenty years hence, they the boys of today, will be the business men, the moneyed class of this country. "to be prosperous is not to be superior. wealth should form no barrier between men. the only distinction that should be recognized is as between integrity and corruption. "the present day fads are only the revival of the brain throbs of demagogues gone before. read jewett's translation of politics. aristotle, who dealt wisely with many momentous questions, designated the initiative, referendum and recall, as the fifth form of democracy, in which not the law but the multitude, have the superior power and supersede the law by their decrees. homer says that 'it is not good to have a rule of many.' "as i said before, there will be no revolution. the patriotic people of this country will attend to this. but we will be compelled to do a little deporting and perhaps a little disciplining. the american people will attend to this sooner or later. the red flag has no place in this country. curb the trusts, curtail combinations in restraint of trade, let all men get an even start in the race and the deserving will win. i am not a rich man; i'm a poor man. i've worked all my life. i am happy and contented. insofar as riches are concerned, i would like to possess them, but damned if i want them if i've got to rob others who have labored more diligently and with more intelligence than i have." "now, uncle madison, what's your cure for the political and social upheavals?" "patriotism, loyalty to our country, to our flag, to our institutions, to the principles that have made us what we are." "uncle madison, you were a confederate soldier." "yes, and i'm proud of it. i fought for what i believed to be right. we of the south lived under conditions that had grown upon us, been forced upon us; i refer to slavery. i'm not defending slavery, i'm glad it's done, but we had lived under a government that guaranteed to protect our rights and property. no matter if slavery was wrong--was it right for one-half of the people of a country to insist the other half impoverish themselves--give up all their possessions? "slavery was handed down to us and--well, there's nothing in threshing this matter over; slavery was the cause of the war, the negro was the issue. if the negro had been a commercial product in the north there would have been no war. the south lost because it was ordained they should lose. that does not lessen my pride in the fact that i fought for the cause i thought was right; we were right in the fact that we fought for the property this government promised to protect us in, and that's just what the north would have done if conditions had been reversed." "uncle madison, do you believe in the majority rule?" "the majority, if you mean the greater number of people, never did rule and never will. it's the few that does the thinking, does the ruling. why, my boy, there are times in our lives when god and one are a majority." chapter twenty-seven mornin' little dreamer with sunshine in your eyes, the stars were talking to you ere they left the brightening skies. "the care of children, by dr. holt," is the title of the book by which the baby is being reared. on the care of feeding bottles it recommends: "when the baby is done it must be unscrewed and put in a cool place under a tap. if the baby does not thrive, it must be boiled." [illustration: an evening at maple villa] hattie remarked afterwards she "never reckoned the poor, measley little thing would stay with us." _it was_ little, _it was_ puny, but it brought a happiness into the household never before experienced--brought a happiness into the lives of uncle al and aunt tillie--that only those who love children and have never been blessed with them can appreciate. alfred with his usual assurance undertook to instruct the family, including the doctor and the nurse as to how the baby should be handled--yes, that's the term he used, "handled." aunt tillie reminded him the baby was not a colt. he was advised that the old fashioned way of nursing babies was obsolete. he was not permitted to up-de-doo baby, that is, throw him up and catch him coming down, notwithstanding he asserted this was the only way to prevent a baby from becoming liver-grown; nor would miss liston or pearl the mother, permit alfred to kiss the baby on the mouth. miss liston asserted that kissing was most dangerous in spreading microbes and germs; therefore, the baby must not be kissed on the mouth. "all right, little baby," alfred would say, "i can kiss his little tootsie ootsies." "please don't kiss his foot," appealingly pleaded pearl. "please don't kiss his foot, he might put it in his mouth." "i kissed you on the mouth a thousand times when you was a baby, and i'm living yet," snapped alfred. [illustration: field] baby cried at night. alfred declared it was unnecessary to lose sleep on account of a baby crying. all required was a cradle. every person that expected to rear a baby should have a cradle. alfred visited every furniture store in the city. not one had a cradle. few understood what they were. one young clerk advised that his grandfather in the country, near alfred's farm had one and he had heard the grandfather say his father before him had used it. alfred sent his colored man, doc blair, to borrow or buy the cradle. the cradle was borrowed. the man did not care to sell it. he sent the wagon to get the cradle. "hide it in the barn until i return; i want to introduce baby to it. this will prevent his crying at night, that is so wearing on his mother and so irritating to aunt tillie, and leg-breaking to his daddy." he explained to hattie, who knew all about babies. hattie just smiled: "you just rock him to and fro and he will go to sleep any time. you can't raise a baby without a cradle, it is impossible." "bring in the cradle," was alfred's command to doc blair. "mister field, you can't bring that thing in hyar. some of you all will get your legs cut off. you can't get it through the door nohow. we couldn't get it in the top wagon. we had to take the farm wagon." [illustration] on the lawn near the front door reposed an old fashioned cradle for reaping grain, such as farmers used before the horsepower reapers came into use--a hand cradle with rusty scythe and hickory fingers. alfred called at a cabinet maker's and ordered a cradle made to order. the rockers must be pointed and have plenty of circle so it would not overset easily. the german agreed to have the cradle completed by saturday. sunday was selected as the day to introduce baby field to the soothing influence of a cradle. alfred advised "all you have to do is sit near it. you can read or sew. just gently push the cradle with your foot. you can have a rope reaching to your bed. if the baby gets restless at night all you have to do is hold on to the rope." alfred insisted that eddie, the father, learn to sing the old nursery song, the inspiration of which was the sugar trough cradle alfred was rocked in: rock-a-bye baby on the tree top, when the wind blows the cradle will rock; when the bow bends cradle will fall, down comes baby, cradle and all. pearl claims it was the singing of this lullaby or the attempts of eddie to sing it, that spoiled field's disposition. the cabinet maker certainly misunderstood alfred's specifications as to the construction of the cradle. aunt tillie declared she would not have it in the house. pearl named it "noah's ark." when baby was laid in the cradle he appeared as but a speck. when alfred essayed to rock it to show the others how, baby howled with fear. alfred swore if they had known anything or consulted him they would have ordered the cradle before the baby came, put him into it on arrival, then he would have gotten used to it by this time. "now you'll have trouble breaking him to the cradle. every baby should be cradle-broke as soon as they are born." aunt tillie again reminded alfred the baby was not a colt. "the cabinet maker was ordered to make a cradle, not a life raft. i didn't order but two rockers. i never ordered it that big. do you think i'm a fool. i know what a cradle is." [illustration] "well, you don't call that thing a cradle, do you?" inquired aunt tillie. "well, it's as near as you will get to one, people don't know nothing about babies or cradles in these days." the cradle, with its three rockers and six sharp points and a big old fashioned rocking chair with four more pointed rockers, made the baby's room a storage place for ancient instruments of torture. the night was a wild one, winds without, colic within. eddie knew the route to the paregoric. after the first combat with the rocker eddie swore it would have to go or he would. he felt he had a chance with the rocking chair, but with six points more against him he balked. "besides nearly breaking my neck, i broke the paregoric bottle and got glass in my feet." [illustration: the wreck] doc and alfred sorrowfully bore the cradle to the chicken house and it has become a receptacle for old carpets and other rubbish. aunt tillie said: "well, you boasted field would have something no other baby in this section had and you made good--nothing like that cradle was ever seen in this section. i wonder what you will think of next to squander your money on?" when the cradle is referred to alfred flares up. "i've had three or four offers for it lately. i expect a man here to look at it tomorrow. don't you dare to break it up to make chicken coops with. i'll get three times as much as i paid for it just as soon as sensible people who are raising a baby learn i have a cradle. some smart man will start a cradle factory, and he'll get the money, too." all the common sense suggestions offered by alfred were rejected. he volunteered to walk the floor with baby while he was cutting teeth. "no, sir, no, sir, i will not permit you to walk the floor with him while he is cutting his teeth. you walk the floor with him when he is teething, when he grows up the dentist will have to carry him around the office before working on his teeth." "don't ride him backwards. he will be bald. riding backwards is the cause of half the baldness in the world." nurse had a schedule by which baby's cries were timed. lung expansion was necessary. crying was essential to lung expansion, exercising his voice field made a new schedule. he was on time; in fact, he worked overtime. he cried by sun time, that is, he began by sun time and quit by any time. he cried until george washington's portrait turned its face to the wall, the dogs howled, and the cream soured. notwithstanding, the baby of these days is raised after the automatic drop-a-nickle-in-the-slot manner, it is surprising how they thrive. he was a tiny, human toy a little while back; now he is the autocrat of the house, the absolute boss. riding or driving, walking or autoing--he is first. he sits at the head of the table. if he desires aught, his desires are gratified. it is only those who have crossed the apex and begun the descent on the other side, that can realize how quickly children--the baby of yesterday, becomes the head of the house, ruling all with love. field will be a year old the first of the month. he will have a birthday party; there will be a cake and one candle. aunt tillie will have a birthday party for uncle al soon. when she asked his age that she might order the candles to decorate the cake, he answered, "just make it a birthday party, not a torch light procession like ollie evans had on his birthday." * * * * * the inner man, like the negro, is born white, but is colored by the life he lives; but not one is so black they have not felt humbled and rebuked under the clear and open countenance of a child. who has not felt his impurities the more that he was in the presence of a sinless child? you have probably seen one whom some low vice has corrupted, one who is the aversion of man and woman, make of himself a plaything for a rollicking crowd of children, enter into their sports in a spirit that made his countenance glow with a delight, as though only goodness had ever been expressed upon it. you have seen another--a genteel person, cold and supercilious--endeavor to make himself agreeable to children, court their favor, win their fancy. you have seen the child draw back and shrink in undisguised aversion. i have always felt there was a curse upon such a person. better be driven from among men than disliked by children and dogs. one is as instinctive as the other. it is a delicate thing to write of one's self. it grates on one's feelings to write anything derogatory and may be redundant to write praise. i have endeavored to watch myself go by. to those who have followed me thus far, to those who have been my friends, to those who are my friends, to all mankind who despise hypocrisy and love human beings and dogs, i commend myself in a good indian's prayer. o powers that be, make me sufficient to my own occasions. teach me to know and to observe the rules of the game. give to me to mind my own business at all times, and to lose no good opportunity of holding my tongue. help me not to cry for the moon or over spilled milk. grant me neither to proffer nor to welcome cheap praise; to distinguish sharply between sentiment and sentimentality, cleaving to the one and despising the other. when it is appointed for me to suffer, let me, so far as may humanly be possible, take example from the dear well-bred beasts, and go quietly, to bear my suffering by myself. give me to be always a good comrade, and to view the passing show with an eye constantly growing keener, a charity broadening and deepening day by day. help me to win, if win i may; but--and this, o powers! especially--if i may not win, make me a good loser. amen. al. g. field. +-----------------------------------------------------+ |transcriber's notes | | | |while unusual spellings have been retained as in the | |original, unexpected inconsistencies in spellings and| |punctuation have been standardised. | +-----------------------------------------------------+ none the lost girl by d. h. lawrence new york thomas seltzer copyright, , by thomas seltzer, inc. all rights reserved first printing, february, second printing, february, third printing, september, printed in the united states of america contents chapter page i the decline of manchester house ii the rise of alvina houghton iii the maternity nurse iv two women die v the beau vi houghton's last endeavour vii natcha-kee-tawara viii ciccio ix alvina becomes allaye x the fall of manchester house xi honourable engagement xii allaye also is engaged xiii the wedded wife xiv the journey across xv the place called califano xvi suspense chapter i the decline of manchester house take a mining townlet like woodhouse, with a population of ten thousand people, and three generations behind it. this space of three generations argues a certain well-established society. the old "county" has fled from the sight of so much disembowelled coal, to flourish on mineral rights in regions still idyllic. remains one great and inaccessible magnate, the local coal owner: three generations old, and clambering on the bottom step of the "county," kicking off the mass below. rule him out. a well established society in woodhouse, full of fine shades, ranging from the dark of coal-dust to grit of stone-mason and sawdust of timber-merchant, through the lustre of lard and butter and meat, to the perfume of the chemist and the disinfectant of the doctor, on to the serene gold-tarnish of bank-managers, cashiers for the firm, clergymen and such-like, as far as the automobile refulgence of the general-manager of all the collieries. here the _ne plus ultra_. the general manager lives in the shrubberied seclusion of the so-called manor. the genuine hall, abandoned by the "county," has been taken over as offices by the firm. here we are then: a vast substratum of colliers; a thick sprinkling of tradespeople intermingled with small employers of labour and diversified by elementary schoolmasters and nonconformist clergy; a higher layer of bank-managers, rich millers and well-to-do ironmasters, episcopal clergy and the managers of collieries, then the rich and sticky cherry of the local coal-owner glistening over all. such the complicated social system of a small industrial town in the midlands of england, in this year of grace . but let us go back a little. such it was in the last calm year of plenty, . a calm year of plenty. but one chronic and dreary malady: that of the odd women. why, in the name of all prosperity, should every class but the lowest in such a society hang overburdened with dead sea fruit of odd women, unmarried, unmarriageable women, called old maids? why is it that every tradesman, every school-master, every bank-manager, and every clergyman produces one, two, three or more old maids? do the middle-classes, particularly the lower middle-classes, give birth to more girls than boys? or do the lower middle-class men assiduously climb up or down, in marriage, thus leaving their true partners stranded? or are middle-class women very squeamish in their choice of husbands? however it be, it is a tragedy. or perhaps it is not. perhaps these unmarried women of the middle-classes are the famous sexless-workers of our ant-industrial society, of which we hear so much. perhaps all they lack is an occupation: in short, a job. but perhaps we might hear their own opinion, before we lay the law down. in woodhouse, there was a terrible crop of old maids among the "nobs," the tradespeople and the clergy. the whole town of women, colliers' wives and all, held its breath as it saw a chance of one of these daughters of comfort and woe getting off. they flocked to the well-to-do weddings with an intoxication of relief. for let class-jealousy be what it may, a woman hates to see another woman left stalely on the shelf, without a chance. they all _wanted_ the middle-class girls to find husbands. every one wanted it, including the girls themselves. hence the dismalness. now james houghton had only one child: his daughter alvina. surely alvina houghton-- but let us retreat to the early eighties, when alvina was a baby: or even further back, to the palmy days of james houghton. in his palmy days, james houghton was _crême de la crême_ of woodhouse society. the house of houghton had always been well-to-do: tradespeople, we must admit; but after a few generations of affluence, tradespeople acquire a distinct _cachet_. now james houghton, at the age of twenty-eight, inherited a splendid business in manchester goods, in woodhouse. he was a tall, thin, elegant young man with side-whiskers, genuinely refined, somewhat in the bulwer style. he had a taste for elegant conversation and elegant literature and elegant christianity: a tall, thin, brittle young man, rather fluttering in his manner, full of facile ideas, and with a beautiful speaking voice: most beautiful. withal, of course, a tradesman. he courted a small, dark woman, older than himself, daughter of a derbyshire squire. he expected to get at least ten thousand pounds with her. in which he was disappointed, for he got only eight hundred. being of a romantic-commercial nature, he never forgave her, but always treated her with the most elegant courtesy. to seehim peel and prepare an apple for her was an exquisite sight. but that peeled and quartered apple was her portion. this elegant adam of commerce gave eve her own back, nicely cored, and had no more to do with her. meanwhile alvina was born. before all this, however, before his marriage, james houghton had built manchester house. it was a vast square building--vast, that is, for woodhouse--standing on the main street and high-road of the small but growing town. the lower front consisted of two fine shops, one for manchester goods, one for silk and woollens. this was james houghton's commercial poem. for james houghton was a dreamer, and something of a poet: commercial, be it understood. he liked the novels of george macdonald, and the fantasies of that author, extremely. he wove one continual fantasy for himself, a fantasy of commerce. he dreamed of silks and poplins, luscious in texture and of unforeseen exquisiteness: he dreamed of carriages of the "county" arrested before his windows, of exquisite women ruffling charmed, entranced to his counter. and charming, entrancing, he served them his lovely fabrics, which only he and they could sufficiently appreciate. his fame spread, until alexandra, princess of wales, and elizabeth, empress of austria, the two best-dressed women in europe, floated down from heaven to the shop in woodhouse, and sallied forth to show what could be done by purchasing from james houghton. we cannot say why james houghton failed to become the liberty or the snelgrove of his day. perhaps he had too much imagination. be that as it may, in those early days when he brought his wife to her new home, his window on the manchester side was a foam and a may-blossom of muslins and prints, his window on the london side was an autumn evening of silks and rich fabrics. what wife could fail to be dazzled! but she, poor darling, from her stone hall in stony derbyshire, was a little bit repulsed by the man's dancing in front of his stock, like david before the ark. the home to which he brought her was a monument. in the great bedroom over the shop he had his furniture _built_: built of solid mahogany: oh too, too solid. no doubt he hopped or skipped himself with satisfaction into the monstrous matrimonial bed: it could only be mounted by means of a stool and chair. but the poor, secluded little woman, older than he, must have climbed up with a heavy heart, to lie and face the gloomy bastille of mahogany, the great cupboard opposite, or to turn wearily sideways to the great cheval mirror, which performed a perpetual and hideous bow before her grace. such furniture! it could never be removed from the room. the little child was born in the second year. and then james houghton decamped to a small, half-furnished bedroom at the other end of the house, where he slept on a rough board and played the anchorite for the rest of his days. his wife was left alone with her baby and the built-in furniture. she developed heart disease, as a result of nervous repressions. but like a butterfly james fluttered over his fabrics. he was a tyrant to his shop-girls. no french marquis in a dickens' novel could have been more elegant and _raffiné_ and heartless. the girls detested him. and yet, his curious refinement and enthusiasm bore them away. they submitted to him. the shop attracted much curiosity. but the poor-spirited woodhouse people were weak buyers. they wearied james houghton with their demand for common zephyrs, for red flannel which they would scallop with black worsted, for black alpacas and bombazines and merinos. he fluffed out his silk-striped muslins, his india cotton-prints. but the natives shied off as if he had offered them the poisoned robes of herakles. there was a sale. these sales contributed a good deal to mrs. houghton's nervous heart-disease. they brought the first signs of wear and tear into the face of james houghton. at first, of course, he merely marked down, with discretion, his less-expensive stock of prints and muslins, nuns-veilings and muslin delaines, with a few fancy braidings and trimmings in guimp or bronze to enliven the affair. and woodhouse bought cautiously. after the sale, however, james houghton felt himself at liberty to plunge into an orgy of new stock. he flitted, with a tense look on his face, to manchester. after which huge bundles, bales and boxes arrived in woodhouse, and were dumped on the pavement of the shop. friday evening came, and with it a revelation in houghton's window: the first piqués, the first strangely-woven and honey-combed toilet covers and bed quilts, the first frill-caps and aprons for maid-servants: a wonder in white. that was how james advertised it. "a wonder in white." who knows but that he had been reading wilkie collins' famous novel! as the nine days of the wonder-in-white passed and receded, james disappeared in the direction of london. a few fridays later he came out with his winter touch. weird and wonderful winter coats, for ladies--everything james handled was for ladies, he scorned the coarser sex--: weird and wonderful winter coats for ladies, of thick, black, pockmarked cloth, stood and flourished their bear-fur cuffs in the background, while tippets, boas, muffs and winter-fancies coquetted in front of the window-space. friday-night crowds gathered outside: the gas-lamps shone their brightest: james houghton hovered in the background like an author on his first night in the theatre. the result was a sensation. ten villages stared and crushed round the plate glass. it was a sensation: but what sensation! in the breasts of the crowd, wonder, admiration, _fear_, and ridicule. let us stress the word fear. the inhabitants of woodhouse were afraid lest james houghton should impose his standards upon them. his goods were in excellent taste: but his customers were in as bad taste as possible. they stood outside and pointed, giggled, and jeered. poor james, like an author on his first night, saw his work fall more than flat. but still he believed in his own excellence: and quite justly. what he failed to perceive was that the crowd hated excellence. woodhouse wanted a gently graduated progress in mediocrity, a mediocrity so stale and flat that it fell outside the imagination of any sensitive mortal. woodhouse wanted a series of vulgar little thrills, as one tawdry mediocrity was imported from nottingham or birmingham to take the place of some tawdry mediocrity which nottingham and birmingham had already discarded. that woodhouse, as a very condition of its own being, hated any approach to originality or real taste, this james houghton could never learn. he thought he had not been clever enough, when he had been far, far too clever already. he always thought that dame fortune was a capricious and fastidious dame, a sort of elizabeth of austria or alexandra, princess of wales, elegant beyond his grasp. whereas dame fortune, even in london or vienna, let alone in woodhouse, was a vulgar woman of the middle and lower middle-class, ready to put her heavy foot on anything that was not vulgar, machine-made, and appropriate to the herd. when he saw his delicate originalities, as well as his faint flourishes of draper's fantasy, squashed flat under the calm and solid foot of vulgar dame fortune, he fell into fits of depression bordering on mysticism, and talked to his wife in a vague way of higher influences and the angel israfel. she, poor lady, was thoroughly scared by israfel, and completely unhooked by the vagaries of james. at last--we hurry down the slope of james' misfortunes--the real days of houghton's great sales began. houghton's great bargain events were really events. after some years of hanging on, he let go splendidly. he marked down his prints, his chintzes, his dimities and his veilings with a grand and lavish hand. bang went his blue pencil through / , and nobly he subscribed / - / . prices fell like nuts. a lofty one-and-eleven rolled down to six-three, / magically shrank into - / d, whilst good solid prints exposed themselves at - / d per yard. now this was really an opportunity. moreover the goods, having become a little stale during their years of ineffectuality, were beginning to approximate to the public taste. and besides, good sound stuff it was, no matter what the pattern. and so the little woodhouse girls went to school in petties and drawers made of material which james had destined for fair summer dresses: petties and drawers of which the little woodhouse girls were ashamed, for all that. for if they should chance to turn up their little skirts, be sure they would raise a chorus among their companions: "yah-h-h, yer've got houghton's threp'ny draws on!" all this time james houghton walked on air. he still saw the fata morgana snatching his fabrics round her lovely form, and pointing him to wealth untold. true, he became also superintendent of the sunday school. but whether this was an act of vanity, or whether it was an attempt to establish an entente cordiale with higher powers, who shall judge. meanwhile his wife became more and more an invalid; the little alvina was a pretty, growing child. woodhouse was really impressed by the sight of mrs. houghton, small, pale and withheld, taking a walk with her dainty little girl, so fresh in an ermine tippet and a muff. mrs. houghton in shiny black bear's-fur, the child in the white and spotted ermine, passing silent and shadowy down the street, made an impression which the people did not forget. but mrs. houghton had pains at her heart. if, during her walk, she saw two little boys having a scrimmage, she had to run to them with pence and entreaty, leaving them dumfounded, whilst she leaned blue at the lips against a wall. if she saw a carter crack his whip over the ears of the horse, as the horse laboured uphill, she had to cover her eyes and avert her face, and all her strength left her. so she stayed more and more in her room, and the child was given to the charge of a governess. miss frost was a handsome, vigorous young woman of about thirty years of age, with grey-white hair and gold-rimmed spectacles. the white hair was not at all tragical: it was a family _trait_. miss frost mattered more than any one else to alvina houghton, during the first long twenty-five years of the girl's life. the governess was a strong, generous woman, a musician by nature. she had a sweet voice, and sang in the choir of the chapel, and took the first class of girls in the sunday-school of which james houghton was superintendent. she disliked and rather despised james houghton, saw in him elements of a hypocrite, detested his airy and gracious selfishness, his lack of human feeling, and most of all, his fairy fantasy. as james went further into life, he became a dreamer. sad indeed that he died before the days of freud. he enjoyed the most wonderful and fairy-like dreams, which he could describe perfectly, in charming, delicate language. at such times his beautifully modulated voice all but sang, his grey eyes gleamed fiercely under his bushy, hairy eyebrows, his pale face with its side-whiskers had a strange _lueur_, his long thin hands fluttered occasionally. he had become meagre in figure, his skimpy but genteel coat would be buttoned over his breast, as he recounted his dream-adventures, adventures that were half edgar allan poe, half andersen, with touches of vathek and lord byron and george macdonald: perhaps more than a touch of the last. ladies were always struck by these accounts. but miss frost never felt so strongly moved to impatience as when she was within hearing. for twenty years, she and james houghton treated each other with a courteous distance. sometimes she broke into open impatience with him, sometimes he answered her tartly: "indeed, indeed! oh, indeed! well, well, i'm sorry you find it so--" as if the injury consisted in her finding it so. then he would flit away to the conservative club, with a fleet, light, hurried step, as if pressed by fate. at the club he played chess--at which he was excellent--and conversed. then he flitted back at half-past twelve, to dinner. the whole morale of the house rested immediately on miss frost. she saw her line in the first year. she must defend the little alvina, whom she loved as her own, and the nervous, petulant, heart-stricken woman, the mother, from the vagaries of james. not that james had any vices. he did not drink or smoke, was abstemious and clean as an anchorite, and never lowered his fine tone. but still, the two unprotected ones must be sheltered from him. miss frost imperceptibly took into her hands the reins of the domestic government. her rule was quiet, strong, and generous. she was not seeking her own way. she was steering the poor domestic ship of manchester house, illuminating its dark rooms with her own sure, radiant presence: her silver-white hair, and her pale, heavy, reposeful face seemed to give off a certain radiance. she seemed to give weight, ballast, and repose to the staggering and bewildered home. she controlled the maid, and suggested the meals--meals which james ate without knowing what he ate. she brought in flowers and books, and, very rarely, a visitor. visitors were out of place in the dark sombreness of manchester house. her flowers charmed the petulant invalid, her books she sometimes discussed with the airy james: after which discussions she was invariably filled with exasperation and impatience, whilst james invariably retired to the shop, and was heard raising his musical voice, which the work-girls hated, to one or other of the work-girls. james certainly had an irritating way of speaking of a book. he talked of incidents, and effects, and suggestions, as if the whole thing had just been a sensational-æsthetic attribute to himself. not a grain of human feeling in the man, said miss frost, flushing pink with exasperation. she herself invariably took the human line. meanwhile the shops began to take on a hopeless and frowsy look. after ten years' sales, spring sales, summer sales, autumn sales, winter sales, james began to give up the drapery dream. he himself could not bear any more to put the heavy, pock-holed black cloth coat, with wild bear cuffs and collar, on to the stand. he had marked it down from five guineas to one guinea, and then, oh ignoble day, to ten-and-six. he nearly kissed the gipsy woman with a basket of tin saucepan-lids, when at last she bought it for five shillings, at the end of one of his winter sales. but even she, in spite of the bitter sleety day, would not put the coat on in the shop. she carried it over her arm down to the miners' arms. and later, with a shock that really hurt him, james, peeping bird-like out of his shop door, saw her sitting driving a dirty rag-and-bone cart with a green-white, mouldy pony, and flourishing her arms like some wild and hairy-decorated squaw. for the long bear-fur, wet with sleet, seemed like a _chevaux de frise_ of long porcupine quills round her fore-arms and her neck. yet such good, such wonderful material! james eyed it for one moment, and then fled like a rabbit to the stove in his back regions. the higher powers did not seem to fulfil the terms of treaty which james hoped for. he began to back out from the entente. the sunday school was a great trial to him. instead of being carried away by his grace and eloquence, the nasty louts of colliery boys and girls openly banged their feet and made deafening noises when he tried to speak. he said many acid and withering things, as he stood there on the rostrum. but what is the good of saying acid things to those little fiends and gall-bladders, the colliery children. the situation was saved by miss frost's sweeping together all the big girls, under her surveillance, and by her organizing that the tall and handsome blacksmith who taught the lower boys should extend his influence over the upper boys. his influence was more than effectual. it consisted in gripping any recalcitrant boy just above the knee, and jesting with him in a jocular manner, in the dialect. the blacksmith's hand was all a blacksmith's hand need be, and his dialect was as broad as could be wished. between the grip and the homely idiom no boy could endure without squealing. so the sunday school paid more attention to james, whose prayers were beautiful. but then one of the boys, a protegé of miss frost, having been left for half an hour in the obscure room with mrs. houghton, gave away the secret of the blacksmith's grip, which secret so haunted the poor lady that it marked a stage in the increase of her malady, and made sunday afternoon a nightmare to her. and then james houghton resented something in the coarse scotch manner of the minister of that day. so that the superintendency of the sunday school came to an end. at the same time, solomon had to divide his baby. that is, he let the london side of his shop to w. h. johnson, the tailor and haberdasher, a parvenu little fellow whose english would not bear analysis. bitter as it was, it had to be. carpenters and joiners appeared, and the premises were completely severed. from her room in the shadows at the back the invalid heard the hammering and sawing, and suffered. w. h. johnson came out with a spick-and-span window, and had his wife, a shrewd, quiet woman, and his daughter, a handsome, loud girl, to help him on friday evenings. men flocked in--even women, buying their husbands a sixpence-halfpenny tie. they could have bought a tie for four-three from james houghton. but no, they would rather give sixpence-halfpenny for w.h. johnson's fresh but rubbishy stuff. and james, who had tried to rise to another successful sale, saw the streams pass into the other doorway, and heard the heavy feet on the hollow boards of the other shop: his shop no more. after this cut at his pride and integrity he lay in retirement for a while, mystically inclined. probably he would have come to swedenborg, had not his clipt wings spread for a new flight. he hit upon the brilliant idea of working up his derelict fabrics into ready-mades: not men's clothes, oh no: women's, or rather, ladies'. ladies' tailoring, said the new announcement. james houghton was happy once more. a zig-zag wooden stair-way was rigged up the high back of manchester house. in the great lofts sewing-machines of various patterns and movements were installed. a manageress was advertised for, and work-girls were hired. so a new phase of life started. at half-past six in the morning there was a clatter of feet and of girls' excited tongues along the back-yard and up the wooden stair-way outside the back wall. the poor invalid heard every clack and every vibration. she could never get over her nervous apprehension of an invasion. every morning alike, she felt an invasion of some enemy was breaking in on her. and all day long the low, steady rumble of sewing-machines overhead seemed like the low drumming of a bombardment upon her weak heart. to make matters worse, james houghton decided that he must have his sewing-machines driven by some extra-human force. he installed another plant of machinery--acetylene or some such contrivance--which was intended to drive all the little machines from one big belt. hence a further throbbing and shaking in the upper regions, truly terrible to endure. but, fortunately or unfortunately, the acetylene plant was not a success. girls got their thumbs pierced, and sewing machines absolutely refused to stop sewing, once they had started, and absolutely refused to start, once they had stopped. so that after a while, one loft was reserved for disused and rusty, but expensive engines. dame fortune, who had refused to be taken by fine fabrics and fancy trimmings, was just as reluctant to be captured by ready-mades. again the good dame was thoroughly lower middle-class. james houghton designed "robes." now robes were the mode. perhaps it was alexandra, princess of wales, who gave glory to the slim, glove-fitting princess robe. be that as it may, james houghton designed robes. his work-girls, a race even more callous than shop-girls, proclaimed the fact that james tried on his own inventions upon his own elegant thin person, before the privacy of his own cheval mirror. and even if he did, why not? miss frost, hearing this legend, looked sideways at the enthusiast. let us remark in time that miss frost had already ceased to draw any maintenance from james houghton. far from it, she herself contributed to the upkeep of the domestic hearth and board. she had fully decided never to leave her two charges. she knew that a governess was an impossible item in manchester house, as things went. and so she trudged the country, giving music lessons to the daughters of tradesmen and of colliers who boasted pianofortes. she even taught heavy-handed but dauntless colliers, who were seized with a passion to "play." miles she trudged, on her round from village to village: a white-haired woman with a long, quick stride, a strong figure, and a quick, handsome smile when once her face awoke behind her gold-rimmed glasses. like many short-sighted people, she had a certain intent look of one who goes her own way. the miners knew her, and entertained the highest respect and admiration for her. as they streamed in a grimy stream home from pit, they diverged like some magic dark river from off the pavement into the horse-way, to give her room as she approached. and the men who knew her well enough to salute her, by calling her name "miss frost!" giving it the proper intonation of salute, were fussy men indeed. "she's a lady if ever there was one," they said. and they meant it. hearing her name, poor miss frost would flash a smile and a nod from behind her spectacles, but whose black face she smiled to she never, or rarely knew. if she did chance to get an inkling, then gladly she called in reply "mr. lamb," or "mr. calladine." in her way she was a proud woman, for she was regarded with cordial respect, touched with veneration, by at least a thousand colliers, and by perhaps as many colliers' wives. that is something, for any woman. miss frost charged fifteen shillings for thirteen weeks' lessons, two lessons a week. and at that she was considered rather dear. she was supposed to be making money. what money she made went chiefly to support the houghton household. in the meanwhile she drilled alvina thoroughly in theory and pianoforte practice, for alvina was naturally musical, and besides this she imparted to the girl the elements of a young lady's education, including the drawing of flowers in water-colour, and the translation of a lamartine poem. now incredible as it may seem, fate threw another prop to the falling house of houghton, in the person of the manageress of the work-girls, miss pinnegar. james houghton complained of fortune, yet to what other man would fortune have sent two such women as miss frost and miss pinnegar, _gratis_? yet there they were. and doubtful if james was ever grateful for their presence. if miss frost saved him from heaven knows what domestic débâcle and horror, miss pinnegar saved him from the workhouse. let us not mince matters. for a dozen years miss frost supported the heart-stricken, nervous invalid, clariss houghton: for more than twenty years she cherished, tended and protected the young alvina, shielding the child alike from a neurotic mother and a father such as james. for nearly twenty years she saw that food was set on the table, and clean sheets were spread on the beds: and all the time remained virtually in the position of an outsider, without one grain of established authority. and then to find miss pinnegar! in her way, miss pinnegar was very different from miss frost. she was a rather short, stout, mouse-coloured, creepy kind of woman with a high colour in her cheeks, and dun, close hair like a cap. it was evident she was not a lady: her grammar was not without reproach. she had pale grey eyes, and a padding step, and a soft voice, and almost purplish cheeks. mrs. houghton, miss frost, and alvina did not like her. they suffered her unwillingly. but from the first she had a curious ascendancy over james houghton. one would have expected his æsthetic eye to be offended. but no doubt it was her voice: her soft, near, sure voice, which seemed almost like a secret touch upon her hearer. now many of her hearers disliked being secretly touched, as it were beneath their clothing. miss frost abhorred it: so did mrs. houghton. miss frost's voice was clear and straight as a bell-note, open as the day. yet alvina, though in loyalty she adhered to her beloved miss frost, did not really mind the quiet suggestive power of miss pinnegar. for miss pinnegar was not vulgarly insinuating. on the contrary, the things she said were rather clumsy and downright. it was only that she seemed to weigh what she said, secretly, before she said it, and then she approached as if she would slip it into her hearer's consciousness without his being aware of it. she seemed to slide her speeches unnoticed into one's ears, so that one accepted them without the slightest challenge. that was just her manner of approach. in her own way, she was as loyal and unselfish as miss frost. there are such poles of opposition between honesties and loyalties. miss pinnegar had the _second_ class of girls in the sunday school, and she took second, subservient place in manchester house. by force of nature, miss frost took first place. only when miss pinnegar spoke to mr. houghton--nay, the very way she addressed herself to him--"what do _you_ think, mr. houghton?"--then there seemed to be assumed an immediacy of correspondence between the two, and an unquestioned priority in their unison, his and hers, which was a cruel thorn in miss frost's outspoken breast. this sort of secret intimacy and secret exulting in having, _really_, the chief power, was most repugnant to the white-haired woman. not that there was, in fact, any secrecy, or any form of unwarranted correspondence between james houghton and miss pinnegar. far from it. each of them would have found any suggestion of such a possibility repulsive in the extreme. it was simply an implicit correspondence between their two psyches, an immediacy of understanding which preceded all expression, tacit, wireless. miss pinnegar lived in: so that the household consisted of the invalid, who mostly sat, in her black dress with a white lace collar fastened by a twisted gold brooch, in her own dim room, doing nothing, nervous and heart-suffering; then james, and the thin young alvina, who adhered to her beloved miss frost, and then these two strange women. miss pinnegar never lifted up her voice in household affairs: she seemed, by her silence, to admit her own inadequacy in culture and intellect, when topics of interest were being discussed, only coming out now and then with defiant platitudes and truisms--for almost defiantly she took the commonplace, vulgarian point of view; yet after everything she would turn with her quiet, triumphant assurance to james houghton, and start on some point of business, soft, assured, ascendant. the others shut their ears. now miss pinnegar had to get her footing slowly. she had to let james run the gamut of his creations. each friday night new wonders, robes and ladies' "suits"--the phrase was very new--garnished the window of houghton's shop. it was one of the sights of the place, houghton's window on friday night. young or old, no individual, certainly no female left woodhouse without spending an excited and usually hilarious ten minutes on the pavement under the window. muffled shrieks of young damsels who had just got their first view, guffaws of sympathetic youths, continued giggling and expostulation and "eh, but what price the umbrella skirt, my girl!" and "you'd like to marry me in _that_, my boy--what? not half!"--or else "eh, now, if you'd seen me in _that_ you'd have fallen in love with me at first sight, shouldn't you?"--with a probable answer "i should have fallen over myself making haste to get away"--loud guffaws:--all this was the regular friday night's entertainment in woodhouse. james houghton's shop was regarded as a weekly comic issue. his piqué costumes with glass buttons and sort of steel-trimming collars and cuffs were immortal. but why, once more, drag it out. miss pinnegar served in the shop on friday nights. she stood by her man. sometimes when the shrieks grew loudest she came to the shop door and looked with her pale grey eyes at the ridiculous mob of lasses in tam-o-shanters and youths half buried in caps. and she imposed a silence. they edged away. meanwhile miss pinnegar pursued the sober and even tenor of her own way. whilst james lashed out, to use the local phrase, in robes and "suits," miss pinnegar steadily ground away, producing strong, indestructible shirts and singlets for the colliers, sound, serviceable aprons for the colliers' wives, good print dresses for servants, and so on. she executed no flights of fancy. she had her goods made to suit her people. and so, underneath the foam and froth of james' creative adventure flowed a slow but steady stream of output and income. the women of woodhouse came at last to _depend_ on miss pinnegar. growing lads in the pit reduce their garments to shreds with amazing expedition. "i'll go to miss pinnegar for thy shirts this time, my lad," said the harassed mothers, "and see if _they'll_ stand thee." it was almost like a threat. but it served manchester house. james bought very little stock in these days: just remnants and pieces for his immortal robes. it was miss pinnegar who saw the travellers and ordered the unions and calicoes and grey flannel. james hovered round and said the last word, of course. but what was his last word but an echo of miss pinnegar's penultimate! he was not interested in unions and twills. his own stock remained on hand. time, like a slow whirlpool churned it over into sight and out of sight, like a mass of dead sea-weed in a backwash. there was a regular series of sales fortnightly. the display of "creations" fell off. the new entertainment was the friday-night's sale. james would attack some portion of his stock, make a wild jumble of it, spend a delirious wednesday and thursday marking down, and then open on friday afternoon. in the evening there was a crush. a good moiré underskirt for one-and-eleven-three was not to be neglected, and a handsome string-lace collarette for six-three would iron out and be worth at least three-and-six. that was how it went: it would nearly all of it iron out into something really nice, poor james' crumpled stock. his fine, semi-transparent face flushed pink, his eyes flashed as he took in the sixpences and handed back knots of tape or packets of pins for the notorious farthings. what matter if the farthing change had originally cost him a halfpenny! his shop was crowded with women peeping and pawing and turning things over and commenting in loud, unfeeling tones. for there were still many comic items. once, for example, he suddenly heaped up piles of hats, trimmed and untrimmed, the weirdest, sauciest, most screaming shapes. woodhouse enjoyed itself that night. and all the time, in her quiet, polite, think-the-more fashion miss pinnegar waited on the people, showing them considerable forbearance and just a tinge of contempt. she became very tired those evenings--her hair under its invisible hairnet became flatter, her cheeks hung down purplish and mottled. but while james stood she stood. the people did not like her, yet she influenced them. and the stock slowly wilted, withered. some was scrapped. the shop seemed to have digested some of its indigestible contents. james accumulated sixpences in a miserly fashion. luckily for her work-girls, miss pinnegar took her own orders, and received payments for her own productions. some of her regular customers paid her a shilling a week--or less. but it made a small, steady income. she reserved her own modest share, paid the expenses of her department, and left the residue to james. james had accumulated sixpences, and made a little space in his shop. he had desisted from "creations." time now for a new flight. he decided it was better to be a manufacturer than a tradesman. his shop, already only half its original size, was again too big. it might be split once more. rents had risen in woodhouse. why not cut off another shop from his premises? no sooner said than done. in came the architect, with whom he had played many a game of chess. best, said the architect, take off one good-sized shop, rather than halve the premises. james would be left a little cramped, a little tight, with only one-third of his present space. but as we age we dwindle. more hammering and alterations, and james found himself cooped in a long, long narrow shop, very dark at the back, with a high oblong window and a door that came in at a pinched corner. next door to him was a cheerful new grocer of the cheap and florid type. the new grocer whistled "just like the ivy," and shouted boisterously to his shop-boy. in his doorway, protruding on james' sensitive vision, was a pyramid of sixpence-halfpenny tins of salmon, red, shiny tins with pink halved salmons depicted, and another yellow pyramid of four-pence-halfpenny tins of pineapple. bacon dangled in pale rolls _almost_ over james' doorway, whilst straw and paper, redolent of cheese, lard, and stale eggs filtered through the threshold. this was coming down in the world, with a vengeance. but what james lost downstairs he tried to recover upstairs. heaven knows what he would have done, but for miss pinnegar. she kept her own work-rooms against him, with a soft, heavy, silent tenacity that would have beaten stronger men than james. but his strength lay in his pliability. he rummaged in the empty lofts, and among the discarded machinery. he rigged up the engines afresh, bought two new machines, and started an elastic department, making elastic for garters and for hat-chins. he was immensely proud of his first cards of elastic, and saw dame fortune this time fast in his yielding hands. but, becoming used to disillusionment, he almost welcomed it. within six months he realized that every inch of elastic cost him exactly sixty per cent. more than he could sell it for, and so he scrapped his new department. luckily, he sold one machine and even gained two pounds on it. after this, he made one last effort. this was hosiery webbing, which could be cut up and made into as-yet-unheard-of garments. miss pinnegar kept her thumb on this enterprise, so that it was not much more than abortive. and then james left her alone. meanwhile the shop slowly churned its oddments. every thursday afternoon james sorted out tangles of bits and bobs, antique garments and occasional finds. with these he trimmed his window, so that it looked like a historical museum, rather soiled and scrappy. indoors he made baskets of assortments: threepenny, sixpenny, ninepenny and shilling baskets, rather like a bran pie in which everything was a plum. and then, on friday evening, thin and alert he hovered behind the counter, his coat shabbily buttoned over his narrow chest, his face agitated. he had shaved his side-whiskers, so that they only grew becomingly as low as his ears. his rather large, grey moustache was brushed off his mouth. his hair, gone very thin, was brushed frail and floating over his baldness. but still a gentleman, still courteous, with a charming voice he suggested the possibilities of a pad of green parrots' tail-feathers, or of a few yards of pink-pearl trimming or of old chenille fringe. the women would pinch the thick, exquisite old chenille fringe, delicate and faded, curious to feel its softness. but they wouldn't give threepence for it. tapes, ribbons, braids, buttons, feathers, jabots, bussels, appliqués, fringes, jet-trimmings, bugle-trimmings, bundles of old coloured machine-lace, many bundles of strange cord, in all colours, for old-fashioned braid-patterning, ribbons with h.m.s. birkenhead, for boys' sailor caps--everything that nobody wanted, did the women turn over and over, till they chanced on a find. and james' quick eyes watched the slow surge of his flotsam, as the pot boiled but did not boil away. wonderful that he did not think of the days when these bits and bobs were new treasures. but he did not. and at his side miss pinnegar quietly took orders for shirts, discussed and agreed, made measurements and received instalments. the shop was now only opened on friday afternoons and evenings, so every day, twice a day, james was seen dithering bare-headed and hastily down the street, as if pressed by fate, to the conservative club, and twice a day he was seen as hastily returning, to his meals. he was becoming an old man: his daughter was a young woman: but in his own mind he was just the same, and his daughter was a little child, his wife a young invalid whom he must charm by some few delicate attentions--such as the peeled apple. at the club he got into more mischief. he met men who wanted to extend a brickfield down by the railway. the brickfield was called klondyke. james had now a new direction to run in: down hill towards bagthorpe, to klondyke. big penny-daisies grew in tufts on the brink of the yellow clay at klondyke, yellow eggs-and-bacon spread their midsummer mats of flower. james came home with clay smeared all over him, discoursing brilliantly on grit and paste and presses and kilns and stamps. he carried home a rough and pinkish brick, and gloated over it. it was a _hard_ brick, it was a non-porous brick. it was an ugly brick, painfully heavy and parched-looking. this time he was sure: dame fortune would rise like persephone out of the earth. he was all the more sure, because other men of the town were in with him at this venture: sound, moneyed grocers and plumbers. they were all going to become rich. klondyke lasted a year and a half, and was not so bad, for in the end, all things considered, james had lost not more than five per cent. of his money. in fact, all things considered, he was about square. and yet he felt klondyke as the greatest blow of all. miss pinnegar would have aided and abetted him in another scheme, if it would but have cheered him. even miss frost was nice with him. but to no purpose. in the year after klondyke he became an old man, he seemed to have lost all his feathers, he acquired a plucked, tottering look. yet he roused up, after a coal-strike. throttle-ha'penny put new life into him. during a coal-strike the miners themselves began digging in the fields, just near the houses, for the surface coal. they found a plentiful seam of drossy, yellowish coal behind the methodist new connection chapel. the seam was opened in the side of a bank, and approached by a footrill, a sloping shaft down which the men walked. when the strike was over, two or three miners still remained working the soft, drossy coal, which they sold for eight-and-sixpence a ton--or sixpence a hundredweight. but a mining population scorned such dirt, as they called it. james houghton, however, was seized with a desire to work the connection meadow seam, as he called it. he gathered two miner partners--he trotted endlessly up to the field, he talked, as he had never talked before, with inumerable colliers. everybody he met he stopped, to talk connection meadow. and so at last he sank a shaft, sixty feet deep, rigged up a corrugated-iron engine-house with a winding-engine, and lowered his men one at a time down the shaft, in a big bucket. the whole affair was ricketty, amateurish, and twopenny. the name connection meadow was forgotten within three months. everybody knew the place as throttle-ha'penny. "what!" said a collier to his wife: "have we got no coal? you'd better get a bit from throttle-ha'penny." "nay," replied the wife, "i'm sure i shan't. i'm sure i shan't burn that muck, and smother myself with white ash." it was in the early throttle-ha'penny days that mrs. houghton died. james houghton cried, and put a black band on his sunday silk hat. but he was too feverishly busy at throttle-ha'penny, selling his hundredweights of ash-pit fodder, as the natives called it, to realize anything else. he had three men and two boys working his pit, besides a superannuated old man driving the winding engine. and in spite of all jeering, he flourished. shabby old coal-carts rambled up behind the new connection, and filled from the pit-bank. the coal improved a little in quality: it was cheap and it was handy. james could sell at last fifty or sixty tons a week: for the stuff was easy getting. and now at last he was actually handling money. he saw millions ahead. this went on for more than a year. a year after the death of mrs. houghton, miss frost became ill and suddenly died. again james houghton cried and trembled. but it was throttle-ha'penny that made him tremble. he trembled in all his limbs, at the touch of success. he saw himself making noble provision for his only daughter. but alas--it is wearying to repeat the same thing over and over. first the board of trade began to make difficulties. then there was a fault in the seam. then the roof of throttle-ha'penny was so loose and soft, james could not afford timber to hold it up. in short, when his daughter alvina was about twenty-seven years old, throttle-ha'penny closed down. there was a sale of poor machinery, and james houghton came home to the dark, gloomy house--to miss pinnegar and alvina. it was a pinched, dreary house. james seemed down for the last time. but miss pinnegar persuaded him to take the shop again on friday evening. for the rest, faded and peaked, he hurried shadowily down to the club. chapter ii the rise of alvina houghton the heroine of this story is alvina houghton. if we leave her out of the first chapter of her own story it is because, during the first twenty-five years of her life, she really was left out of count, or so overshadowed as to be negligible. she and her mother were the phantom passengers in the ship of james houghton's fortunes. in manchester house, every voice lowered its tone. and so from the first alvina spoke with a quiet, refined, almost convent voice. she was a thin child with delicate limbs and face, and wide, grey-blue, ironic eyes. even as a small girl she had that odd ironic tilt of the eyelids which gave her a look as if she were hanging back in mockery. if she were, she was quite unaware of it, for under miss frost's care she received no education in irony or mockery. miss frost was straightforward, good-humoured, and a little earnest. consequently alvina, or vina as she was called, understood only the explicit mode of good-humoured straightforwardness. it was doubtful which shadow was greater over the child: that of manchester house, gloomy and a little sinister, or that of miss frost, benevolent and protective. sufficient that the girl herself worshipped miss frost: or believed she did. alvina never went to school. she had her lessons from her beloved governess, she worked at the piano, she took her walks, and for social life she went to the congregational chapel, and to the functions connected with the chapel. while she was little, she went to sunday school twice and to chapel once on sundays. then occasionally there was a magic lantern or a penny reading, to which miss frost accompanied her. as she grew older she entered the choir at chapel, she attended christian endeavour and p.s.a., and the literary society on monday evenings. chapel provided her with a whole social activity, in the course of which she met certain groups of people, made certain friends, found opportunity for strolls into the country and jaunts to the local entertainments. over and above this, every thursday evening she went to the subscription library to change the week's supply of books, and there again she met friends and acquaintances. it is hard to overestimate the value of church or chapel--but particularly chapel--as a social institution, in places like woodhouse. the congregational chapel provided alvina with a whole outer life, lacking which she would have been poor indeed. she was not particularly religious by inclination. perhaps her father's beautiful prayers put her off. so she neither questioned nor accepted, but just let be. she grew up a slim girl, rather distinguished in appearance, with a slender face, a fine, slightly arched nose, and beautiful grey-blue eyes over which the lids tilted with a very odd, sardonic tilt. the sardonic quality was, however, quite in abeyance. she was ladylike, not vehement at all. in the street her walk had a delicate, lingering motion, her face looked still. in conversation she had rather a quick, hurried manner, with intervals of well-bred repose and attention. her voice was like her father's, flexible and curiously attractive. sometimes, however, she would have fits of boisterous hilarity, not quite natural, with a strange note half pathetic, half jeering. her father tended to a supercilious, sneering tone. in vina it came out in mad bursts of hilarious jeering. this made miss frost uneasy. she would watch the girl's strange face, that could take on a gargoyle look. she would see the eyes rolling strangely under sardonic eyelids, and then miss frost would feel that never, never had she known anything so utterly alien and incomprehensible and unsympathetic as her own beloved vina. for twenty years the strong, protective governess reared and tended her lamb, her dove, only to see the lamb open a wolf's mouth, to hear the dove utter the wild cackle of a daw or a magpie, a strange sound of derision. at such times miss frost's heart went cold within her. she dared not realize. and she chid and checked her ward, restored her to the usual impulsive, affectionate demureness. then she dismissed the whole matter. it was just an accidental aberration on the girl's part from her own true nature. miss frost taught alvina thoroughly the qualities of her own true nature, and alvina believed what she was taught. she remained for twenty years the demure, refined creature of her governess' desire. but there was an odd, derisive look at the back of her eyes, a look of old knowledge and deliberate derision. she herself was unconscious of it. but it was there. and this it was, perhaps, that scared away the young men. alvina reached the age of twenty-three, and it looked as if she were destined to join the ranks of the old maids, so many of whom found cold comfort in the chapel. for she had no suitors. true there were extraordinarily few young men of her class--for whatever her condition, she had certain breeding and inherent culture--in woodhouse. the young men of the same social standing as herself were in some curious way outsiders to her. knowing nothing, yet her ancient sapience went deep, deeper than woodhouse could fathom. the young men did not like her for it. they did not like the tilt of her eyelids. miss frost, with anxious foreseeing, persuaded the girl to take over some pupils, to teach them the piano. the work was distasteful to alvina. she was not a good teacher. she persevered in an off-hand way, somewhat indifferent, albeit dutiful. when she was twenty-three years old, alvina met a man called graham. he was an australian, who had been in edinburgh taking his medical degree. before going back to australia, he came to spend some months practising with old dr. fordham in woodhouse--dr. fordham being in some way connected with his mother. alexander graham called to see mrs. houghton. mrs. houghton did not like him. she said he was creepy. he was a man of medium height, dark in colouring, with very dark eyes, and a body which seemed to move inside his clothing. he was amiable and polite, laughed often, showing his teeth. it was his teeth which miss frost could not stand. she seemed to see a strong mouthful of cruel, compact teeth. she declared he had dark blood in his veins, that he was not a man to be trusted, and that never, never would he make any woman's life happy. yet in spite of all, alvina was attracted by him. the two would stay together in the parlour, laughing and talking by the hour. what they could find to talk about was a mystery. yet there they were, laughing and chatting, with a running insinuating sound through it all which made miss frost pace up and down unable to bear herself. the man was always running in when miss frost was out. he contrived to meet alvina in the evening, to take a walk with her. he went a long walk with her one night, and wanted to make love to her. but her upbringing was too strong for her. "oh no," she said. "we are only friends." he knew her upbringing was too strong for him also. "we're more than friends," he said. "we're more than friends." "i don't think so," she said. "yes we are," he insisted, trying to put his arm round her waist. "oh, don't!" she cried. "let us go home." and then he burst out with wild and thick protestations of love, which thrilled her and repelled her slightly. "anyhow i must tell miss frost," she said. "yes, yes," he answered. "yes, yes. let us be engaged at once." as they passed under the lamps he saw her face lifted, the eyes shining, the delicate nostrils dilated, as of one who scents battle and laughs to herself. she seemed to laugh with a certain proud, sinister recklessness. his hands trembled with desire. so they were engaged. he bought her a ring, an emerald set in tiny diamonds. miss frost looked grave and silent, but would not openly deny her approval. "you like him, don't you? you don't dislike him?" alvina insisted. "i don't dislike him," replied miss frost. "how can i? he is a perfect stranger to me." and with this alvina subtly contented herself. her father treated the young man with suave attention, punctuated by fits of jerky hostility and jealousy. her mother merely sighed, and took sal volatile. to tell the truth, alvina herself was a little repelled by the man's love-making. she found him fascinating, but a trifle repulsive. and she was not sure whether she hated the repulsive element, or whether she rather gloried in it. she kept her look of arch, half-derisive recklessness, which was so unbearably painful to miss frost, and so exciting to the dark little man. it was a strange look in a refined, really virgin girl--oddly sinister. and her voice had a curious bronze-like resonance that acted straight on the nerves of her hearers: unpleasantly on most english nerves, but like fire on the different susceptibilities of the young man--the darkie, as people called him. but after all, he had only six weeks in england, before sailing to sydney. he suggested that he and alvina should marry before he sailed. miss frost would not hear of it. he must see his people first, she said. so the time passed, and he sailed. alvina missed him, missed the extreme excitement of him rather than the human being he was. miss frost set to work to regain her influence over her ward, to remove that arch, reckless, almost lewd look from the girl's face. it was a question of heart against sensuality. miss frost tried and tried to wake again the girl's loving heart--which loving heart was certainly not occupied by _that man_. it was a hard task, an anxious, bitter task miss frost had set herself. but at last she succeeded. alvina seemed to thaw. the hard shining of her eyes softened again to a sort of demureness and tenderness. the influence of the man was revoked, the girl was left uninhabited, empty and uneasy. she was due to follow her alexander in three months' time, to sydney. came letters from him, en route--and then a cablegram from australia. he had arrived. alvina should have been preparing her trousseau, to follow. but owing to her change of heart, she lingered indecisive. "_do_ you love him, dear?" said miss frost with emphasis, knitting her thick, passionate, earnest eyebrows. "do you love him sufficiently? _that's_ the point." the way miss frost put the question implied that alvina did not and could not love him--because miss frost could not. alvina lifted her large, blue eyes, confused, half-tender towards her governess, half shining with unconscious derision. "i don't really know," she said, laughing hurriedly. "i don't really." miss frost scrutinized her, and replied with a meaningful: "well--!" to miss frost it was clear as daylight. to alvina not so. in her periods of lucidity, when she saw as clear as daylight also, she certainly did not love the little man. she felt him a terrible outsider, an inferior, to tell the truth. she wondered how he could have the slightest attraction for her. in fact she could not understand it at all. she was as free of him as if he had never existed. the square green emerald on her finger was almost non-sensical. she was quite, quite sure of herself. and then, most irritating, a complete _volte face_ in her feelings. the clear-as-daylight mood disappeared as daylight is bound to disappear. she found herself in a night where the little man loomed large, terribly large, potent and magical, while miss frost had dwindled to nothingness. at such times she wished with all her force that she could travel like a cablegram to australia. she felt it was the only way. she felt the dark, passionate receptivity of alexander overwhelmed her, enveloped her even from the antipodes. she felt herself going distracted--she felt she was going out of her mind. for she could not act. her mother and miss frost were fixed in one line. her father said: "well, of course, you'll do as you think best. there's a great risk in going so far--a great risk. you would be entirely unprotected." "i don't mind being unprotected," said alvina perversely. "because you don't understand what it means," said her father. he looked at her quickly. perhaps he understood her better than the others. "personally," said miss pinnegar, speaking of alexander, "i don't care for him. but every one has their own taste." alvina felt she was being overborne, and that she was letting herself be overborne. she was half relieved. she seemed to nestle into the well-known surety of woodhouse. the other unknown had frightened her. miss frost now took a definite line. "i feel you don't love him, dear. i'm almost sure you don't. so now you have to choose. your mother dreads your going--she dreads it. i am certain you would never see her again. she says she can't bear it--she can't bear the thought of you out there with alexander. it makes her shudder. she suffers dreadfully, you know. so you will have to choose, dear. you will have to choose for the best." alvina was made stubborn by pressure. she herself had come fully to believe that she did not love him. she was quite sure she did not love him. but out of a certain perversity, she wanted to go. came his letter from sydney, and one from his parents to her and one to her parents. all seemed straightforward--not _very_ cordial, but sufficiently. over alexander's letter miss frost shed bitter tears. to her it seemed so shallow and heartless, with terms of endearment stuck in like exclamation marks. he semed to have no thought, no feeling for the girl herself. all he wanted was to hurry her out there. he did not even mention the grief of her parting from her english parents and friends: not a word. just a rush to get her out there, winding up with "and now, dear, i shall not be myself till i see you here in sydney--your ever-loving alexander." a selfish, sensual creature, who would forget the dear little vina in three months, if she did not turn up, and who would neglect her in six months, if she did. probably miss frost was right. alvina knew the tears she was costing all round. she went upstairs and looked at his photograph--his dark and impertinent muzzle. who was _he_, after all? she did not know him. with cold eyes she looked at him, and found him repugnant. she went across to her governess's room, and found miss frost in a strange mood of trepidation. "don't trust me, dear, don't trust what i say," poor miss frost ejaculated hurriedly, even wildly. "don't notice what i have said. act for yourself, dear. act for yourself entirely. i am sure i am wrong in trying to influence you. i know i am wrong. it is wrong and foolish of me. act just for yourself, dear--the rest doesn't matter. the rest doesn't matter. don't take _any_ notice of what i have said. i know i am wrong." for the first time in her life alvina saw her beloved governess flustered, the beautiful white hair looking a little draggled, the grey, near-sighted eyes, so deep and kind behind the gold-rimmed glasses, now distracted and scared. alvina immediately burst into tears and flung herself into the arms of miss frost. miss frost also cried as if her heart would break, catching her indrawn breath with a strange sound of anguish, forlornness, the terrible crying of a woman with a loving heart, whose heart has never been able to relax. alvina was hushed. in a second, she became the elder of the two. the terrible poignancy of the woman of fifty-two, who now at last had broken down, silenced the girl of twenty-three, and roused all her passionate tenderness. the terrible sound of "never now, never now--it is too late," which seemed to ring in the curious, indrawn cries of the elder woman, filled the girl with a deep wisdom. she knew the same would ring in her mother's dying cry. married or unmarried, it was the same--the same anguish, realized in all its pain after the age of fifty--the loss in never having been able to relax, to submit. alvina felt very strong and rich in the fact of her youth. for her it was not too late. for miss frost it was for ever too late. "i don't want to go, dear," said alvina to the elder woman. "i know i don't care for him. he is nothing to me." miss frost became gradually silent, and turned aside her face. after this there was a hush in the house. alvina announced her intention of breaking off her engagement. her mother kissed her, and cried, and said, with the selfishness of an invalid: "i couldn't have parted with you, i couldn't." whilst the father said: "i think you are wise, vina. i have thought a lot about it." so alvina packed up his ring and his letters and little presents, and posted them over the seas. she was relieved, really: as if she had escaped some very trying ordeal. for some days she went about happily, in pure relief. she loved everybody. she was charming and sunny and gentle with everybody, particularly with miss frost, whom she loved with a deep, tender, rather sore love. poor miss frost seemed to have lost a part of her confidence, to have taken on a new wistfulness, a new silence and remoteness. it was as if she found her busy contact with life a strain now. perhaps she was getting old. perhaps her proud heart had given way. alvina had kept a little photograph of the man. she would often go and look at it. love?--no, it was not love! it was something more primitive still. it was curiosity, deep, radical, burning curiosity. how she looked and looked at his dark, impertinent-seeming face. a flicker of derision came into her eyes. yet still she looked. in the same manner she would look into the faces of the young men of woodhouse. but she never found there what she found in her photograph. they all seemed like blank sheets of paper in comparison. there was a curious pale surface-look in the faces of the young men of woodhouse: or, if there was some underneath suggestive power, it was a little abject or humiliating, inferior, common. they were all either blank or common. chapter iii the maternity nurse of course alvina made everybody pay for her mood of submission and sweetness. in a month's time she was quite intolerable. "i can't stay here all my life," she declared, stretching her eyes in a way that irritated the other inmates of manchester house extremely. "i know i can't. i can't bear it. i simply can't bear it, and there's an end of it. i can't, i tell you. i can't bear it. i'm buried alive--simply buried alive. and it's more than i can stand. it is, really." there was an odd clang, like a taunt, in her voice. she was trying them all. "but what do you want, dear?" asked miss frost, knitting her dark brows in agitation. "i want to go away," said alvina bluntly. miss frost gave a slight gesture with her right hand, of helpless impatience. it was so characteristic, that alvina almost laughed. "but where do you want to go?" asked miss frost. "i don't know. i don't care," said alvina. "anywhere, if i can get out of woodhouse." "do you wish you had gone to australia?" put in miss pinnegar. "no, i don't wish i had gone to australia," retorted alvina with a rude laugh. "australia isn't the only other place besides woodhouse." miss pinnegar was naturally offended. but the curious insolence which sometimes came out in the girl was inherited direct from her father. "you see, dear," said miss frost, agitated: "if you knew what you wanted, it would be easier to see the way." "i want to be a nurse," rapped out alvina. miss frost stood still, with the stillness of a middle-aged disapproving woman, and looked at her charge. she believed that alvina was just speaking at random. yet she dared not check her, in her present mood. alvina was indeed speaking at random. she had never thought of being a nurse--the idea had never entered her head. if it had she would certainly never have entertained it. but she had heard alexander speak of nurse this and sister that. and so she had rapped out her declaration. and having rapped it out, she prepared herself to stick to it. nothing like leaping before you look. "a nurse!" repeated miss frost. "but do you feel yourself fitted to be a nurse? do you think you could bear it?" "yes, i'm sure i could," retorted alvina. "i want to be a maternity nurse--" she looked strangely, even outrageously, at her governess. "i want to be a maternity nurse. then i shouldn't have to attend operations." and she laughed quickly. miss frost's right hand beat like a wounded bird. it was reminiscent of the way she beat time, insistently, when she was giving music lessons, sitting close beside her pupils at the piano. now it beat without time or reason. alvina smiled brightly and cruelly. "whatever put such an idea into your head, vina?" asked poor miss frost. "i don't know," said alvina, still more archly and brightly. "of course you don't mean it, dear," said miss frost, quailing. "yes, i do. why should i say it if i don't." miss frost would have done anything to escape the arch, bright, cruel eyes of her charge. "then we must think about it," she said, numbly. and she went away. alvina floated off to her room, and sat by the window looking down on the street. the bright, arch look was still on her face. but her heart was sore. she wanted to cry, and fling herself on the breast of her darling. but she couldn't. no, for her life she couldn't. some little devil sat in her breast and kept her smiling archly. somewhat to her amazement, he sat steadily on for days and days. every minute she expected him to go. every minute she expected to break down, to burst into tears and tenderness and reconciliation. but no--she did not break down. she persisted. they all waited for the old loving vina to be herself again. but the new and recalcitrant vina still shone hard. she found a copy of _the lancet_, and saw an advertisement of a home in islington where maternity nurses would be fully trained and equipped in six months' time. the fee was sixty guineas. alvina declared her intention of departing to this training home. she had two hundred pounds of her own, bequeathed by her grandfather. in manchester house they were all horrified--not moved with grief, this time, but shocked. it seemed such a repulsive and indelicate step to take. which it was. and which, in her curious perverseness, alvina must have intended it to be. mrs. houghton assumed a remote air of silence, as if she did not hear any more, did not belong. she lapsed far away. she was really very weak. miss pinnegar said: "well really, if she wants to do it, why, she might as well try." and, as often with miss pinnegar, this speech seemed to contain a veiled threat. "a maternity nurse!" said james houghton. "a maternity nurse! what exactly do you mean by a maternity nurse?" "a trained mid-wife," said miss pinnegar curtly. "that's it, isn't it? it is as far as i can see. a trained mid-wife." "yes, of course," said alvina brightly. "but--!" stammered james houghton, pushing his spectacles up on to his forehead, and making his long fleece of painfully thin hair uncover his baldness. "i can't understand that any young girl of any--any upbringing, any upbringing whatever, should want to choose such a--such an--occupation. i can't understand it." "can't you?" said alvina brightly. "oh well, if she _does_--" said miss pinnegar cryptically. miss frost said very little. but she had serious confidential talks with dr. fordham. dr. fordham didn't approve, certainly he didn't--but neither did he see any great harm in it. at that time it was rather the thing for young ladies to enter the nursing profession, if their hopes had been blighted or checked in another direction! and so, enquiries were made. enquiries were made. the upshot was, that alvina was to go to islington for her six months' training. there was a great bustle, preparing her nursing outfit. instead of a trousseau, nurse's uniforms in fine blue-and-white stripe, with great white aprons. instead of a wreath of orange blossom, a rather chic nurse's bonnet of blue silk, and for a trailing veil, a blue silk fall. well and good! alvina expected to become frightened, as the time drew near. but no, she wasn't a bit frightened. miss frost watched her narrowly. would there not be a return of the old, tender, sensitive, shrinking vina--the exquisitely sensitive and nervous, loving girl? no, astounding as it may seem, there was no return of such a creature. alvina remained bright and ready, the half-hilarious clang remained in her voice, taunting. she kissed them all good-bye, brightly and sprightlily, and off she set. she wasn't nervous. she came to st. pancras, she got her cab, she drove off to her destination--and as she drove, she looked out of the window. horrid, vast, stony, dilapidated, crumbly-stuccoed streets and squares of islington, grey, grey, greyer by far than woodhouse, and interminable. how exceedingly sordid and disgusting! but instead of being repelled and heartbroken, alvina enjoyed it. she felt her trunk rumble on the top of the cab, and still she looked out on the ghastly dilapidated flat facades of islington, and still she smiled brightly, as if there were some charm in it all. perhaps for her there was a charm in it all. perhaps it acted like a tonic on the little devil in her breast. perhaps if she had seen tufts of snowdrops--it was february--and yew-hedges and cottage windows, she would have broken down. as it was, she just enjoyed it. she enjoyed glimpsing in through uncurtained windows, into sordid rooms where human beings moved as if sordidly unaware. she enjoyed the smell of a toasted bloater, rather burnt. so common! so indescribably common! and she detested bloaters, because of the hairy feel of the spines in her mouth. but to smell them like this, to know that she was in the region of "penny beef-steaks," gave her a perverse pleasure. the cab stopped at a yellow house at the corner of a square where some shabby bare trees were flecked with bits of blown paper, bits of paper and refuse cluttered inside the round railings of each tree. she went up some dirty-yellowish steps, and rang the "patients'" bell, because she knew she ought not to ring the "tradesmen's." a servant, not exactly dirty, but unattractive, let her into a hall painted a dull drab, and floored with cocoa-matting, otherwise bare. then up bare stairs to a room where a stout, pale, common woman with two warts on her face, was drinking tea. it was three o'clock. this was the matron. the matron soon deposited her in a bedroom, not very small, but bare and hard and dusty-seeming, and there left her. alvina sat down on her chair, looked at her box opposite her, looked round the uninviting room, and smiled to herself. then she rose and went to the window: a very dirty window, looking down into a sort of well of an area, with other wells ranging along, and straight opposite like a reflection another solid range of back-premises, with iron stair-ways and horrid little doors and washing and little w. c.'s and people creeping up and down like vermin. alvina shivered a little, but still smiled. then slowly she began to take off her hat. she put it down on the drab-painted chest of drawers. presently the servant came in with a tray, set it down, lit a naked gas-jet, which roared faintly, and drew down a crackly dark-green blind, which showed a tendency to fly back again alertly to the ceiling. "thank you," said alvina, and the girl departed. then miss houghton drank her black tea and ate her bread and margarine. surely enough books have been written about heroines in similar circumstances. there is no need to go into the details of alvina's six months in islington. the food was objectionable--yet alvina got fat on it. the air was filthy--and yet never had her colour been so warm and fresh, her skin so soft. her companions were almost without exception vulgar and coarse--yet never had she got on so well with women of her own age--or older than herself. she was ready with a laugh and a word, and though she was unable to venture on indecencies herself, yet she had an amazing faculty for _looking_ knowing and indecent beyond words, rolling her eyes and pitching her eyebrows in a certain way--oh, it was quite sufficient for her companions! and yet, if they had ever actually demanded a dirty story or a really open indecency from her, she would have been floored. but she enjoyed it. amazing how she enjoyed it. she did not care _how_ revolting and indecent these nurses were--she put on a look as if she were in with it all, and it all passed off as easy as winking. she swung her haunches and arched her eyes with the best of them. and they behaved as if she were exactly one of themselves. and yet, with the curious cold tact of women, they left her alone, one and all, in private: just ignored her. it is truly incredible how alvina became blooming and bouncing at this time. nothing shocked her, nothing upset her. she was always ready with her hard, nurse's laugh and her nurse's quips. no one was better than she at _double-entendres._ no one could better give the nurse's leer. she had it all in a fortnight. and never once did she feel anything but exhilarated and in full swing. it seemed to her she had not a moment's time to brood or reflect about things--she was too much in the swing. every moment, in the swing, living, or active in full swing. when she got into bed she went to sleep. when she awoke, it was morning, and she got up. as soon as she was up and dressed she had somebody to answer, something to say, something to do. time passed like an express train--and she seemed to have known no other life than this. not far away was a lying-in hospital. a dreadful place it was. there she had to go, right off, and help with cases. there she had to attend lectures and demonstrations. there she met the doctors and students. well, a pretty lot they were, one way and another. when she had put on flesh and become pink and bouncing she was just their sort: just their very ticket. her voice had the right twang, her eyes the right roll, her haunches the right swing. she seemed altogether just the ticket. and yet she wasn't. it would be useless to say she was not shocked. she was profoundly and awfully shocked. her whole state was perhaps largely the result of shock: a sort of play-acting based on hysteria. but the dreadful things she saw in the lying-in hospital, and afterwards, went deep, and finished her youth and her tutelage for ever. how many infernos deeper than miss frost could ever know, did she not travel? the inferno of the human animal, the human organism in its convulsions, the human social beast in its abjection and its degradation. for in her latter half she had to visit the slum cases. and such cases! a woman lying on a bare, filthy floor, a few old coats thrown over her, and vermin crawling everywhere, in spite of sanitary inspectors. but what did the woman, the sufferer, herself care! she ground her teeth and screamed and yelled with pains. in her calm periods she lay stupid and indifferent--or she cursed a little. but abject, stupid indifference was the bottom of it all: abject, brutal indifference to everything--yes, everything. just a piece of female functioning, no more. alvina was supposed to receive a certain fee for these cases she attended in their homes. a small proportion of her fee she kept for herself, the rest she handed over to the home. that was the agreement. she received her grudged fee callously, threatened and exacted it when it was not forthcoming. ha!--if they didn't have to pay you at all, these slum-people, they would treat you with more contempt than if you were one of themselves. it was one of the hardest lessons alvina had to learn--to bully these people, in their own hovels, into some sort of obedience to her commands, and some sort of respect for her presence. she had to fight tooth and nail for this end. and in a week she was as hard and callous to them as they to her. and so her work was well done. she did not hate them. there they were. they had a certain life, and you had to take them at their own worth in their own way. what else! if one should be gentle, one was gentle. the difficulty did not lie there. the difficulty lay in being sufficiently rough and hard: that was the trouble. it cost a great struggle to be hard and callous enough. glad she would have been to be allowed to treat them quietly and gently, with consideration. but pah--it was not their line. they wanted to be callous, and if you were not callous to match, they made a fool of you and prevented your doing your work. was alvina her own real self all this time? the mighty question arises upon us, what is one's own real self? it certainly is not what we think we are and ought to be. alvina had been bred to think of herself as a delicate, tender, chaste creature with unselfish inclinations and a pure, "high" mind. well, so she was, in the more-or-less exhausted part of herself. but high-mindedness had really come to an end with james houghton, had really reached the point, not only of pathetic, but of dry and anti-human, repulsive quixotry. in alvina high-mindedness was already stretched beyond the breaking point. being a woman of some flexibility of temper, wrought through generations to a fine, pliant hardness, she flew back. she went right back on high-mindedness. did she thereby betray it? we think not. if we turn over the head of the penny and look at the tail, we don't thereby deny or betray the head. we do but adjust it to its own complement. and so with high-mindedness. it is but one side of the medal--the crowned reverse. on the obverse the three legs still go kicking the soft-footed spin of the universe, the dolphin flirts and the crab leers. so alvina spun her medal, and her medal came down tails. heads or tails? heads for generations. then tails. see the poetic justice. now alvina decided to accept the decision of her fate. or rather, being sufficiently a woman, she didn't decide anything. she _was_ her own fate. she went through her training experiences like another being. she was not herself, said everybody. when she came home to woodhouse at easter, in her bonnet and cloak, everybody was simply knocked out. imagine that this frail, pallid, diffident girl, so ladylike, was now a rather fat, warm-coloured young woman, strapping and strong-looking, and with a certain bounce. imagine her mother's startled, almost expiring: "why, vina dear!" vina laughed. she knew how they were all feeling. "at least it agrees with your _health_," said her father, sarcastically, to which miss pinnegar answered: "well, that's a good deal." but miss frost said nothing the first day. only the second day, at breakfast, as alvina ate rather rapidly and rather well, the white-haired woman said quietly, with a tinge of cold contempt: "how changed you are, dear!" "am i?" laughed alvina. "oh, not really." and she gave the arch look with her eyes, which made miss frost shudder. inwardly, miss frost shuddered, and abstained from questioning. alvina was always speaking of the doctors: doctor young and doctor headley and doctor james. she spoke of theatres and music-halls with these young men, and the jolly good time she had with them. and her blue-grey eyes seemed to have become harder and greyer, lighter somehow. in her wistfulness and her tender pathos, alvina's eyes would deepen their blue, so beautiful. and now, in her floridity, they were bright and arch and light-grey. the deep, tender, flowery blue was gone for ever. they were luminous and crystalline, like the eyes of a changeling. miss frost shuddered, and abstained from question. she wanted, she _needed_ to ask of her charge: "alvina, have you betrayed yourself with any of these young men?" but coldly her heart abstained from asking--or even from seriously thinking. she left the matter untouched for the moment. she was already too much shocked. certainly alvina represented the young doctors as very nice, but rather fast young fellows. "my word, you have to have your wits about you with them!" imagine such a speech from a girl tenderly nurtured: a speech uttered in her own home, and accompanied by a florid laugh, which would lead a chaste, generous woman like miss frost to imagine--well, she merely abstained from imagining anything. she had that strength of mind. she never for one moment attempted to answer the question to herself, as to whether alvina had betrayed herself with any of these young doctors, or not. the question remained stated, but completely unanswered--coldly awaiting its answer. only when miss frost kissed alvina good-bye at the station, tears came to her eyes, and she said hurriedly, in a low voice: "remember we are all praying for you, dear!" "no, don't do that!" cried alvina involuntarily, without knowing what she said. and then the train moved out, and she saw her darling standing there on the station, the pale, well-modelled face looking out from behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, wistfully, the strong, rather stout figure standing very still and unchangeable, under its coat and skirt of dark purple, the white hair glistening under the folded dark hat. alvina threw herself down on the seat of her carriage. she loved her darling. she would love her through eternity. she knew she was right--amply and beautifully right, her darling, her beloved miss frost. eternally and gloriously right. and yet--and yet--it was a right which was fulfilled. there were other rights. there was another side to the medal. purity and high-mindedness--the beautiful, but unbearable tyranny. the beautiful, unbearable tyranny of miss frost! it was time now for miss frost to die. it was time for that perfected flower to be gathered to immortality. a lovely _immortel_. but an obstruction to other, purple and carmine blossoms which were in bud on the stem. a lovely edelweiss--but time it was gathered into eternity. black-purple and red anemones were due, real adonis blood, and strange individual orchids, spotted and fantastic. time for miss frost to die. she, alvina, who loved her as no one else would ever love her, with that love which goes to the core of the universe, knew that it was time for her darling to be folded, oh, so gently and softly, into immortality. mortality was busy with the day after her day. it was time for miss frost to die. as alvina sat motionless in the train, running from woodhouse to tibshelf, it decided itself in her. she was glad to be back in islington, among all the horrors of her confinement cases. the doctors she knew hailed her. on the whole, these young men had not any too deep respect for the nurses as a whole. why drag in respect? human functions were too obviously established to make any great fuss about. and so the doctors put their arms round alvina's waist, because she was plump, and they kissed her face, because the skin was soft. and she laughed and squirmed a little, so that they felt all the more her warmth and softness under their arm's pressure. "it's no use, you know," she said, laughing rather breathless, but looking into their eyes with a curious definite look of unchangeable resistance. this only piqued them. "what's no use?" they asked. she shook her head slightly. "it isn't any use your behaving like that with me," she said, with the same challenging definiteness, finality: a flat negative. "who're you telling?" they said. for she did not at all forbid them to "behave like that." not in the least. she almost encouraged them. she laughed and arched her eyes and flirted. but her backbone became only the stronger and firmer. soft and supple as she was, her backbone never yielded for an instant. it could not. she had to confess that she liked the young doctors. they were alert, their faces were clean and bright-looking. she liked the sort of intimacy with them, when they kissed her and wrestled with her in the empty laboratories or corridors--often in the intervals of most critical and appalling cases. she liked their arm round her waist, the kisses as she reached back her face, straining away, the sometimes desperate struggles. they took unpardonable liberties. they pinched her haunches and attacked her in unheard-of ways. sometimes her blood really came up in the fight, and she felt as if, with her hands, she could tear any man, any male creature, limb from limb. a super-human, voltaic force filled her. for a moment she surged in massive, inhuman, female strength. the men always wilted. and invariably, when they wilted, she touched them with a sudden gentle touch, pitying. so that she always remained friends with them. when her curious amazonic power left her again, and she was just a mere woman, she made shy eyes at them once more, and treated them with the inevitable female-to-male homage. the men liked her. they cocked their eyes at her, when she was not looking, and wondered at her. they wondered over her. they had been beaten by her, every one of them. but they did not openly know it. they looked at her, as if she were woman itself, some creature not quite personal. what they noticed, all of them, was the way her brown hair looped over her ears. there was something chaste, and noble, and war-like about it. the remote quality which hung about her in the midst of her intimacies and her frequencies, nothing high or lofty, but something given to the struggle and as yet invincible in the struggle, made them seek her out. they felt safe with her. they knew she would not let them down. she would not intrigue into marriage, or try and make use of them in any way. she didn't care about them. and so, because of her isolate self-sufficiency in the fray, her wild, overweening backbone, they were ready to attend on her and serve her. headley in particular hoped he might overcome her. he was a well-built fellow with sandy hair and a pugnacious face. the battle-spirit was really roused in him, and he heartily liked the woman. if he could have overcome her he would have been mad to marry her. with him, she summoned up all her mettle. she had never to be off her guard for a single minute. the treacherous suddenness of his attack--for he was treachery itself--had to be met by the voltaic suddenness of her resistance and counter-attack. it was nothing less than magical the way the soft, slumbering body of the woman could leap in one jet into terrible, overwhelming voltaic force, something strange and massive, at the first treacherous touch of the man's determined hand. his strength was so different from hers--quick, muscular, lambent. but hers was deep and heaving, like the strange heaving of an earthquake, or the heave of a bull as it rises from earth. and by sheer non-human power, electric and paralysing, she could overcome the brawny red-headed fellow. he was nearly a match for her. but she did not like him. the two were enemies--and good acquaintances. they were more or less matched. but as he found himself continually foiled, he became sulky, like a bear with a sore head. and then she avoided him. she really liked young and james much better. james was a quick, slender, dark-haired fellow, a gentleman, who was always trying to catch her out with his quickness. she liked his fine, slim limbs, and his exaggerated generosity. he would ask her out to ridiculously expensive suppers, and send her sweets and flowers, fabulously recherché. he was always immaculately well-dressed. "of course, as a lady _and_ a nurse," he said to her, "you are two sorts of women in one." but she was not impressed by his wisdom. she was most strongly inclined to young. he was a plump young man of middle height, with those blue eyes of a little boy which are so knowing: particularly of a woman's secrets. it is a strange thing that these childish men have such a deep, half-perverse knowledge of the other sex. young was certainly innocent as far as acts went. yet his hair was going thin at the crown already. he also played with her--being a doctor, and she a nurse who encouraged it. he too touched her and kissed her: and did _not_ rouse her to contest. for his touch and his kiss had that nearness of a little boy's, which nearly melted her. she could almost have succumbed to him. if it had not been that with him there was no question of succumbing. she would have had to take him between her hands and caress and cajole him like a cherub, into a fall. and though she would have like to do so, yet that inflexible stiffness of her backbone prevented her. she could not do as she liked. there was an inflexible fate within her, which shaped her ends. sometimes she wondered to herself, over her own virginity. was it worth much, after all, behaving as she did? did she care about it, anyhow? didn't she rather despise it? to sin in thought was as bad as to sin in act. if the thought was the same as the act, how much more was her behaviour equivalent to a whole committal? she wished she were wholly committed. she wished she had gone the whole length. but sophistry and wishing did her no good. there she was, still isolate. and still there was that in her which would preserve her intact, sophistry and deliberate intention notwithstanding. her time was up. she was returning to woodhouse virgin as she had left it. in a measure she felt herself beaten. why? who knows. but so it was, she felt herself beaten, condemned to go back to what she was before. fate had been too strong for her and her desires: fate which was not an external association of forces, but which was integral in her own nature. her own inscrutable nature was her fate: sore against her will. it was august when she came home, in her nurse's uniform. she was beaten by fate, as far as chastity and virginity went. but she came home with high material hopes. here was james houghton's own daughter. she had an affluent future ahead of her. a fully-qualified maternity nurse, she was going to bring all the babies of the district easily and triumphantly into the world. she was going to charge the regulation fee of two guineas a case: and even on a modest estimate of ten babies a month, she would have twenty guineas. for well-to-do mothers she would charge from three to five guineas. at this calculation she would make an easy three hundred a year, without slaving either. she would be independent, she could laugh every one in the face. she bounced back into woodhouse to make her fortune. chapter iv two women die it goes without saying that alvina houghton did not make her fortune as a maternity nurse. being her father's daughter, we might almost expect that she did not make a penny. but she did--just a few pence. she had exactly four cases--and then no more. the reason is obvious. who in woodhouse was going to afford a two-guinea nurse, for a confinement? and who who was going to engage alvina houghton, even if they were ready to stretch their purse-strings? after all, they all knew her as _miss_ houghton, with a stress on the _miss_, and they could not conceive of her as nurse houghton. besides, there seemed something positively indecent in technically engaging one who was so much part of themselves. they all preferred either a simple mid-wife, or a nurse procured out of the unknown by the doctor. if alvina wanted to make her fortune--or even her living--she should have gone to a strange town. she was so advised by every one she knew. but she never for one moment reflected on the advice. she had become a maternity nurse in order to practise in woodhouse, just as james houghton had purchased his elegancies to sell in woodhouse. and father and daughter alike calmly expected woodhouse demand to rise to their supply. so both alike were defeated in their expectations. for a little while alvina flaunted about in her nurse's uniform. then she left it off. and as she left it off she lost her bounce, her colour, and her flesh. gradually she shrank back to the old, slim, reticent pallor, with eyes a little too large for her face. and now it seemed her face was a little too long, a little gaunt. and in her civilian clothes she seemed a little dowdy, shabby. and altogether, she looked older: she looked more than her age, which was only twenty-four years. here was the old alvina come back, rather battered and deteriorated, apparently. there was even a tiny touch of the trollops in her dowdiness--so the shrewd-eyed collier-wives decided. but she was a lady still, and unbeaten. undeniably she was a lady. and that was rather irritating to the well-to-do and florid daughter of w.h. johnson, next door but one. undeniably a lady, and undeniably unmastered. this last was irritating to the good-natured but easy-coming young men in the chapel choir, where she resumed her seat. these young men had the good nature of dogs that wag their tails and expect to be patted. and alvina did not pat them. to be sure, a pat from such a shabbily-black-kid-gloved hand would not have been so flattering--she need not imagine it! the way she hung back and looked at them, the young men, as knowing as if she were a prostitute, and yet with the well-bred indifference of a lady--well, it was almost offensive. as a matter of fact, alvina was detached for the time being from her interest in young men. manchester house had settled down on her like a doom. there was the quartered shop, through which one had to worm one's encumbered way in the gloom--unless one liked to go miles round a back street, to the yard entry. there was james houghton, faintly powdered with coal-dust, flitting back and forth in a fever of nervous frenzy, to throttle-ha'penny--so carried away that he never saw his daughter at all the first time he came in, after her return. and when she reminded him of her presence, with her--"hello, father!"--he merely glancied hurriedly at her, as if vexed with her interruption, and said: "well, alvina, you're back. you're back to find us busy." and he went off into his ecstasy again. mrs. houghton was now very weak, and so nervous in her weakness that she could not bear the slightest sound. her greatest horror was lest her husband should come into the room. on his entry she became blue at the lips immediately, so he had to hurry out again. at last he stayed away, only hurriedly asking, each time he came into the house, "how is mrs. houghton? ha!" then off into uninterrupted throttle-ha'penny ecstasy once more. when alvina went up to her mother's room, on her return, all the poor invalid could do was to tremble into tears, and cry faintly: "child, you look dreadful. it isn't you." this from the pathetic little figure in the bed had struck alvina like a blow. "why not, mother?" she asked. but for her mother she had to remove her nurse's uniform. and at the same time, she had to constitute herself nurse. miss frost, and a woman who came in, and the servant had been nursing the invalid between them. miss frost was worn and rather heavy: her old buoyancy and brightness was gone. she had become irritable also. she was very glad that alvina had returned to take this responsibility of nursing off her shoulders. for her wonderful energy had ebbed and oozed away. alvina said nothing, but settled down to her task. she was quiet and technical with her mother. the two loved one another, with a curious impersonal love which had not a single word to exchange: an almost after-death love. in these days mrs. houghton never talked--unless to fret a little. so alvina sat for many hours in the lofty, sombre bedroom, looking out silently on the street, or hurriedly rising to attend the sick woman. for continually came the fretful murmur: "vina!" to sit still--who knows the long discipline of it, nowadays, as our mothers and grandmothers knew. to sit still, for days, months, and years--perforce to sit still, with some dignity of tranquil bearing. alvina was old-fashioned. she had the old, womanly faculty for sitting quiet and collected--not indeed for a life-time, but for long spells together. and so it was during these months nursing her mother. she attended constantly on the invalid: she did a good deal of work about the house: she took her walks and occupied her place in the choir on sunday mornings. and yet, from august to january, she seemed to be seated in her chair in the bedroom, sometimes reading, but mostly quite still, her hands quietly in her lap, her mind subdued by musing. she did not even think, not even remember. even such activity would have made her presence too disturbing in the room. she sat quite still, with all her activities in abeyance--except that strange will-to-passivity which was by no means a relaxation, but a severe, deep, soul-discipline. for the moment there was a sense of prosperity--or probable prosperity, in the house. and there was an abundance of throttle-ha'penny coal. it was dirty ashy stuff. the lower bars of the grate were constantly blanked in with white powdery ash, which it was fatal to try to poke away. for if you poked and poked, you raised white cumulus clouds of ash, and you were left at last with a few darkening and sulphurous embers. but even so, by continuous application, you could keep the room moderately warm, without feeling you were consuming the house's meat and drink in the grate. which was one blessing. the days, the months darkened past, and alvina returned to her old thinness and pallor. her fore-arms were thin, they rested very still in her lap, there was a ladylike stillness about them as she took her walk, in her lingering, yet watchful fashion. she saw everything. yet she passed without attracting any attention. early in the year her mother died. her father came and wept self-conscious tears, miss frost cried a little, painfully. and alvina cried also: she did not quite know why or wherefore. her poor mother! alvina had the old-fashioned wisdom to let be, and not to think. after all, it was not for her to reconstruct her parents' lives. she came after them. her day was not their day, their life was not hers. returning up-channel to re-discover their course was quite another matter from flowing down-stream into the unknown, as they had done thirty years before. this supercilious and impertinent exploration of the generation gone by, by the present generation, is nothing to our credit. as a matter of fact, no generation repeats the mistakes of the generation ahead, any more than any river repeats its course. so the young need not be so proud of their superiority over the old. the young generation glibly makes its own mistakes: and _how_ detestable these new mistakes are, why, only the future will be able to tell us. but be sure they are quite as detestable, quite as full of lies and hypocrisy, as any of the mistakes of our parents. there is no such thing as _absolute_ wisdom. wisdom has reference only to the past. the future remains for ever an infinite field for mistakes. you can't know beforehand. so alvina refrained from pondering on her mother's life and fate. whatever the fate of the mother, the fate of the daughter will be otherwise. that is organically inevitable. the business of the daughter is with her own fate, not with her mother's. miss frost however meditated bitterly on the fate of the poor dead woman. bitterly she brooded on the lot of woman. here was clariss houghton, married, and a mother--and dead. what a life! who was responsible? james houghton. what ought james houghton to have done differently? everything. in short, he should have been somebody else, and not himself. which is the _reductio ad absurdum_ of idealism. the universe should be something else, and not what it is: so the nonsense of idealistic conclusion. the cat should not catch the mouse, the mouse should not nibble holes in the table-cloth, and so on and so on, in the house that jack built. but miss frost sat by the dead in grief and despair. this was the end of another woman's life: such an end! poor clariss: guilty james. yet why? why was james more guilty than clariss? is the only aim and end of a man's life, to make some woman, or parcel of women, happy? why? why should anybody expect to be _made happy_, and develop heart-disease if she isn't? surely clariss' heart-disease was a more emphatic sign of obstinate self-importance than ever james' shop-windows were. she expected to be _made happy_. every woman in europe and america expects it. on her own head then if she is made unhappy: for her expectation is arrogant and impertinent. the be-all and end-all of life doesn't lie in feminine happiness--or in any happiness. happiness is a sort of soap-tablet--he won't be happy till he gets it, and when he's got it, the precious baby, it'll cost him his eyes and his stomach. could anything be more puerile than a mankind howling because it isn't happy: like a baby in the bath! poor clariss, however, was dead--and if she had developed heart-disease because she wasn't happy, well, she had died of her own heart-disease, poor thing. wherein lies every moral that mankind can wish to draw. miss frost wept in anguish, and saw nothing but another woman betrayed to sorrow and a slow death. sorrow and a slow death, because a man had married her. miss frost wept also for herself, for her own sorrow and slow death. sorrow and slow death, because a man had _not_ married her. wretched man, what is he to do with these exigeant and never-to-be-satisfied women? our mothers pined because our fathers drank and were rakes. our wives pine because we are virtuous but inadequate. who is this sphinx, this woman? where is the oedipus that will solve her riddle of happiness, and then strangle her?--only to marry his own mother! in the months that followed her mother's death, alvina went on the same, in abeyance. she took over the housekeeping, and received one or two overflow pupils from miss frost, young girls to whom she gave lessons in the dark drawing-room of manchester house. she was busy--chiefly with housekeeping. there seemed a great deal to put in order after her mother's death. she sorted all her mother's clothes--expensive, old-fashioned clothes, hardly worn. what was to be done with them? she gave them away, without consulting anybody. she kept a few private things, she inherited a few pieces of jewellery. remarkable how little trace her mother left--hardly a trace. she decided to move into the big, monumental bedroom in front of the house. she liked space, she liked the windows. she was strictly mistress, too. so she took her place. her mother's little sitting-room was cold and disused. then alvina went through all the linen. there was still abundance, and it was all sound. james had had such large ideas of setting up house, in the beginning. and now he begrudged the household expenses, begrudged the very soap and candles, and even would have liked to introduce margarine instead of butter. this last degradation the women refused. but james was above food. the old alvina seemed completely herself again. she was quiet, dutiful, affectionate. she appealed in her old, childish way to miss frost, and miss frost called her "dear!" with all the old protective gentleness. but there was a difference. underneath her appearance of appeal, alvina was almost coldly independent. she did what she thought she would. the old manner of intimacy persisted between her and her darling. and perhaps neither of them knew that the intimacy itself had gone. but it had. there was no spontaneous interchange between them. it was a kind of deadlock. each knew the great love she felt for the other. but now it was a love static, inoperative. the warm flow did not run any more. yet each would have died for the other, would have done anything to spare the other hurt. miss frost was becoming tired, dragged looking. she would sink into a chair as if she wished never to rise again--never to make the effort. and alvina quickly would attend on her, bring her tea and take away her music, try to make everything smooth. and continually the young woman exhorted the elder to work less, to give up her pupils. but miss frost answered quickly, nervously: "when i don't work i shan't live." "but why--?" came the long query from alvina. and in her expostulation there was a touch of mockery for such a creed. miss frost did not answer. her face took on a greyish tinge. in these days alvina struck up an odd friendship with miss pinnegar, after so many years of opposition. she felt herself more in sympathy with miss pinnegar--it was so easy to get on with her, she left so much unsaid. what was left unsaid mattered more to alvina now than anything that was expressed. she began to hate outspokenness and direct speaking-forth of the whole mind. it nauseated her. she wanted tacit admission of difference, not open, wholehearted communication. and miss pinnegar made this admission all along. she never made you feel for an instant that she was one with you. she was never even near. she kept quietly on her own ground, and left you on yours. and across the space came her quiet commonplaces--but fraught with space. with miss frost all was openness, explicit and downright. not that miss frost trespassed. she was far more well-bred than miss pinnegar. but her very breeding had that protestant, northern quality which assumes that we have all the same high standards, really, and all the same divine nature, intrinsically. it is a fine assumption. but willy-nilly, it sickened alvina at this time. she preferred miss pinnegar, and admired miss pinnegar's humble wisdom with a new admiration. the two were talking of dr. headley, who, they read in the newspaper, had disgraced himself finally. "i suppose," said miss pinnegar, "it takes his sort to make all sorts." such bits of homely wisdom were like relief from cramp and pain, to alvina. "it takes his sort to make all sorts." it took her sort too. and it took her father's sort--as well as her mother's and miss frost's. it took every sort to make all sorts. why have standards and a regulation pattern? why have a human criterion? there's the point! why, in the name of all the free heavens, have human criteria? why? simply for bullying and narrowness. alvina felt at her ease with miss pinnegar. the two women talked away to one another, in their quiet moments: and slipped apart like conspirators when miss frost came in: as if there was something to be ashamed of. if there was, heaven knows what it might have been, for their talk was ordinary enough. but alvina liked to be with miss pinnegar in the kitchen. miss pinnegar wasn't competent and masterful like miss frost: she was ordinary and uninspired, with quiet, unobserved movements. but she was deep, and there was some secret satisfaction in her very quality of secrecy. so the days and weeks and months slipped by, and alvina was hidden like a mole in the dark chambers of manchester house, busy with cooking and cleaning and arranging, getting the house in her own order, and attending to her pupils. she took her walk in the afternoon. once and only once she went to throttle-ha'penny, and, seized with sudden curiosity, insisted on being wound down in the iron bucket to the little workings underneath. everything was quite tidy in the short gang-ways down below, timbered and in sound order. the miners were competent enough. but water dripped dismally in places, and there was a stale feeling in the air. her father accompanied her, pointed her to the seam of yellow-flecked coal, the shale and the bind, the direction of the trend. he had already an airy-fairy kind of knowledge of the whole affair, and seemed like some not quite trustworthy conjuror who had conjured it all up by sleight of hand. in the background the miners stood grey and ghostly, in the candle-light, and seemed to listen sardonically. one of them, facile in his subordinate way as james in his authoritative, kept chiming in: "ay, that's the road it goes, miss huffen--yis, yo'll see th' roof theer bellies down a bit--s' loose. no, you dunna get th' puddin' stones i' this pit--s' not deep enough. eh, they come down on you plumb, as if th' roof had laid its egg on you. ay, it runs a bit thin down here--six inches. you see th' bed's soft, it's a sort o' clay-bind, it's not clunch such as you get deeper. oh, it's easy workin'--you don't have to knock your guts out. there's no need for shots, miss huffen--we bring it down--you see here--" and he stooped, pointing to a shallow, shelving excavation which he was making under the coal. the working was low, you must stoop all the time. the roof and the timbered sides of the way seemed to press on you. it was as if she were in her tomb for ever, like the dead and everlasting egyptians. she was frightened, but fascinated. the collier kept on talking to her, stretching his bare, grey-black hairy arm across her vision, and pointing with his knotted hand. the thick-wicked tallow candles guttered and smelled. there was a thickness in the air, a sense of dark, fluid presence in the thick atmosphere, the dark, fluid, viscous voice of the collier making a broad-vowelled, clapping sound in her ear. he seemed to linger near her as if he knew--as if he knew--what? something for ever unknowable and inadmissible, something that belonged purely to the underground: to the slaves who work underground: knowledge humiliated, subjected, but ponderous and inevitable. and still his voice went on clapping in her ear, and still his presence edged near her, and seemed to impinge on her--a smallish, semi-grotesque, grey-obscure figure with a naked brandished forearm: not human: a creature of the subterranean world, melted out like a bat, fluid. she felt herself melting out also, to become a mere vocal ghost, a presence in the thick atmosphere. her lungs felt thick and slow, her mind dissolved, she felt she could cling like a bat in the long swoon of the crannied, underworld darkness. cling like a bat and sway for ever swooning in the draughts of the darkness-- when she was up on the earth again she blinked and peered at the world in amazement. what a pretty, luminous place it was, carved in substantial luminosity. what a strange and lovely place, bubbling iridescent-golden on the surface of the underworld. iridescent golden--could anything be more fascinating! like lovely glancing surface on fluid pitch. but a velvet surface. a velvet surface of golden light, velvet-pile of gold and pale luminosity, and strange beautiful elevations of houses and trees, and depressions of fields and roads, all golden and floating like atmospheric majolica. never had the common ugliness of woodhouse seemed so entrancing. she thought she had never seen such beauty--a lovely luminous majolica, living and palpitating, the glossy, svelte world-surface, the exquisite face of all the darkness. it was like a vision. perhaps gnomes and subterranean workers, enslaved in the era of light, see with such eyes. perhaps that is why they are absolutely blind to conventional ugliness. for truly nothing could be more hideous than woodhouse, as the miners had built it and disposed it. and yet, the very cabbage-stumps and rotten fences of the gardens, the very back-yards were instinct with magic, molten as they seemed with the bubbling-up of the under-darkness, bubbling up of majolica weight and luminosity, quite ignorant of the sky, heavy and satisfying. slaves of the underworld! she watched the swing of the grey colliers along the pavement with a new fascination, hypnotized by a new vision. slaves--the underground trolls and iron-workers, magic, mischievous, and enslaved, of the ancient stories. but tall--the miners seemed to her to loom tall and grey, in their enslaved magic. slaves who would cause the superimposed day-order to fall. not because, individually, they wanted to. but because, collectively, something bubbled up in them, the force of darkness which had no master and no control. it would bubble and stir in them as earthquakes stir the earth. it would be simply disastrous, because it had no master. there was no dark master in the world. the puerile world went on crying out for a new jesus, another saviour from the sky, another heavenly superman. when what was wanted was a dark master from the underworld. so they streamed past her, home from work--grey from head to foot, distorted in shape, cramped, with curious faces that came out pallid from under their dirt. their walk was heavy-footed and slurring, their bearing stiff and grotesque. a stream they were--yet they seemed to her to loom like strange, valid figures of fairy-lore, unrealized and as yet unexperienced. the miners, the iron-workers, those who fashion the stuff of the underworld. as it always comes to its children, the nostalgia of the repulsive, heavy-footed midlands came over her again, even whilst she was there in the midst. the curious, dark, inexplicable and yet insatiable craving--as if for an earthquake. to feel the earth heave and shudder and shatter the world from beneath. to go down in the débâcle. and so, in spite of everything, poverty, dowdiness, obscurity, and nothingness, she was content to stay in abeyance at home for the time. true, she was filled with the same old, slow, dreadful craving of the midlands: a craving insatiable and inexplicable. but the very craving kept her still. for at this time she did not translate it into a desire, or need, for love. at the back of her mind somewhere was the fixed idea, the fixed intention of finding love, a man. but as yet, at this period, the idea was in abeyance, it did not act. the craving that possessed her as it possesses everybody, in a greater or less degree, in those parts, sustained her darkly and unconsciously. a hot summer waned into autumn, the long, bewildering days drew in, the transient nights, only a few breaths of shadow between noon and noon, deepened and strengthened. a restlessness came over everybody. there was another short strike among the miners. james houghton, like an excited beetle, scurried to and fro, feeling he was making his fortune. never had woodhouse been so thronged on fridays with purchasers and money-spenders. the place seemed surcharged with life. autumn lasted beautiful till end of october. and then suddenly, cold rain, endless cold rain, and darkness heavy, wet, ponderous. through the wind and rain it was a toil to move. poor miss frost, who had seemed almost to blossom again in the long hot days, regaining a free cheerfulness that amounted almost to liveliness, and who even caused a sort of scandal by her intimacy with a rather handsome but common stranger, an insurance agent who had come into the place with a good, unused tenor voice--now she wilted again. she had given the rather florid young man tea in her room, and had laboured away at his fine, metallic voice, correcting him and teaching him and laughing with him and spending really a remarkable number of hours alone with him in her room in woodhouse--for she had given up tramping the country, and had hired a music-room in a quiet street, where she gave her lessons. and the young man had hung round, and had never wanted to go away. they would prolong their tête-à-tête and their singing on till ten o'clock at night, and miss frost would return to manchester house flushed and handsome and a little shy, while the young man, who was common, took on a new boldness in the streets. he had auburn hair, high colouring, and a rather challenging bearing. he took on a new boldness, his own estimate of himself rose considerably, with miss frost and his trained voice to justify him. he was a little insolent and condescending to the natives, who disliked him. for their lives they could not imagine what miss frost could find in him. they began even to dislike her, and a pretty scandal was started about the pair, in the pleasant room where miss frost had her piano, her books, and her flowers. the scandal was as unjust as most scandals are. yet truly, all that summer and autumn miss frost had a new and slightly aggressive cheerfulness and humour. and manchester house saw little of her, comparatively. and then, at the end of september, the young man was removed by his insurance company to another district. and at the end of october set in the most abominable and unbearable weather, deluges of rain and north winds, cutting the tender, summer-unfolded people to pieces. miss frost wilted at once. a silence came over her. she shuddered when she had to leave the fire. she went in the morning to her room, and stayed there all the day, in a hot, close atmosphere, shuddering when her pupils brought the outside weather with them to her. she was always subject to bronchitis. in november she had a bad bronchitis cold. then suddenly one morning she could not get up. alvina went in and found her semi-conscious. the girl was almost mad. she flew to the rescue. she despatched her father instantly for the doctor, she heaped the sticks in the bedroom grate and made a bright fire, she brough hot milk and brandy. "thank you, dear, thank you. it's a bronchial cold," whispered miss frost hurriedly, trying to sip the milk. she could not. she didn't want it. "i've sent for the doctor," said alvina, in her cool voice, wherein none the less there rang the old hesitancy of sheer love. miss frost lifted her eyes: "there's no need," she said, and she smiled winsomely at alvina. it was pneumonia. useless to talk of the distracted anguish of alvina during the next two days. she was so swift and sensitive in her nursing, she seemed to have second sight. she talked to nobody. in her silence her soul was alone with the soul of her darling. the long semi-consciousness and the tearing pain of pneumonia, the anguished sickness. but sometimes the grey eyes would open and smile with delicate winsomeness at alvina, and alvina smiled back, with a cheery, answering winsomeness. but that costs something. on the evening of the second day, miss frost got her hand from under the bedclothes, and laid it on alvina's hand. alvina leaned down to her. "everything is for you, my love," whispered miss frost, looking with strange eyes on alvina's face. "don't talk, miss frost," moaned alvina. "everything is for you," murmured the sick woman--"except--" and she enumerated some tiny legacies which showed her generous, thoughtful nature. "yes, i shall remember," said alvina, beyond tears now. miss frost smiled with her old bright, wonderful look, that had a touch of queenliness in it. "kiss me, dear," she whispered. alvina kissed her, and could not suppress the whimpering of her too-much grief. the night passed slowly. sometimes the grey eyes of the sick woman rested dark, dilated, haggard on alvina's face, with a heavy, almost accusing look, sinister. then they closed again. and sometimes they looked pathetic, with a mute, stricken appeal. then again they closed--only to open again tense with pain. alvina wiped her blood-phlegmed lips. in the morning she died--lay there haggard, death-smeared, with her lovely white hair smeared also, and disorderly: she who had been so beautiful and clean always. alvina knew death--which is untellable. she knew that her darling carried away a portion of her own soul into death. but she was alone. and the agony of being alone, the agony of grief, passionate, passionate grief for her darling who was torn into death--the agony of self-reproach, regret; the agony of remembrance; the agony of the looks of the dying woman, winsome, and sinisterly accusing, and pathetically, despairingly appealing--probe after probe of mortal agony, which throughout eternity would never lose its power to pierce to the quick! alvina seemed to keep strangely calm and aloof all the days after the death. only when she was alone she suffered till she felt her heart really broke. "i shall never feel anything any more," she said in her abrupt way to miss frost's friend, another woman of over fifty. "nonsense, child!" expostulated mrs. lawson gently. "i shan't! i shall never have a heart to feel anything any more," said alvina, with a strange, distraught roll of the eyes. "not like this, child. but you'll feel other things--" "i haven't the heart," persisted alvina. "not yet," said mrs. lawson gently. "you can't expect--but time--time brings back--" "oh well--but i don't believe it," said alvina. people thought her rather hard. to one of her gossips miss pinnegar confessed: "i thought she'd have felt it more. she cared more for her than she did for her own mother--and her mother knew it. mrs. houghton complained bitterly, sometimes, that _she_ had _no_ love. they were everything to one another, miss frost and alvina. i should have thought she'd have felt it more. but you never know. a good thing if she doesn't, really." miss pinnegar herself did not care one little bit that miss frost was dead. she did not feel herself implicated. the nearest relatives came down, and everything was settled. the will was found, just a brief line on a piece of notepaper expressing a wish that alvina should have everything. alvina herself told the verbal requests. all was quietly fulfilled. as it might well be. for there was nothing to leave. just sixty-three pounds in the bank--no more: then the clothes, piano, books and music. miss frost's brother had these latter, at his own request: the books and music, and the piano. alvina inherited the few simple trinkets, and about forty-five pounds in money. "poor miss frost," cried mrs. lawson, weeping rather bitterly--"she saved nothing for herself. you can see why she never wanted to grow old, so that she couldn't work. you can see. it's a shame, it's a shame, one of the best women that ever trod earth." manchester house settled down to its deeper silence, its darker gloom. miss frost was irreparably gone. with her, the reality went out of the house. it seemed to be silently waiting to disappear. and alvina and miss pinnegar might move about and talk in vain. they could never remove the sense of waiting to finish: it was all just waiting to finish. and the three, james and alvina and miss pinnegar, waited lingering through the months, for the house to come to an end. with miss frost its spirit passed away: it was no more. dark, empty-feeling, it seemed all the time like a house just before a sale. chapter v the beau throttle-ha'penny worked fitfully through the winter, and in the spring broke down. by this time james houghton had a pathetic, childish look which touched the hearts of alvina and miss pinnegar. they began to treat him with a certain feminine indulgence, as he fluttered round, agitated and bewildered. he was like a bird that has flown into a room and is exhausted, enfeebled by its attempts to fly through the false freedom of the window-glass. sometimes he would sit moping in a corner, with his head under his wing. but miss pinnegar chased him forth, like the stealthy cat she was, chased him up to the work-room to consider some detail of work, chased him into the shop to turn over the old débris of the stock. at one time he showed the alarming symptom of brooding over his wife's death. miss pinnegar was thoroughly scared. but she was not inventive. it was left to alvina to suggest: "why doesn't father let the shop, and some of the house?" let the shop! let the last inch of frontage on the street! james thought of it. let the shop! permit the name of houghton to disappear from the list of tradesmen? withdraw? disappear? become a nameless nobody, occupying obscure premises? he thought about it. and thinking about it, became so indignant at the thought that he pulled his scattered energies together within his frail frame. and then he came out with the most original of all his schemes. manchester house was to be fitted up as a boarding-house for the better classes, and was to make a fortune catering for the needs of these gentry, who had now nowhere to go. yes, manchester house should be fitted up as a sort of quiet family hotel for the better classes. the shop should be turned into an elegant hall-entrance, carpeted, with a hall-porter and a wide plate-glass door, round-arched, in the round arch of which the words: "manchester house" should appear large and distinguished, making an arch also, whilst underneath, more refined and smaller, should show the words: "private hotel." james was to be proprietor and secretary, keeping the books and attending to correspondence: miss pinnegar was to be manageress, superintending the servants and directing the house, whilst alvina was to occupy the equivocal position of "hostess." she was to shake hands with the guests: she was to play the piano, and she was to nurse the sick. for in the prospectus james would include: "trained nurse always on the premises." "why!" cried miss pinnegar, for once brutally and angrily hostile to him: "you'll make it sound like a private lunatic asylum." "will you explain why?" answered james tartly. for himself, he was enraptured with the scheme. he began to tot up ideas and expenses. there would be the handsome entrance and hall: there would be an extension of the kitchen and scullery: there would be an installing of new hot-water and sanitary arrangements: there would be a light lift-arrangment from the kitchen: there would be a handsome glazed balcony or loggia or terrace on the first floor at the back, over the whole length of the back-yard. this loggia would give a wonderful outlook to the south-west and the west. in the immediate foreground, to be sure, would be the yard of the livery-stables and the rather slummy dwellings of the colliers, sloping downhill. but these could be easily overlooked, for the eye would instinctively wander across the green and shallow valley, to the long upslope opposite, showing the manor set in its clump of trees, and farms and haystacks pleasantly dotted, and moderately far off coal-mines with twinkling headstocks and narrow railwaylines crossing the arable fields, and heaps of burning slag. the balcony or covered terrace--james settled down at last to the word _terrace_--was to be one of the features of the house: _the_ feature. it was to be fitted up as a sort of elegant lounging restaurant. elegant teas, at two-and-six per head, and elegant suppers, at five shillings without wine, were to be served here. as a teetotaller and a man of ascetic views, james, in his first shallow moments, before he thought about it, assumed that his house should be entirely non-alcoholic. a temperance house! already he winced. we all know what a provincial temperance hotel is. besides, there is magic in the sound of wine. _wines served_. the legend attracted him immensely--as a teetotaller, it had a mysterious, hypnotic influence. he must have wines. he knew nothing about them. but alfred swayn, from the liquor vaults, would put him in the running in five minutes. it was most curious to see miss pinnegar turtle up at the mention of this scheme. when first it was disclosed to her, her colour came up like a turkey's in a flush of indignant anger. "it's ridiculous. it's just ridiculous!" she blurted, bridling and ducking her head and turning aside, like an indignant turkey. "ridiculous! why? will you explain why!" retorted james, turtling also. "it's absolutely ridiculous!" she repeated, unable to do more than splutter. "well, we'll see," said james, rising to superiority. and again he began to dart absorbedly about, like a bird building a nest. miss pinnegar watched him with a sort of sullen fury. she went to the shop door to peep out after him. she saw him slip into the liquor vaults, and she came back to announce to alvina: "he's taken to drink!" "drink?" said alvina. "that's what it is," said miss pinnegar vindictively. "drink!" alvina sank down and laughed till she was weak. it all seemed really too funny to her--too funny. "i can't see what it is to laugh at," said miss pinnegar. "disgraceful--it's disgraceful! but i'm not going to stop to be made a fool of. i shall be no manageress, i tell you. it's absolutely ridiculous. who does he think will come to the place? he's out of his mind--and it's drink; that's what it is! going into the liquor vaults at ten o'clock in the morning! that's where he gets his ideas--out of whiskey--or brandy! but he's not going to make a fool of me--" "oh dear!" sighed alvina, laughing herself into composure and a little weariness. "i know it's _perfectly_ ridiculous. we shall have to stop him." "i've said all i can say," blurted miss pinnegar. as soon as james came in to a meal, the two women attacked him. "but father," said alvina, "there'll be nobody to come." "plenty of people--plenty of people," said her father. "look at the shakespeare's head, in knarborough." "knarborough! is this knarborough!" blurted miss pinnegar. "where are the business men here? where are the foreigners coming here for business, where's our lace-trade and our stocking-trade?" "there _are_ business men," said james. "and there are ladies." "who," retorted miss pinnegar, "is going to give half-a-crown for a tea? they expect tea and bread-and-butter for fourpence, and cake for sixpence, and apricots or pineapple for ninepence, and ham-and-tongue for a shilling, and fried ham and eggs and jam and cake as much as they can eat for one-and-two. if they expect a knife-and-fork tea for a shilling, what are you going to give them for half-a-crown?" "i know what i shall offer," said james. "and we may make it two shillings." through his mind flitted the idea of / - / --but he rejected it. "you don't realize that i'm catering for a higher class of custom--" "but there _isn't_ any higher class in woodhouse, father," said alvina, unable to restrain a laugh. "if you create a supply you create a demand," he retorted. "but how can you create a supply of better class people?" asked alvina mockingly. james took on his refined, abstracted look, as if he were preoccupied on higher planes. it was the look of an obstinate little boy who poses on the side of the angels--or so the women saw it. miss pinnegar was prepared to combat him now by sheer weight of opposition. she would pitch her dead negative will obstinately against him. she would not speak to him, she would not observe his presence, she was stone deaf and stone blind: there _was_ no james. this nettled him. and she miscalculated him. he merely took another circuit, and rose another flight higher on the spiral of his spiritual egotism. he believed himself finely and sacredly in the right, that he was frustrated by lower beings, above whom it was his duty to rise, to soar. so he soared to serene heights, and his private hotel seemed a celestial injunction, an erection on a higher plane. he saw the architect: and then, with his plans and schemes, he saw the builder and contractor. the builder gave an estimate of six or seven hundred--but james had better see the plumber and fitter who was going to instal the new hot water and sanitary system. james was a little dashed. he had calculated much less. having only a few hundred pounds in possession after throttle-ha'penny, he was prepared to mortgage manchester house if he could keep in hand a sufficent sum of money for the running of his establishment for a year. he knew he would have to sacrifice miss pinnegar's work-room. he knew, and he feared miss pinnegar's violent and unmitigated hostility. still--his obstinate spirit rose--he was quite prepared to risk everything on this last throw. miss allsop, daughter of the builder, called to see alvina. the allsops were great chapel people, and cassie allsop was one of the old maids. she was thin and nipped and wistful looking, about forty-two years old. in private, she was tyrannously exacting with the servants, and spiteful, rather mean with her motherless nieces. but in public she had this nipped, wistful look. alvina was surprised by this visit. when she found miss allsop at the back door, all her inherent hostility awoke. "oh, is it you, miss allsop! will you come in." they sat in the middle room, the common living room of the house. "i called," said miss allsop, coming to the point at once, and speaking in her sunday-school-teacher voice, "to ask you if you know about this private hotel scheme of your father's?" "yes," said alvina. "oh, you do! well, we wondered. mr. houghton came to father about the building alterations yesterday. they'll be awfully expensive." "will they?" said alvina, making big, mocking eyes. "yes, very. what do _you_ think of the scheme?" "i?--well--!" alvina hesitated, then broke into a laugh. "to tell the truth i haven't thought much about it at all." "well i think you should," said miss allsop severely. "father's sure it won't pay--and it will cost i don't know how much. it is bound to be a dead loss. and your father's getting on. you'll be left stranded in the world without a penny to bless yourself with. i think it's an awful outlook for you." "do you?" said alvina. here she was, with a bang, planked upon the shelf among the old maids. "oh, i do. sincerely! i should do all i could to prevent him, if i were you." miss allsop took her departure. alvina felt herself jolted in her mood. an old maid along with cassie allsop!--and james houghton fooling about with the last bit of money, mortgaging manchester house up to the hilt. alvina sank in a kind of weary mortification, in which _her_ peculiar obstinacy persisted devilishly and spitefully. "oh well, so be it," said her spirit vindictively. "let the meagre, mean, despicable fate fulfil itself." her old anger against her father arose again. arthur witham, the plumber, came in with james houghton to examine the house. arthur witham was also one of the chapel men--as had been his common, interfering, uneducated father before him. the father had left each of his sons a fair little sum of money, which arthur, the eldest, had already increased ten-fold. he was sly and slow and uneducated also, and spoke with a broad accent. but he was not bad-looking, a tight fellow with big blue eyes, who aspired to keep his "h's" in the right place, and would have been a gentleman if he could. against her usual habit, alvina joined the plumber and her father in the scullery. arthur witham saluted her with some respect. she liked his blue eyes and tight figure. he was keen and sly in business, very watchful, and slow to commit himself. now he poked and peered and crept under the sink. alvina watched him half disappear--she handed him a candle--and she laughed to herself seeing his tight, well-shaped hind-quarters protruding from under the sink like the wrong end of a dog from a kennel. he was keen after money, was arthur--and bossy, creeping slyly after his own self-importance and power. he wanted power--and he would creep quietly after it till he got it: as much as he was capable of. his "h's" were a barbed-wire fence and entanglement, preventing his unlimited progress. he emerged from under the sink, and they went to the kitchen and afterwards upstairs. alvina followed them persistently, but a little aloof, and silent. when the tour of inspection was almost over, she said innocently: "won't it cost a great deal?" arthur witham slowly shook his head. then he looked at her. she smiled rather archly into his eyes. "it won't be done for nothing," he said, looking at her again. "we can go into that later," said james, leading off the plumber. "good morning, miss houghton," said arthur witham. "good morning, mr. witham," replied alvina brightly. but she lingered in the background, and as arthur witham was going she heard him say: "well, i'll work it out, mr. houghton. i'll work it out, and let you know tonight. i'll get the figures by tonight." the younger man's tone was a little off-hand, just a little supercilious with her father, she thought. james's star was setting. in the afternoon, directly after dinner, alvina went out. she entered the shop, where sheets of lead and tins of paint and putty stood about, varied by sheets of glass and fancy paper. lottie witham, arthur's wife, appeared. she was a woman of thirty-five, a bit of a shrew, with social ambitions and no children. "is mr. witham in?" said alvina. mrs. witham eyed her. "i'll see," she answered, and she left the shop. presently arthur entered, in his shirt-sleeves: rather attractive-looking. "i don't know what you'll think of me, and what i've come for," said alvina, with hurried amiability. arthur lifted his blue eyes to her, and mrs. witham appeared in the background, in the inner doorway. "why, what is it?" said arthur stolidly. "make it as dear as you can, for father," said alvina, laughing nervously. arthur's blue eyes rested on her face. mrs. witham advanced into the shop. "why? what's that for?" asked lottie witham shrewdly. alvina turned to the woman. "don't say anything," she said. "but we don't want father to go on with this scheme. it's bound to fail. and miss pinnegar and i can't have anything to do with it anyway. i shall go away." "it's bound to fail," said arthur witham stolidly. "and father has no money, i'm sure," said alvina. lottie witham eyed the thin, nervous face of alvina. for some reason, she liked her. and of course, alvina was considered a lady in woodhouse. that was what it had come to, with james's declining fortunes: she was merely _considered_ a lady. the consideration was no longer indisputable. "shall you come in a minute?" said lottie witham, lifting the flap of the counter. it was a rare and bold stroke on mrs. witham's part. alvina's immediate instinct was to refuse. but she liked arthur witham, in his shirt sleeves. "well--i must be back in a minute," she said, as she entered the embrasure of the counter. she felt as if she were really venturing on new ground. she was led into the new drawing-room, done in new peacock-and-bronze brocade furniture, with gilt and brass and white walls. this was the withams' new house, and lottie was proud of it. the two women had a short confidential chat. arthur lingered in the doorway a while, then went away. alvina did not really like lottie witham. yet the other woman was sharp and shrewd in the uptake, and for some reason she fancied alvina. so she was invited to tea at manchester house. after this, so many difficulties rose up in james houghton's way that he was worried almost out of his life. his two women left him alone. outside difficulties multiplied on him till he abandoned his scheme--he was simply driven out of it by untoward circumstances. lottie witham came to tea, and was shown over manchester house. she had no opinion at all of manchester house--wouldn't hang a cat in such a gloomy hole. _still_, she was rather impressed by the sense of superiority. "oh my goodness!" she exclaimed as she stood in alvina's bedroom, and looked at the enormous furniture, the lofty tableland of the bed. "oh my goodness! i wouldn't sleep in _that_ for a trifle, by myself! aren't you frightened out of your life? even if i had arthur at one side of me, i should be that frightened on the other side i shouldn't know what to do. do you sleep here by yourself?" "yes," said alvina laughing. "i haven't got an arthur, even for one side." "oh, my word, you'd want a husband on both sides, in that bed," said lottie witham. alvina was asked back to tea--on wednesday afternoon, closing day. arthur was there to tea--very ill at ease and feeling as if his hands were swollen. alvina got on better with his wife, who watched closely to learn from her guest the secret of repose. the indefinable repose and inevitability of a lady--even of a lady who is nervous and agitated--this was the problem which occupied lottie's shrewd and active, but lower-class mind. she even did not resent alvina's laughing attempts to draw out the clumsy arthur: because alvina was a lady, and her tactics must be studied. alvina really liked arthur, and thought a good deal about him--heaven knows why. he and lottie were quite happy together, and he was absorbed in his petty ambitions. in his limited way, he was invincibly ambitious. he would end by making a sufficient fortune, and by being a town councillor and a j.p. but beyond woodhouse he did not exist. why then should alvina be attracted by him? perhaps because of his "closeness," and his secret determinedness. when she met him in the street she would stop him--though he was always busy--and make him exchange a few words with her. and when she had tea at his house, she would try to rouse his attention. but though he looked at her, steadily, with his blue eyes, from under his long lashes, still, she knew, he looked at her objectively. he never conceived any connection with her whatsoever. it was lottie who had a scheming mind. in the family of three brothers there was one--not black sheep, but white. there was one who was climbing out, to be a gentleman. this was albert, the second brother. he had been a school-teacher in woodhouse: had gone out to south africa and occupied a post in a sort of grammar school in one of the cities of cape colony. he had accumulated some money, to add to his patrimony. now he was in england, at oxford, where he would take his belated degree. when he had got his degree, he would return to south africa to become head of his school, at seven hundred a year. albert was thirty-two years old, and unmarried. lottie was determined he should take back to the cape a suitable wife: presumably alvina. he spent his vacations in woodhouse--and he was only in his first year at oxford. well now, what could be more suitable--a young man at oxford, a young lady in woodhouse. lottie told alvina all about him, and alvina was quite excited to meet him. she imagined him a taller, more fascinating, educated arthur. for the fear of being an old maid, the fear of her own virginity was really gaining on alvina. there was a terrible sombre futility, nothingness, in manchester house. she was twenty-six years old. her life was utterly barren now miss frost had gone. she was shabby and penniless, a mere household drudge: for james begrudged even a girl to help in the kitchen. she was looking faded and worn. panic, the terrible and deadly panic which overcomes so many unmarried women at about the age of thirty, was beginning to overcome her. she would not care about marriage, if even she had a lover. but some sort of _terror_ hunted her to the search of a lover. she would become loose, she would become a prostitute, she said to herself, rather than die off like cassie allsop and the rest, wither slowly and ignominiously and hideously on the tree. she would rather kill herself. but it needs a certain natural gift to become a loose woman or a prostitute. if you haven't got the qualities which attract loose men, what are you to do? supposing it isn't in your nature to attract loose and promiscuous men! why, then you can't be a prostitute, if you try your head off: nor even a loose woman. since _willing_ won't do it. it requires a second party to come to an agreement. therefore all alvina's desperate and profligate schemes and ideas fell to nought before the inexorable in her nature. and the inexorable in her nature was highly exclusive and selective, an inevitable negation of looseness or prostitution. hence men were afraid of her--of her power, once they had committed themselves. she would involve and lead a man on, she would destroy him rather than not get of him what she wanted. and what she wanted was something serious and risky. not mere marriage--oh dear no! but a profound and dangerous inter-relationship. as well ask the paddlers in the small surf of passion to plunge themselves into the heaving gulf of mid-ocean. bah, with their trousers turned up to their knees it was enough for them to wet their toes in the dangerous sea. they were having nothing to do with such desperate nereids as alvina. she had cast her mind on arthur. truly ridiculous. but there was something compact and energetic and wilful about him that she magnified ten-fold and so obtained, imaginatively, an attractive lover. she brooded her days shabbily away in manchester house, busy with housework drudgery. since the collapse of throttle-ha'penny, james houghton had become so stingy that it was like an inflammation in him. a silver sixpence had a pale and celestial radiance which he could not forego, a nebulous whiteness which made him feel he had heaven in his hold. how then could he let it go. even a brown penny seemed alive and pulsing with mysterious blood, potent, magical. he loved the flock of his busy pennies, in the shop, as if they had been divine bees bringing him sustenance from the infinite. but the pennies he saw dribbling away in household expenses troubled him acutely, as if they were live things leaving his fold. it was a constant struggle to get from him enough money for necessities. and so the household diet became meagre in the extreme, the coal was eked out inch by inch, and when alvina must have her boots mended she must draw on her own little stock of money. for james houghton had the impudence to make her an allowance of two shillings a week. she was very angry. yet her anger was of that dangerous, half-ironical sort which wears away its subject and has no outward effect. a feeling of half-bitter mockery kept her going. in the ponderous, rather sordid nullity of manchester house she became shadowy and absorbed, absorbed in nothing in particular, yet absorbed. she was always more or less busy: and certainly there was always something to be done, whether she did it or not. the shop was opened once a week, on friday evenings. james houghton prowled round the warehouses in knarborough and picked up job lots of stuff, with which he replenished his shabby window. but his heart was not in the business. mere tenacity made him hover on with it. in midsummer albert witham came to woodhouse, and alvina was invited to tea. she was very much excited. all the time imagining albert a taller, finer arthur, she had abstained from actually fixing her mind upon this latter little man. picture her disappointment when she found albert quite unattractive. he was tall and thin and brittle, with a pale, rather dry, flattish face, and with curious pale eyes. his impression was one of uncanny flatness, something like a lemon sole. curiously flat and fish-like he was, one might have imagined his backbone to be spread like the backbone of a sole or a plaice. his teeth were sound, but rather large and yellowish and flat. a most curious person. he spoke in a slightly mouthing way, not well bred in spite of oxford. there was a distinct woodhouse twang. he would never be a gentleman if he lived for ever. yet he was not ordinary. really an odd fish: quite interesting, if one could get over the feeling that one was looking at him through the glass wall of an aquarium: that most horrifying of all boundaries between two worlds. in an aquarium fish seem to come smiling broadly to the doorway, and there to stand talking to one, in a mouthing fashion, awful to behold. for one hears no sound from all their mouthing and staring conversation. now although albert witham had a good strong voice, which rang like water among rocks in her ear, still she seemed never to hear a word he was saying. he smiled down at her and fixed her and swayed his head, and said quite original things, really. for he was a genuine odd fish. and yet she seemed to hear no sound, no word from him: nothing came to her. perhaps as a matter of fact fish do actually pronounce streams of watery words, to which we, with our aerial-resonant ears, are deaf for ever. the odd thing was that this odd fish seemed from the very first to imagine she had accepted him as a follower. and he was quite prepared to follow. nay, from the very first moment he was smiling on her with a sort of complacent delight--compassionate, one might almost say--as if there was a full understanding between them. if only she could have got into the right state of mind, she would really rather have liked him. he smiled at her, and said really interesting things between his big teeth. there was something rather nice about him. but, we must repeat, it was as if the glass wall of an aquarium divided them. alvina looked at arthur. arthur was short and dark-haired and nicely coloured. but, now his brother was there, he too seemed to have a dumb, aqueous silence, fish-like and aloof, about him. he seemed to swim like a fish in his own little element. strange it all was, like alice in wonderland. alvina understood now lottie's strained sort of thinness, a haggard, sinewy, sea-weedy look. the poor thing was all the time swimming for her life. for alvina it was a most curious tea-party. she listened and smiled and made vague answers to albert, who leaned his broad, thin, brittle shoulders towards her. lottie seemed rather shadowily to preside. but it was arthur who came out into communication. and now, uttering his rather broad-mouthed speeches, she seemed to hear in him a quieter, subtler edition of his father. his father had been a little, terrifically loud-voiced, hard-skinned man, amazingly uneducated and amazingly bullying, who had tyrannized for many years over the sunday school children during morning service. he had been an odd-looking creature with round grey whiskers: to alvina, always a creature, never a man: an atrocious leprechaun from under the chapel floor. and how he used to dig the children in the back with his horrible iron thumb, if the poor things happened to whisper or nod in chapel! these were his children--most curious chips of the old block. who ever would have believed she would have been taking tea with them. "why don't you have a bicycle, and go out on it?" arthur was saying. "but i can't ride," said alvina. "you'd learn in a couple of lessons. there's nothing in riding a bicycle." "i don't believe i ever should," laughed alvina. "you don't mean to say you're nervous?" said arthur rudely and sneeringly. "i _am_," she persisted. "you needn't be nervous with me," smiled albert broadly, with his odd, genuine gallantry. "i'll hold you on." "but i haven't got a bicycle," said alvina, feeling she was slowly colouring to a deep, uneasy blush. "you can have mine to learn on," said lottie. "albert will look after it." "there's your chance," said arthur rudely. "take it while you've got it." now alvina did not want to learn to ride a bicycle. the two miss carlins, two more old maids, had made themselves ridiculous for ever by becoming twin cycle fiends. and the horrible energetic strain of peddling a bicycle over miles and miles of high-way did not attract alvina at all. she was completely indifferent to sight-seeing and scouring about. she liked taking a walk, in her lingering indifferent fashion. but rushing about in any way was hateful to her. and then, to be taught to ride a bicycle by albert witham! her very soul stood still. "yes," said albert, beaming down at her from his strange pale eyes. "come on. when will you have your first lesson?" "oh," cried alvina in confusion. "i can't promise. i haven't time, really." "time!" exclaimed arthur rudely. "but what do you do wi' yourself all day?" "i have to keep house," she said, looking at him archly. "house! you can put a chain round its neck, and tie it up," he retorted. albert laughed, showing all his teeth. "i'm sure you find plenty to do, with everything on your hands," said lottie to alvina. "i do!" said alvina. "by evening i'm quite tired--though you mayn't believe it, since you say i do nothing," she added, laughing confusedly to arthur. but he, hard-headed little fortune-maker, replied: "you have a girl to help you, don't you!" albert, however, was beaming at her sympathetically. "you have too much to do indoors," he said. "it would do you good to get a bit of exercise out of doors. come down to the coach road tomorrow afternoon, and let me give you a lesson. go on--" now the coach-road was a level drive between beautiful park-like grass-stretches, down in the valley. it was a delightful place for learning to ride a bicycle, but open in full view of all the world. alvina would have died of shame. she began to laugh nervously and hurriedly at the very thought. "no, i can't. i really can't. thanks, awfully," she said. "can't you really!" said albert. "oh well, we'll say another day, shall we?" "when i feel i can," she said. "yes, when you feel like it," replied albert. "that's more it," said arthur. "it's not the time. it's the nervousness." again albert beamed at her sympathetically, and said: "oh, i'll hold you. you needn't be afraid." "but i'm not afraid," she said. "you won't _say_ you are," interposed arthur. "women's faults mustn't be owned up to." alvina was beginning to feel quite dazed. their mechanical, overbearing way was something she was unaccustomed to. it was like the jaws of a pair of insentient iron pincers. she rose, saying she must go. albert rose also, and reached for his straw hat, with its coloured band. "i'll stroll up with you, if you don't mind," he said. and he took his place at her side along the knarborough road, where everybody turned to look. for, of course, he had a sort of fame in woodhouse. she went with him laughing and chatting. but she did not feel at all comfortable. he seemed so pleased. only he was not pleased with _her_. he was pleased with himself on her account: inordinately pleased with himself. in his world, as in a fish's, there was but his own swimming self: and if he chanced to have something swimming alongside and doing him credit, why, so much the more complacently he smiled. he walked stiff and erect, with his head pressed rather back, so that he always seemed to be advancing from the head and shoulders, in a flat kind of advance, horizontal. he did not seem to be walking with his whole body. his manner was oddly gallant, with a gallantry that completely missed the individual in the woman, circled round her and flew home gratified to his own hive. the way he raised his hat, the way he inclined and smiled flatly, even rather excitedly, as he talked, was all a little discomforting and comical. he left her at the shop door, saying: "i shall see you again, i hope." "oh, yes," she replied, rattling the door anxiously, for it was locked. she heard her father's step at last tripping down the shop. "good-evening, mr. houghton," said albert suavely and with a certain confidence, as james peered out. "oh, good-evening!" said james, letting alvina pass, and shutting the door in albert's face. "who was that?" he asked her sharply. "albert witham," she replied. "what has _he_ got to do with you?" said james shrewishly. "nothing, i hope." she fled into the obscurity of manchester house, out of the grey summer evening. the withams threw her off her pivot, and made her feel she was not herself. she felt she didn't know, she couldn't feel, she was just scattered and decentralized. and she was rather afraid of the witham brothers. she might be their victim. she intended to avoid them. the following days she saw albert, in his norfolk jacket and flannel trousers and his straw hat, strolling past several times and looking in through the shop door and up at the upper windows. but she hid herself thoroughly. when she went out, it was by the back way. so she avoided him. but on sunday evening, there he sat, rather stiff and brittle in the old withams' pew, his head pressed a little back, so that his face and neck seemed slightly flattened. he wore very low, turn-down starched collars that showed all his neck. and he kept looking up at her during the service--she sat in the choir-loft--gazing up at her with apparently love-lorn eyes and a faint, intimate smile--the sort of _je-sais-tout_ look of a private swain. arthur also occasionally cast a judicious eye on her, as if she were a chimney that needed repairing, and he must estimate the cost, and whether it was worth it. sure enough, as she came out through the narrow choir gate into knarborough road, there was albert stepping forward like a policeman, and saluting her and smiling down on her. "i don't know if i'm presuming--" he said, in a mock deferential way that showed he didn't imagine he _could_ presume. "oh, not at all," said alvina airily. he smiled with assurance. "you haven't got any engagement, then, for this evening?" he said. "no," she replied simply. "we might take a walk. what do you think?" he said, glancing down the road in either direction. what, after all, was she to think? all the girls were pairing off with the boys for the after-chapel stroll and spoon. "i don't mind," she said. "but i can't go far. i've got to be in at nine." "which way shall we go?" he said. he steered off, turned downhill through the common gardens, and proposed to take her the not-very-original walk up flint's lane, and along the railway line--the colliery railway, that is--then back up the marlpool road: a sort of circle. she agreed. they did not find a great deal to talk about. she questioned him about his plans, and about the cape. but save for bare outlines, which he gave readily enough, he was rather close. "what do you do on sunday nights as a rule?" he asked her. "oh, i have a walk with lucy grainger--or i go down to hallam's--or go home," she answered. "you don't go walks with the fellows, then?" "father would never have it," she replied. "what will he say now?" he asked, with self-satisfaction. "goodness knows!" she laughed. "goodness usually does," he answered archly. when they came to the rather stumbly railway, he said: "won't you take my arm?"--offering her the said member. "oh, i'm all right," she said. "thanks." "go on," he said, pressing a little nearer to her, and offering his arm. "there's nothing against it, is there?" "oh, it's not that," she said. and feeling in a false position, she took his arm, rather unwillingly. he drew a little nearer to her, and walked with a slight prance. "we get on better, don't we?" he said, giving her hand the tiniest squeeze with his arm against his side. "much!" she replied, with a laugh. then he lowered his voice oddly. "it's many a day since i was on this railroad," he said. "is this one of your old walks?" she asked, malicious. "yes, i've been it once or twice--with girls that are all married now." "didn't you want to marry?" she asked. "oh, i don't know. i may have done. but it never came off, somehow. i've sometimes thought it never would come off." "why?" "i don't know, exactly. it didn't seem to, you know. perhaps neither of us was properly inclined." "i should think so," she said. "and yet," he admitted slyly, "i should _like_ to marry--" to this she did not answer. "shouldn't you?" he continued. "when i meet the right man," she laughed. "that's it," he said. "there, that's just it! and you _haven't_ met him?" his voice seemed smiling with a sort of triumph, as if he had caught her out. "well--once i thought i had--when i was engaged to alexander." "but you found you were mistaken?" he insisted. "no. mother was so ill at the time--" "there's always something to consider," he said. she kept on wondering what she should do if he wanted to kiss her. the mere incongruity of such a desire on his part formed a problem. luckily, for this evening he formulated no desire, but left her in the shop-door soon after nine, with the request: "i shall see you in the week, shan't i?" "i'm not sure. i can't promise now," she said hurriedly. "good-night." what she felt chiefly about him was a decentralized perplexity, very much akin to no feeling at all. "who do you think took me for a walk, miss pinnegar?" she said, laughing, to her confidante. "i can't imagine," replied miss pinnegar, eyeing her. "you never would imagine," said alvina. "albert witham." "albert witham!" exclaimed miss pinnegar, standing quite motionless. "it may well take your breath away," said alvina. "no, it's not that!" hurriedly expostulated miss pinnegar. "well--! well, i declare!--" and then, on a new note: "well, he's very eligible, i think." "most eligible!" replied alvina. "yes, he is," insisted miss pinnegar. "i think it's very good." "what's very good?" asked alvina. miss pinnegar hesitated. she looked at alvina. she reconsidered. "of course he's not the man i should have imagined for you, but--" "you think he'll do?" said alvina. "why not?" said miss pinnegar. "why shouldn't he do--if you like him." "ah--!" cried alvina, sinking on the sofa with a laugh. "that's it." "of course you couldn't have anything to do with him if you don't care for him," pronounced miss pinnegar. albert continued to hang around. he did not make any direct attack for a few days. suddenly one evening he appeared at the back door with a bunch of white stocks in his hand. his face lit up with a sudden, odd smile when she opened the door--a broad, pale-gleaming, remarkable smile. "lottie wanted to know if you'd come to tea tomorrow," he said straight out, looking at her with the pale light in his eyes, that smiled palely right into her eyes, but did not see her at all. he was waiting on the doorstep to come in. "will you come in?" said alvina. "father is in." "yes, i don't mind," he said, pleased. he mounted the steps, still holding his bunch of white stocks. james houghton screwed round in his chair and peered over his spectacles to see who was coming. "father," said alvina, "you know mr. witham, don't you?" james houghton half rose. he still peered over his glasses at the intruder. "well--i do by sight. how do you do?" he held out his frail hand. albert held back, with the flowers in his own hand, and giving his broad, pleased, pale-gleaming smile from father to daughter, he said: "what am i to do with these? will you accept them, miss houghton?" he stared at her with shining, pallid smiling eyes. "are they for me?" she said, with false brightness. "thank you." james houghton looked over the top of his spectacles, searchingly, at the flowers, as if they had been a bunch of white and sharp-toothed ferrets. then he looked as suspiciously at the hand which albert at last extended to him. he shook it slightly, and said: "take a seat." "i'm afraid i'm disturbing you in your reading," said albert, still having the drawn, excited smile on his face. "well--" said james houghton. "the light is fading." alvina came in with the flowers in a jar. she set them on the table. "haven't they a lovely scent?" she said. "do you think so?" he replied, again with the excited smile. there was a pause. albert, rather embarrassed, reached forward, saying: "may i see what you're reading!" and he turned over the book. "'tommy and grizel!' oh yes! what do you think of it?" "well," said james, "i am only in the beginning." "i think it's interesting, myself," said albert, "as a study of a man who can't get away from himself. you meet a lot of people like that. what i wonder is why they find it such a drawback." "find what a drawback?" asked james. "not being able to get away from themselves. that self-consciousness. it hampers them, and interferes with their power of action. now i wonder why self-consciousness should hinder a man in his action? why does it cause misgiving? i think i'm self-conscious, but i don't think i have so many misgivings. i don't see that they're necessary." "certainly i think tommy is a weak character. i believe he's a despicable character," said james. "no, i don't know so much about that," said albert. "i shouldn't say weak, exactly. he's only weak in one direction. no, what i wonder is why he feels guilty. if you feel self-conscious, there's no need to feel guilty about it, is there?" he stared with his strange, smiling stare at james. "i shouldn't say so," replied james. "but if a man never knows his own mind, he certainly can't be much of a man." "i don't see it," replied albert. "what's the matter is that he feels guilty for not knowing his own mind. that's the unnecessary part. the guilty feeling--" albert seemed insistent on this point, which had no particular interest for james. "where we've got to make a change," said albert, "is in the feeling that other people have a right to tell us what we ought to feel and do. nobody knows what another man ought to feel. every man has his own special feelings, and his own right to them. that's where it is with education. you ought not to want all your children to feel alike. their natures are all different, and so they should all feel different, about practically everything." "there would be no end to the confusion," said james. "there needn't be any confusion to speak of. you agree to a number of rules and conventions and laws, for social purposes. but in private you feel just as you do feel, without occasion for trying to feel something else." "i don't know," said james. "there are certain feelings common to humanity, such as love, and honour, and truth." "would you call them feelings?" said albert. "i should say what is common is the idea. the idea is common to humanity, once you've put it into words. but the feeling varies with every man. the same idea represents a different kind of feeling in every different individual. it seems to me that's what we've got to recognize if we're going to do anything with education. we don't want to produce mass feelings. don't you agree?" poor james was too bewildered to know whether to agree or not to agree. "shall we have a light, alvina?" he said to his daughter. alvina lit the incandescent gas-jet that hung in the middle of the room. the hard white light showed her somewhat haggard-looking as she reached up to it. but albert watched her, smiling abstractedly. it seemed as if his words came off him without affecting him at all. he did not think about what he was feeling, and he did not feel what he was thinking about. and therefore she hardly heard what he said. yet she believed he was clever. it was evident albert was quite blissfully happy, in his own way, sitting there at the end of the sofa not far from the fire, and talking animatedly. the uncomfortable thing was that though he talked in the direction of his interlocutor, he did not speak _to_ him: merely said his words towards him. james, however, was such an airy feather himself he did not remark this, but only felt a little self-important at sustaining such a subtle conversation with a man from oxford. alvina, who never expected to be interested in clever conversations, after a long experience of her father, found her expectation justified again. she was not interested. the man was quite nicely dressed, in the regulation tweed jacket and flannel trousers and brown shoes. he was even rather smart, judging from his yellow socks and yellow-and-brown tie. miss pinnegar eyed him with approval when she came in. "good-evening!" she said, just a trifle condescendingly, as she shook hands. "how do you find woodhouse, after being away so long?" her way of speaking was so quiet, as if she hardly spoke aloud. "well," he answered. "i find it the same in many ways." "you wouldn't like to settle here again?" "i don't think i should. it feels a little cramped, you know, after a new country. but it has its attractions." here he smiled meaningful. "yes," said miss pinnegar. "i suppose the old connections count for something." "they do. oh decidedly they do. there's no associations like the old ones." he smiled flatly as he looked towards alvina. "you find it so, do you!" returned miss pinnegar. "you don't find that the new connections make up for the old?" "not altogether, they don't. there's something missing--" again he looked towards alvina. but she did not answer his look. "well," said miss pinnegar. "i'm glad we still count for something, in spite of the greater attractions. how long have you in england?" "another year. just a year. this time next year i expect i shall be sailing back to the cape." he smiled as if in anticipation. yet it was hard to believe that it mattered to him--or that anything mattered. "and is oxford agreeable to you?" she asked. "oh, yes. i keep myself busy." "what are your subjects?" asked james. "english and history. but i do mental science for my own interest." alvina had taken up a piece of sewing. she sat under the light, brooding a little. what _had_ all this to do with her. the man talked on, and beamed in her direction. and she felt a little important. but moved or touched?--not the least in the world. she wondered if any one would ask him to supper--bread and cheese and currant-loaf, and water, was all that offered. no one asked him, and at last he rose. "show mr. witham out through the shop, alvina," said miss pinnegar. alvina piloted the man through the long, dark, encumbered way of the shop. at the door he said: "you've never said whether you're coming to tea on thursday." "i don't think i can," said alvina. he seemed rather taken aback. "why?" he said. "what stops you?" "i've so much to do." he smiled slowly and satirically. "won't it keep?" he said. "no, really. i can't come on thursday--thank you so much. good-night!" she gave him her hand and turned quickly into the shop, closing the door. he remained standing in the porch, staring at the closed door. then, lifting his lip, he turned away. "well," said miss pinnegar decidedly, as alvina re-entered. "you can say what you like--but i think he's _very pleasant_, _very_ pleasant." "extremely intelligent," said james houghton, shifting in his chair. "i was awfully bored," said alvina. they both looked at her, irritated. after this she really did what she could to avoid him. when she saw him sauntering down the street in all his leisure, a sort of anger possessed her. on sunday, she slipped down from the choir into the chapel, and out through the main entrance, whilst he awaited her at the small exit. and by good luck, when he called one evening in the week, she was out. she returned down the yard. and there, through the uncurtained window, she saw him sitting awaiting her. without a thought, she turned on her heel and fled away. she did not come in till he had gone. "how late you are!" said miss pinnegar. "mr. witham was here till ten minutes ago." "yes," laughed alvina. "i came down the yard and saw him. so i went back till he'd gone." miss pinnegar looked at her in displeasure: "i suppose you know your own mind," she said. "how do you explain such behaviour?" said her father pettishly. "i didn't want to meet him," she said. the next evening was saturday. alvina had inherited miss frost's task of attending to the chapel flowers once a quarter. she had been round the gardens of her friends, and gathered the scarlet and hot yellow and purple flowers of august, asters, red stocks, tall japanese sunflowers, coreopsis, geraniums. with these in her basket she slipped out towards evening, to the chapel. she knew mr. calladine, the caretaker would not lock up till she had been. the moment she got inside the chapel--it was a big, airy, pleasant building--she heard hammering from the organ-loft, and saw the flicker of a candle. some workman busy before sunday. she shut the baize door behind her, and hurried across to the vestry, for vases, then out to the tap, for water. all was warm and still. it was full early evening. the yellow light streamed through the side windows, the big stained-glass window at the end was deep and full of glowing colour, in which the yellows and reds were richest. above in the organ-loft the hammering continued. she arranged her flowers in many vases, till the communion table was like the window, a tangle of strong yellow, and crimson, and purple, and bronze-green. she tried to keep the effect light and kaleidoscopic, an interplay of tossed pieces of strong, hot colour, vibrating and lightly intermingled. it was very gorgeous, for a communion table. but the day of white lilies was over. suddenly there was a terrific crash and bang and tumble, up in the organ-loft, followed by a cursing. "are you hurt?" called alvina, looking up into space. the candle had disappeared. but there was no reply. feeling curious, she went out of the chapel to the stairs in the side porch, and ran up to the organ. she went round the side--and there she saw a man in his shirt-sleeves sitting crouched in the obscurity on the floor between the organ and the wall of the back, while a collapsed pair of steps lay between her and him. it was too dark to see who it was. "that rotten pair of steps came down with me," said the infuriated voice of arthur witham, "and about broke my leg." alvina advanced towards him, picking her way over the steps. he was sitting nursing his leg. "is it bad?" she asked, stooping towards him. in the shadow he lifted up his face. it was pale, and his eyes were savage with anger. her face was near his. "it is bad," he said furious because of the shock. the shock had thrown him off his balance. "let me see," she said. he removed his hands from clasping his shin, some distance above the ankle. she put her fingers over the bone, over his stocking, to feel if there was any fracture. immediately her fingers were wet with blood. then he did a curious thing. with both his hands he pressed her hand down over his wounded leg, pressed it with all his might, as if her hand were a plaster. for some moments he sat pressing her hand over his broken shin, completely oblivious, as some people are when they have had a shock and a hurt, intense on one point of consciousness only, and for the rest unconscious. then he began to come to himself. the pain modified itself. he could not bear the sudden acute hurt to his shin. that was one of his sensitive, unbearable parts. "the bone isn't broken," she said professionally. "but you'd better get the stocking out of it." without a thought, he pulled his trouser-leg higher and rolled down his stocking, extremely gingerly, and sick with pain. "can you show a light?" he said. she found the candle. and she knew where matches always rested, on a little ledge of the organ. so she brought him a light, whilst he examined his broken shin. the blood was flowing, but not so much. it was a nasty cut bruise, swelling and looking very painful. he sat looking at it absorbedly, bent over it in the candle-light. "it's not so very bad, when the pain goes off," she said, noticing the black hairs of his shin. "we'd better tie it up. have you got a handkerchief?" "it's in my jacket," he said. she looked round for his jacket. he annoyed her a little, by being completely oblivious of her. she got his handkerchief and wiped her fingers on it. then of her own kerchief she made a pad for the wound. "shall i tie it up, then?" she said. but he did not answer. he sat still nursing his leg, looking at his hurt, while the blood slowly trickled down the wet hairs towards his ankle. there was nothing to do but wait for him. "shall i tie it up, then?" she repeated at length, a little impatient. so he put his leg a little forward. she looked at the wound, and wiped it a little. then she folded the pad of her own handkerchief, and laid it over the hurt. and again he did the same thing, he took her hand as if it were a plaster, and applied it to his wound, pressing it cautiously but firmly down. she was rather angry. he took no notice of her at all. and she, waiting, seemed to go into a dream, a sleep, her arm trembled a little, stretched out and fixed. she seemed to lose count, under the firm compression he imposed on her. it was as if the pressure on her hand pressed her into oblivion. "tie it up," he said briskly. and she, obedient, began to tie the bandage with numb fingers. he seemed to have taken the use out of her. when she had finished, he scrambled to his feet, looked at the organ which he was repairing, and looked at the collapsed pair of steps. "a rotten pair of things to have, to put a man's life in danger," he said, towards the steps. then stubbornly, he rigged them up again, and stared again at his interrupted job. "you won't go on, will you?" she asked. "it's got to be done, sunday tomorrow," he said. "if you'd hold them steps a minute! there isn't more than a minute's fixing to do. it's all done, but fixing." "hadn't you better leave it," she said. "would you mind holding the steps, so that they don't let me down again," he said. then he took the candle, and hobbled stubbornly and angrily up again, with spanner and hammer. for some minutes he worked, tapping and readjusting, whilst she held the ricketty steps and stared at him from below, the shapeless bulk of his trousers. strange the difference--she could not help thinking it--between the vulnerable hairy, and somehow childish leg of the real man, and the shapeless form of these workmen's trousers. the kernel, the man himself--seemed so tender--the covering so stiff and insentient. and was he not going to speak to her--not one human word of recognition? men are the most curious and unreal creatures. after all he had made use of her. think how he had pressed her hand gently but firmly down, down over his bruise, how he had taken the virtue out of her, till she felt all weak and dim. and after that was he going to relapse into his tough and ugly workman's hide, and treat her as if _she_ were a pair of steps, which might let him down or hold him up, as might be. as she stood clinging to the steps she felt weak and a little hysterical. she wanted to summon her strength, to have her own back from him. after all he had taken the virtue from her, he might have the grace to say thank you, and treat her as if she were a human being. at last he left off tinkering, and looked round. "have you finished?" she said. "yes," he answered crossly. and taking the candle he began to clamber down. when he got to the bottom he crouched over his leg and felt the bandage. "that gives you what for," he said, as if it were her fault. "is the bandage holding?" she said. "i think so," he answered churlishly. "aren't you going to make sure?" she said. "oh, it's all right," he said, turning aside and taking up his tools. "i'll make my way home." "so will i," she answered. she took the candle and went a little in front. he hurried into his coat and gathered his tools, anxious to get away. she faced him, holding the candle. "look at my hand," she said, holding it out. it was smeared with blood, as was the cuff of her dress--a black-and-white striped cotton dress. "is it hurt?" he said. "no, but look at it. look here!" she showed the bloodstains on her dress. "it'll wash out," he said, frightened of her. "yes, so it will. but for the present it's there. don't you think you ought to thank me?" he recoiled a little. "yes," he said. "i'm very much obliged." "you ought to be more than that," she said. he did not answer, but looked her up and down. "we'll be going down," he said. "we s'll have folks talking." suddenly she began to laugh. it seemed so comical. what a position! the candle shook as she laughed. what a man, answering her like a little automaton! seriously, quite seriously he said it to her--"we s'll have folks talking!" she laughed in a breathless, hurried way, as they tramped downstairs. at the bottom of the stairs calladine, the caretaker, met them. he was a tall thin man with a black moustache--about fifty years old. "have you done for tonight, all of you?" he said, grinning in echo to alvina's still fluttering laughter. "that's a nice rotten pair of steps you've got up there for a death-trap," said arthur angrily. "come down on top of me, and i'm lucky i haven't got my leg broken. it _is_ near enough." "come down with you, did they?" said calladine good-humouredly. "i never knowed 'em come down wi' me." "you ought to, then. my leg's as near broke as it can be." "what, have you hurt yourself?" "i should think i have. look here--" and he began to pull up his trouser leg. but alvina had given the candle to calladine, and fled. she had a last view of arthur stooping over his precious leg, while calladine stooped his length and held down the candle. when she got home she took off her dress and washed herself hard and washed the stained sleeve, thoroughly, thoroughly, and threw away the wash water and rinsed the wash-bowls with fresh water, scrupulously. then she dressed herself in her black dress once more, did her hair, and went downstairs. but she could not sew--and she could not settle down. it was saturday evening, and her father had opened the shop, miss pinnegar had gone to knarborough. she would be back at nine o'clock. alvina set about to make a mock woodcock, or a mock something or other, with cheese and an egg and bits of toast. her eyes were dilated and as if amused, mocking, her face quivered a little with irony that was not all enjoyable. "i'm glad you've come," said alvina, as miss pinnegar entered. "the supper's just done. i'll ask father if he'll close the shop." of course james would not close the shop, though he was merely wasting light. he nipped in to eat his supper, and started out again with a mouthful the moment he heard the ping of the bell. he kept his customers chatting as long as he could. his love for conversation had degenerated into a spasmodic passion for chatter. alvina looked across at miss pinnegar, as the two sat at the meagre supper-table. her eyes were dilated and arched with a mocking, almost satanic look. "i've made up my mind about albert witham," said alvina. miss pinnegar looked at her. "which way?" she asked, demurely, but a little sharp. "it's all off," said alvina, breaking into a nervous laugh. "why? what has happened?" "nothing has happened. i can't stand him." "why?--suddenly--" said miss pinnegar. "it's not sudden," laughed alvina. "not at all. i can't stand him. i never could. and i won't try. there! isn't that plain?" and she went off into her hurried laugh, partly at herself, partly at arthur, partly at albert, partly at miss pinnegar. "oh, well, if you're so sure--" said miss pinnegar rather bitingly. "i _am_ quite sure--" said alvina. "i'm quite certain." "cock-sure people are often most mistaken," said miss pinnegar. "i'd rather have my own mistakes than somebody else's rights," said alvina. "then don't expect anybody to pay for your mistakes," said miss pinnegar. "it would be all the same if i did," said alvina. when she lay in bed, she stared at the light of the street-lamp on the wall. she was thinking busily: but heaven knows what she was thinking. she had sharpened the edge of her temper. she was waiting till tomorrow. she was waiting till she saw albert witham. she wanted to finish off with him. she was keen to cut clean through any correspondence with him. she stared for many hours at the light of the street-lamp, and there was a narrowed look in her eyes. the next day she did not go to morning service, but stayed at home to cook the dinner. in the evening she sat in her place in the choir. in the withams' pew sat lottie and albert--no arthur. albert kept glancing up. alvina could not bear the sight of him--she simply could not bear the sight of him. yet in her low, sweet voice she sang the alto to the hymns, right to the vesper: "lord keep us safe this night secure from all our fears, may angels guard us while we sleep till morning light appears--" as she sang her alto, and as the soft and emotional harmony of the vesper swelled luxuriously through the chapel, she was peeping over her folded hands at lottie's hat. she could not bear lottie's hats. there was something aggressive and vulgar about them. and she simply detested the look of the back of albert's head, as he too stooped to the vesper prayer. it looked mean and rather common. she remembered arthur had the same look, bending to prayer. there!--why had she not seen it before! that petty, vulgar little look! how could she have thought twice of arthur. she had made a fool of herself, as usual. him and his little leg. she grimaced round the chapel, waiting for people to bob up their heads and take their departure. at the gate albert was waiting for her. he came forward lifting his hat with a smiling and familiar "good evening!" "good evening," she murmured. "it's ages since i've seen you," he said. "and i've looked out for you everywhere." it was raining a little. she put up her umbrella. "you'll take a little stroll. the rain isn't much," he said. "no, thank you," she said. "i must go home." "why, what's your hurry! walk as far as beeby bridge. go on." "no, thank you." "how's that? what makes you refuse?" "i don't want to." he paused and looked down at her. the cold and supercilious look of anger, a little spiteful, came into his face. "do you mean because of the rain?" he said. "no. i hope you don't mind. but i don't want to take any more walks. i don't mean anything by them." "oh, as for that," he said, taking the words out of her mouth. "why should you mean anything by them!" he smiled down on her. she looked him straight in the face. "but i'd rather not take any more walks, thank you--none at all," she said, looking him full in the eyes. "you wouldn't!" he replied, stiffening. "yes. i'm quite sure," she said. "as sure as all that, are you!" he said, with a sneering grimace. he stood eyeing her insolently up and down. "good-night," she said. his sneering made her furious. putting her umbrella between him and her, she walked off. "good-night then," he replied, unseen by her. but his voice was sneering and impotent. she went home quivering. but her soul was burning with satisfaction. she had shaken them off. later she wondered if she had been unkind to him. but it was done--and done for ever. _vogue la galère._ chapter vi houghton's last endeavour the trouble with her ship was that it would _not_ sail. it rode water-logged in the rotting port of home. all very well to have wild, reckless moods of irony and independence, if you have to pay for them by withering dustily on the shelf. alvina fell again into humility and fear: she began to show symptoms of her mother's heart trouble. for day followed day, month followed month, season after season went by, and she grubbed away like a housemaid in manchester house, she hurried round doing the shopping, she sang in the choir on sundays, she attended the various chapel events, she went out to visit friends, and laughed and talked and played games. but all the time, what was there actually in her life? not much. she was withering towards old-maiddom. already in her twenty-eighth year, she spent her days grubbing in the house, whilst her father became an elderly, frail man still too lively in mind and spirit. miss pinnegar began to grow grey and elderly too, money became scarcer and scarcer, there was a black day ahead when her father would die and the home be broken up, and she would have to tackle life as a worker. there lay the only alternative: in work. she might slave her days away teaching the piano, as miss frost had done: she might find a subordinate post as nurse: she might sit in the cash-desk of some shop. some work of some sort would be found for her. and she would sink into the routine of her job, as did so many women, and grow old and die, chattering and fluttering. she would have what is called her independence. but, seriously faced with that treasure, and without the option of refusing it, strange how hideous she found it. work!--a job! more even than she rebelled against the withams did she rebel against a job. albert witham was distasteful to her--or rather, he was not exactly distasteful, he was chiefly incongruous. she could never get over the feeling that he was mouthing and smiling at her through the glass wall of an aquarium, he being on the watery side. whether she would ever be able to take to his strange and dishuman element, who knows? anyway it would be some sort of an adventure: better than a job. she rebelled with all her backbone against the word _job_. even the substitutes, _employment_ or _work_, were detestable, unbearable. emphatically, she did not want to work for a wage. it was too humiliating. could anything be more _infra dig_ than the performing of a set of special actions day in day out, for a life-time, in order to receive some shillings every seventh day. shameful! a condition of shame. the most vulgar, sordid and humiliating of all forms of slavery: so mechanical. far better be a slave outright, in contact with all the whims and impulses of a human being, than serve some mechanical routine of modern work. she trembled with anger, impotence, and fear. for months, the thought of albert was a torment to her. she might have married him. he would have been strange, a strange fish. but were it not better to take the strange leap, over into his element, than to condemn oneself to the routine of a job? he would have been curious and dishuman. but after all, it would have been an experience. in a way, she liked him. there was something odd and integral about him, which she liked. he was not a liar. in his own line, he was honest and direct. then he would take her to south africa: a whole new _milieu_. and perhaps she would have children. she shivered a little. no, not his children! he seemed so curiously cold-blooded. and yet, why not? why not his curious, pale, half cold-blooded children, like little fishes of her own? why not? everything was possible: and even desirable, once one could see the strangeness of it. once she could plunge through the wall of the aquarium! once she could kiss him! therefore miss pinnegar's quiet harping on the string was unbearable. "i can't understand that you disliked mr. witham so much?" said miss pinnegar. "we never can understand those things," said alvina. "i can't understand why i dislike tapioca and arrowroot--but i do." "that's different," said miss pinnegar shortly. "it's no more easy to understand," said alvina. "because there's no need to understand it," said miss pinnegar. "and is there need to understand the other?" "certainly. i can see nothing wrong with him," said miss pinnegar. alvina went away in silence. this was in the first months after she had given albert his dismissal. he was at oxford again--would not return to woodhouse till christmas. between her and the woodhouse withams there was a decided coldness. they never looked at her now--nor she at them. none the less, as christmas drew near alvina worked up her feelings. perhaps she would be reconciled to him. she would slip across and smile to him. she would take the plunge, once and for all--and kiss him and marry him and bear the little half-fishes, his children. she worked herself into quite a fever of anticipation. but when she saw him, the first evening, sitting stiff and staring flatly in front of him in chapel, staring away from everything in the world, at heaven knows what--just as fishes stare--then his dishumanness came over her again like an arrest, and arrested all her flights of fancy. he stared flatly in front of him, and flatly set a wall of oblivion between him and her. she trembled and let be. after christmas, however, she had nothing at all to think forward to. and it was then she seemed to shrink: she seemed positively to shrink. "you never spoke to mr. witham?" miss pinnegar asked. "he never spoke to me," replied alvina. "he raised his hat to me." "_you_ ought to have married him, miss pinnegar," said alvina. "he would have been right for you." and she laughed rather mockingly. "there is no need to make provision for me," said miss pinnegar. and after this, she was a long time before she forgave alvina, and was really friendly again. perhaps she would never have forgiven her if she had not found her weeping rather bitterly in her mother's abandoned sitting-room. now so far, the story of alvina is commonplace enough. it is more or less the story of thousands of girls. they all find work. it is the ordinary solution of everything. and if we were dealing with an ordinary girl we should have to carry on mildly and dully down the long years of employment; or, at the best, marriage with some dull school-teacher or office-clerk. but we protest that alvina is not ordinary. ordinary people, ordinary fates. but extraordinary people, extraordinary fates. or else no fate at all. the all-to-one-pattern modern system is too much for most extraordinary individuals. it just kills them off or throws them disused aside. there have been enough stories about ordinary people. i should think the duke of clarence must even have found malmsey nauseating, when he choked and went purple and was really asphyxiated in a butt of it. and ordinary people are no malmsey. just ordinary tap-water. and we have been drenched and deluged and so nearly drowned in perpetual floods of ordinariness, that tap-water tends to become a really hateful fluid to us. we loathe its out-of-the-tap tastelessness. we detest ordinary people. we are in peril of our lives from them: and in peril of our souls too, for they would damn us one and all to the ordinary. every individual should, by nature, have his extraordinary points. but nowadays you may look for them with a microscope, they are so worn-down by the regular machine-friction of our average and mechanical days. there was no hope for alvina in the ordinary. if help came, it would have to come from the extraordinary. hence the extreme peril of her case. hence the bitter fear and humiliation she felt as she drudged shabbily on in manchester house, hiding herself as much as possible from public view. men can suck the heady juice of exalted self-importance from the bitter weed of failure--failures are usually the most conceited of men: even as was james houghton. but to a woman, failure is another matter. for her it means failure to live, failure to establish her own life on the face of the earth. and this is humiliating, the ultimate humiliation. and so the slow years crept round, and the completed coil of each one was a further heavy, strangling noose. alvina had passed her twenty-sixth, twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth and even her twenty-ninth year. she was in her thirtieth. it ought to be a laughing matter. but it isn't. ach, schon zwanzig ach, schon zwanzig immer noch durch's leben tanz' ich jeder, jeder will mich küssen mir das leben zu versüssen. ach, schon dreissig ach, schon dreissig immer mädchen, mädchen heiss' ich. in dem zopf schon graue härchen ach, wie schnell vergehn die jährchen. ach, schon vierzig ach, schon vierzig und noch immer keiner find 'sich. im gesicht schon graue flecken ach, das muss im spiegel stecken. ach, schon fünfzig ach, schon fünfzig und noch immer keiner will 'mich; soll ich mich mit bänden zieren soll ich einen schleier führen? dann heisst's, die alte putzt sich, sie ist fu'fzig, sie ist fu'fzig. true enough, in alvina's pig-tail of soft brown the grey hairs were already showing. true enough, she still preferred to be thought of as a girl. and the slow-footed years, so heavy in passing, were so imperceptibly numerous in their accumulation. but we are not going to follow our song to its fatal and dreary conclusion. presumably, the _ordinary_ old-maid heroine nowadays is destined to die in her fifties, she is not allowed to be the long-liver of the by-gone novels. let the song suffice her. james houghton had still another kick in him. he had one last scheme up his sleeve. looking out on a changing world, it was the popular novelties which had the last fascination for him. the skating rink, like another charybdis, had all but entangled him in its swirl as he pushed painfully off from the rocks of throttle-ha'penny. but he had escaped, and for almost three years had lain obscurely in port, like a frail and finished bark, selling the last of his bits and bobs, and making little splashes in warehouse-oddments. miss pinnegar thought he had really gone quiet. but alas, at that degenerated and shabby, down-at-heel club he met another tempter: a plump man who had been in the music-hall line as a sort of agent. this man had catered for the little shows of little towns. he had been in america, out west, doing shows there. he had trailed his way back to england, where he had left his wife and daughter. but he did not resume his family life. wherever he was, his wife was a hundred miles away. now he found himself more or less stranded in woodhouse. he had _nearly_ fixed himself up with a music-hall in the potteries--as manager: he had all-but got such another place at ickley, in derbyshire: he had forced his way through the industrial and mining townlets, prospecting for any sort of music-hall or show from which he could get a picking. and now, in very low water, he found himself at woodhouse. woodhouse had a cinema already: a famous empire run-up by jordan, the sly builder and decorator who had got on so surprisingly. in james's younger days, jordan was an obscure and illiterate nobody. and now he had a motor car, and looked at the tottering james with sardonic contempt, from under his heavy, heavy-lidded dark eyes. he was rather stout, frail in health, but silent and insuperable, was a. w. jordan. "i missed a chance there," said james, fluttering. "i missed a rare chance there. i ought to have been first with a cinema." he admitted as much to mr. may, the stranger who was looking for some sort of "managing" job. mr. may, who also was plump and who could hold his tongue, but whose pink, fat face and light-blue eyes had a loud look, for all that, put the speech in his pipe and smoked it. not that he smoked a pipe: always cigarettes. but he seized on james's admission, as something to be made the most of. now mr. may's mind, though quick, was pedestrian, not winged. he had come to woodhouse not to look at jordan's "empire," but at the temporary wooden structure that stood in the old cattle market--"wright's cinematograph and variety theatre." wright's was not a superior show, like the woodhouse empire. yet it was always packed with colliers and work-lasses. but unfortunately there was no chance of mr. may's getting a finger in the cattle market pie. wright's was a family affair. mr. and mrs. wright and a son and two daughters with their husbands: a tight old lock-up family concern. yet it was the kind of show that appealed to mr. may: pictures between the turns. the cinematograph was but an item in the program, amidst the more thrilling incidents--to mr. may--of conjurors, popular songs, five-minute farces, performing birds, and comics. mr. may was too human to believe that a show should consist entirely of the dithering eye-ache of a film. he was becoming really depressed by his failure to find any opening. he had his family to keep--and though his honesty was of the variety sort, he had a heavy conscience in the direction of his wife and daughter. having been so long in america, he had acquired american qualities, one of which was this heavy sort of private innocence, coupled with complacent and natural unscrupulousness in "matters of business." a man of some odd sensitiveness in material things, he liked to have his clothes neat and spick, his linen immaculate, his face clean-shaved like a cherub. but alas, his clothes were now old-fashioned, so that their rather expensive smartness was detrimental to his chances, in spite of their scrupulous look of having come almost new out of the bandbox that morning. his rather small felt hats still curved jauntily over his full pink face. but his eyes looked lugubrious, as if he felt he had not deserved so much bad luck, and there were bilious lines beneath them. so mr. may, in his room in the moon and stars, which was the best inn in woodhouse--he must have a good hötel--lugubriously considered his position. woodhouse offered little or nothing. he must go to alfreton. and would he find anything there? ah, where, where in this hateful world was there refuge for a man saddled with responsibilities, who wanted to do his best and was given no opportunity? mr. may had travelled in his pullman car and gone straight to the best hotel in the town, like any other american with money--in america. he had done it smart, too. and now, in this grubby penny-picking england, he saw his boots being worn-down at the heel, and was afraid of being stranded without cash even for a railway ticket. if he had to clear out without paying his hotel bill--well, that was the world's fault. he had to live. but he must perforce keep enough in hand for a ticket to birmingham. he always said his wife was in london. and he always walked down to lumley to post his letters. he was full of evasions. so again he walked down to lumley to post his letters. and he looked at lumley. and he found it a damn god-forsaken hell of a hole. it was a long straggle of a dusty road down in the valley, with a pale-grey dust and spatter from the pottery, and big chimneys bellying forth black smoke right by the road. then there was a short cross-way, up which one saw the iron foundry, a black and rusty place. a little further on was the railway junction, and beyond that, more houses stretching to hathersedge, where the stocking factories were busy. compared with lumley, woodhouse, whose church could be seen sticking up proudly and vulgarly on an eminence, above trees and meadow-slopes, was an idyllic heaven. mr. may turned in to the derby hotel to have a small whiskey. and of course he entered into conversation. "you seem somewhat quiet at lumley," he said, in his odd, refined-showman's voice. "have you _nothing at all_ in the way of amusement?" "they all go up to woodhouse, else to hathersedge." "but couldn't you support some place of your own--some _rival_ to wright's variety?" "ay--'appen--if somebody started it." and so it was that james was inoculated with the idea of starting a cinema on the virgin soil of lumley. to the women he said not a word. but on the very first morning that mr. may broached the subject, he became a new man. he fluttered like a boy, he fluttered as if he had just grown wings. "let us go down," said mr. may, "and look at a site. you pledge yourself to nothing--you don't compromise yourself. you merely have a site in your mind." and so it came to pass that, next morning, this oddly assorted couple went down to lumley together. james was very shabby, in his black coat and dark grey trousers, and his cheap grey cap. he bent forward as he walked, and still nipped along hurriedly, as if pursued by fate. his face was thin and still handsome. odd that his cheap cap, by incongruity, made him look more a gentleman. but it did. as he walked he glanced alertly hither and thither, and saluted everybody. by his side, somewhat tight and tubby, with his chest out and his head back, went the prim figure of mr. may, reminding one of a consequential bird of the smaller species. his plumbago-grey suit fitted exactly--save that it was perhaps a little tight. the jacket and waistcoat were bound with silk braid of exactly the same shade as the cloth. his soft collar, immaculately fresh, had a dark stripe like his shirt. his boots were black, with grey suède uppers: but a _little_ down at heel. his dark-grey hat was jaunty. altogether he looked very spruce, though a _little_ behind the fashions: very pink faced, though his blue eyes were bilious beneath: very much on the spot, although the spot was the wrong one. they discoursed amiably as they went, james bending forward, mr. may bending back. mr. may took the refined man-of-the-world tone. "of course," he said--he used the two words very often, and pronounced the second, rather mincingly, to rhyme with _sauce_: "of course," said mr. may, "it's a disgusting place--_disgusting_! i never was in a worse, in all the _cauce_ of my travels. but _then_--that isn't the point--" he spread his plump hands from his immaculate shirt-cuffs. "no, it isn't. decidedly it isn't. that's beside the point altogether. what we want--" began james. "is an audience--of _cauce_--! and we have it--! virgin soil--! "yes, decidedly. untouched! an unspoiled market." "an unspoiled market!" reiterated mr. may, in full confirmation, though with a faint flicker of a smile. "how very _fortunate_ for us." "properly handled," said james. "properly handled." "why yes--of _cauce_! why _shouldn't_ we handle it properly!" "oh, we shall manage that, we shall manage that," came the quick, slightly husky voice of james. "of _cauce_ we shall! why bless my life, if we can't manage an audience in lumley, what _can_ we do." "we have a guide in the matter of their taste," said james. "we can see what wright's are doing--and jordan's--and we can go to hathersedge and knarborough and alfreton--beforehand, that is--" "why certainly--if you think it's _necessary_. i'll do all that for you. _and_ i'll interview the managers and the performers themselves--as if i were a journalist, don't you see. i've done a fair amount of journalism, and nothing easier than to get cards from various newspapers." "yes, that's a good suggestion," said james. "as if you were going to write an account in the newspapers--excellent." "and so simple! you pick up just _all_ the information you require." "decidedly--decidedly!" said james. and so behold our two heroes sniffing round the sordid backs and wasted meadows and marshy places of lumley. they found one barren patch where two caravans were standing. a woman was peeling potatoes, sitting on the bottom step of her caravan. a half-caste girl came up with a large pale-blue enamelled jug of water. in the background were two booths covered up with coloured canvas. hammering was heard inside. "good-morning!" said mr. may, stopping before the woman. "'tisn't fair time, is it?" "no, it's no fair," said the woman. "i see. you're just on your own. getting on all right?" "fair," said the woman. "only fair! sorry. good-morning." mr. may's quick eye, roving round, had seen a negro stoop from under the canvas that covered one booth. the negro was thin, and looked young but rather frail, and limped. his face was very like that of the young negro in watteau's drawing--pathetic, wistful, north-bitten. in an instant mr. may had taken all in: the man was the woman's husband--they were acclimatized in these regions: the booth where he had been hammering was a hoop-la. the other would be a cocoanut-shy. feeling the instant american dislike for the presence of a negro, mr. may moved off with james. they found out that the woman was a lumley woman, that she had two children, that the negro was a most quiet and respectable chap, but that the family kept to itself, and didn't mix up with lumley. "i should think so," said mr. may, a little disgusted even at the suggestion. then he proceeded to find out how long they had stood on this ground--three months--how long they would remain--only another week, then they were moving off to alfreton fair--who was the owner of the pitch--mr. bows, the butcher. ah! and what was the ground used for? oh, it was building land. but the foundation wasn't very good. "the very thing! aren't we _fortunate_!" cried mr. may, perking up the moment they were in the street. but this cheerfulness and brisk perkiness was a great strain on him. he missed his eleven o'clock whiskey terribly--terribly--his pick-me-up! and he daren't confess it to james, who, he knew, was t-t. so he dragged his weary and hollow way up to woodhouse, and sank with a long "oh!" of nervous exhaustion in the private bar of the moon and stars. he wrinkled his short nose. the smell of the place was distasteful to him. the _disgusting_ beer that the colliers drank. oh!--he _was_ so tired. he sank back with his whiskey and stared blankly, dismally in front of him. beneath his eyes he looked more bilious still. he felt thoroughly out of luck, and petulant. none the less he sallied out with all his old bright perkiness, the next time he had to meet james. he hadn't yet broached the question of costs. when would he be able to get an advance from james? he _must_ hurry the matter forward. he brushed his crisp, curly brown hair carefully before the mirror. how grey he was at the temples! no wonder, dear me, with such a life! he was in his shirt-sleeves. his waistcoat, with its grey satin back, fitted him tightly. he had filled out--but he hadn't developed a corporation. not at all. he looked at himself sideways, and feared dismally he was thinner. he was one of those men who carry themselves in a birdie fashion, so that their tail sticks out a little behind, jauntily. how wonderfully the satin of his waistcoat had worn! he looked at his shirt-cuffs. they were going. luckily, when he had had the shirts made he had secured enough material for the renewing of cuffs and neckbands. he put on his coat, from which he had flicked the faintest suspicion of dust, and again settled himself to go out and meet james on the question of an advance. he simply must have an advance. he didn't get it that day, none the less. the next morning he was ringing for his tea at six o'clock. and before ten he had already flitted to lumley and back, he had already had a word with mr. bows, about that pitch, and, overcoming all his repugnance, a word with the quiet, frail, sad negro, about alfreton fair, and the chance of buying some sort of collapsible building, for his cinematograph. with all this news he met james--not at the shabby club, but in the deserted reading-room of the so-called artizans hall--where never an artizan entered, but only men of james's class. here they took the chessboard and pretended to start a game. but their conversation was rapid and secretive. mr. may disclosed all his discoveries. and then he said, tentatively: "hadn't we better think about the financial part now? if we're going to look round for an erection"--curious that he always called it an erection--"we shall have to know what we are going to spend." "yes--yes. well--" said james vaguely, nervously, giving a glance at mr. may. whilst mr. may abstractedly fingered his black knight. "you see at the moment," said mr. may, "i have no funds that i can represent in cash. i have no doubt a little _later_--if we need it--i can find a few hundreds. many things are _due_--numbers of things. but it is so difficult to _collect_ one's dues, particularly from america." he lifted his blue eyes to james houghton. "of course we can _delay_ for some time, until i get my supplies. or i can act just as your manager--you can _employ_ me--" he watched james's face. james looked down at the chessboard. he was fluttering with excitement. he did not want a partner. he wanted to be in this all by himself. he hated partners. "you will agree to be manager, at a fixed salary?" said james hurriedly and huskily, his fine fingers slowly rubbing each other, along the sides. "why yes, willingly, if you'll give me the option of becoming your partner upon terms of mutual agreement, later on." james did not quite like this. "what terms are you thinking of?" he asked. "well, it doesn't matter for the moment. suppose for the moment i enter an engagement as your manager, at a salary, let us say, of--of what, do you think?" "so much a week?" said james pointedly. "hadn't we better make it monthly?" the two men looked at one another. "with a month's notice on either hand?" continued mr. may. "how much?" said james, avaricious. mr. may studied his own nicely kept hands. "well, i don't see how i can do it under twenty pounds a month. of course it's ridiculously low. in america i _never_ accepted less than three hundred dollars a month, and that was my poorest and lowest. but of _cauce_, england's not america--more's the pity." but james was shaking his head in a vibrating movement. "impossible!" he replied shrewdly. "impossible! twenty pounds a month? impossible. i couldn't do it. i couldn't think of it." "then name a figure. say what you _can_ think of," retorted mr. may, rather annoyed by this shrewd, shaking head of a doddering provincial, and by his own sudden collapse into mean subordination. "i can't make it more than ten pounds a month," said james sharply. "what!" screamed mr. may. "what am i to live on? what is my wife to live on?" "i've got to make it pay," said james. "if i've got to make it pay, i must keep down expenses at the beginning." "no,--on the contrary. you must be prepared to spend something at the beginning. if you go in a pinch-and-scrape fashion in the beginning, you will get nowhere at all. ten pounds a month! why it's impossible! ten pounds a month! but how am i to _live_?" james's head still vibrated in a negative fashion. and the two men came to no agreement _that_ morning. mr. may went home more sick and weary than ever, and took his whiskey more biliously. but james was lit with the light of battle. poor mr. may had to gather together his wits and his sprightliness for his next meeting. he had decided he must make a percentage in other ways. he schemed in all known ways. he would accept the ten pounds--but really, did ever you hear of anything so ridiculous in your life, _ten pounds!_--dirty old screw, dirty, screwing old woman! he would accept the ten pounds; but he would get his own back. he flitted down once more to the negro, to ask him of a certain wooden show-house, with section sides and roof, an old travelling theatre which stood closed on selverhay common, and might probably be sold. he pressed across once more to mr. bows. he wrote various letters and drew up certain notes. and the next morning, by eight o'clock, he was on his way to selverhay: walking, poor man, the long and uninteresting seven miles on his small and rather tight-shod feet, through country that had been once beautiful but was now scrubbled all over with mining villages, on and on up heavy hills and down others, asking his way from uncouth clowns, till at last he came to the common, which wasn't a common at all, but a sort of village more depressing than usual: naked, high, exposed to heaven and to full barren view. there he saw the theatre-booth. it was old and sordid-looking, painted dark-red and dishevelled with narrow, tattered announcements. the grass was growing high up the wooden sides. if only it wasn't rotten? he crouched and probed and pierced with his pen-knife, till a country-policeman in a high helmet like a jug saw him, got off his bicycle and came stealthily across the grass wheeling the same bicycle, and startled poor mr. may almost into apoplexy by demanding behind him, in a loud voice: "what're you after?" mr. may rose up with flushed face and swollen neck-veins, holding his pen-knife in his hand. "oh," he said, "good-morning." he settled his waistcoat and glanced over the tall, lanky constable and the glittering bicycle. "i was taking a look at this old erection, with a view to buying it. i'm afraid it's going rotten from the bottom." "shouldn't wonder," said the policeman suspiciously, watching mr. may shut the pocket knife. "i'm afraid that makes it useless for my purpose," said mr. may. the policeman did not deign to answer. "could you tell me where i can find out about it, anyway?" mr. may used his most affable, man of the world manner. but the policeman continued to stare him up and down, as if he were some marvellous specimen unknown on the normal, honest earth. "what, find out?" said the constable. "about being able to buy it," said mr. may, a little testily. it was with great difficulty he preserved his man-to-man openness and brightness. "they aren't here," said the constable. "oh indeed! where _are_ they? and _who_ are they?" the policeman eyed him more suspiciously than ever. "cowlard's their name. an' they live in offerton when they aren't travelling." "cowlard--thank you." mr. may took out his pocket-book. "c-o-w-l-a-r-d--is that right? and the address, please?" "i dunno th' street. but you can find out from the three bells. that's missis' sister." "the three bells--thank you. offerton did you say?" "yes." "offerton!--where's that?" "about eight mile." "really--and how do you get there?" "you can walk--or go by train." "oh, there is a station?" "station!" the policeman looked at him as if he were either a criminal or a fool. "yes. there _is_ a station there?" "ay--biggest next to chesterfield--" suddenly it dawned on mr. may. "oh-h!" he said. "you mean _alfreton_--" "alfreton, yes." the policeman was now convinced the man was a wrong-'un. but fortunately he was not a pushing constable, he did not want to rise in the police-scale: thought himself safest at the bottom. "and which is the way to the station here?" asked mr. may. "do yer want pinxon or bull'ill?" "pinxon or bull'ill?" "there's two," said the policeman. "for selverhay?" asked mr. may. "yes, them's the two." "and which is the best?" "depends what trains is runnin'. sometimes yer have to wait an hour or two--" "you don't know the trains, do you--?" "there's one in th' afternoon--but i don't know if it'd be gone by the time you get down." "to where?" "bull'ill." "oh bull'ill! well, perhaps i'll try. could you tell me the way?" when, after an hour's painful walk, mr. may came to bullwell station and found there was no train till six in the evening, he felt he was earning every penny he would ever get from mr. houghton. the first intelligence which miss pinnegar and alvina gathered of the coming adventure was given them when james announced that he had let the shop to marsden, the grocer next door. marsden had agreed to take over james's premises at the same rent as that of the premises he already occupied, and moreover to do all alterations and put in all fixtures himself. this was a grand scoop for james: not a penny was it going to cost him, and the rent was clear profit. "but when?" cried miss pinnegar. "he takes possession on the first of october." "well--it's a good idea. the shop isn't worth while," said miss pinnegar. "certainly it isn't," said james, rubbing his hands: a sign that he was rarely excited and pleased. "and you'll just retire, and live quietly," said miss pinnegar. "i shall see," said james. and with those fatal words he wafted away to find mr. may. james was now nearly seventy years old. yet he nipped about like a leaf in the wind. only, it was a frail leaf. "father's got something going," said alvina, in a warning voice. "i believe he has," said miss pinnegar pensively. "i wonder what it is, now." "i can't imagine," laughed alvina. "but i'll bet it's something awful--else he'd have told us." "yes," said miss pinnegar slowly. "most likely he would. i wonder what it can be." "i haven't an idea," said alvina. both women were so retired, they had heard nothing of james's little trips down to lumley. so they watched like cats for their man's return, at dinner-time. miss pinnegar saw him coming along talking excitedly to mr. may, who, all in grey, with his chest perkily stuck out like a robin, was looking rather pinker than usual. having come to an agreement, he had ventured on whiskey and soda in honour, and james had actually taken a glass of port. "alvina!" miss pinnegar called discreetly down the shop. "alvina! quick!" alvina flew down to peep round the corner of the shop window. there stood the two men, mr. may like a perky, pink-faced grey bird standing cocking his head in attention to james houghton, and occasionally catching james by the lapel of his coat, in a vain desire to get a word in, whilst james's head nodded and his face simply wagged with excited speech, as he skipped from foot to foot, and shifted round his listener. "who _ever_ can that common-looking man be?" said miss pinnegar, her heart going down to her boots. "i can't imagine," said alvina, laughing at the comic sight. "don't you think he's dreadful?" said the poor elderly woman. "perfectly impossible. did ever you see such a pink face?" "_and_ the braid binding!" said miss pinnegar in indignation. "father might almost have sold him the suit," said alvina. "let us hope he hasn't sold your father, that's all," said miss pinnegar. the two men had moved a few steps further towards home, and the women prepared to flee indoors. of course it was frightfully wrong to be standing peeping in the high street at all. but who could consider the proprieties now? "they've stopped again," said miss pinnegar, recalling alvina. the two men were having a few more excited words, their voices just audible. "i do wonder who he can be," murmured miss pinnegar miserably. "in the theatrical line, i'm sure," declared alvina. "do you think so?" said miss pinnegar. "can't be! can't be!" "he couldn't be anything else, don't you think?" "oh i _can't_ believe it, i can't." but now mr. may had laid his detaining hand on james's arm. and now he was shaking his employer by the hand. and now james, in his cheap little cap, was smiling a formal farewell. and mr. may, with a graceful wave of his grey-suède-gloved hand, was turning back to the moon and stars, strutting, whilst james was running home on tip-toe, in his natural hurry. alvina hastily retreated, but miss pinnegar stood it out. james started as he nipped into the shop entrance, and found her confronting him. "oh--miss pinnegar!" he said, and made to slip by her. "who was that man?" she asked sharply, as if james were a child whom she could endure no more. "eh? i beg your pardon?" said james, starting back. "who was that man?" "eh? which man?" james was a little deaf, and a little husky. "the man--" miss pinnegar turned to the door. "there! that man!" james also came to the door, and peered out as if he expected to see a sight. the sight of mr. may's tight and perky back, the jaunty little hat and the grey suède hands retreating quite surprised him. he was angry at being introduced to the sight. "oh," he said. "that's my manager." and he turned hastily down the shop, asking for his dinner. miss pinnegar stood for some moments in pure oblivion in the shop entrance. her consciousness left her. when she recovered, she felt she was on the brink of hysteria and collapse. but she hardened herself once more, though the effort cost her a year of her life. she had never collapsed, she had never fallen into hysteria. she gathered herself together, though bent a little as from a blow, and, closing the shop door, followed james to the living room, like the inevitable. he was eating his dinner, and seemed oblivious of her entry. there was a smell of irish stew. "what manager?" said miss pinnegar, short, silent, and inevitable in the doorway. but james was in one of his abstractions, his trances. "what manager?" persisted miss pinnegar. but he still bent unknowing over his plate and gobbled his irish stew. "mr. houghton!" said miss pinnegar, in a sudden changed voice. she had gone a livid yellow colour. and she gave a queer, sharp little rap on the table with her hand. james started. he looked up bewildered, as one startled out of sleep. "eh?" he said, gaping. "eh?" "answer me," said miss pinnegar. "what manager?" "manager? eh? manager? what manager?" she advanced a little nearer, menacing in her black dress. james shrank. "what manager?" he re-echoed. "my manager. the manager of my cinema." miss pinnegar looked at him, and looked at him, and did not speak. in that moment all the anger which was due to him from all womanhood was silently discharged at him, like a black bolt of silent electricity. but miss pinnegar, the engine of wrath, felt she would burst. "cinema! cinema! do you mean to tell me--" but she was really suffocated, the vessels of her heart and breast were bursting. she had to lean her hand on the table. it was a terrible moment. she looked ghastly and terrible, with her mask-like face and her stony eyes and her bluish lips. some fearful thunderbolt seemed to fall. james withered, and was still. there was silence for minutes, a suspension. and in those minutes, she finished with him. she finished with him for ever. when she had sufficiently recovered, she went to her chair, and sat down before her plate. and in a while she began to eat, as if she were alone. poor alvina, for whom this had been a dreadful and uncalled-for moment, had looked from one to another, and had also dropped her head to her plate. james too, with bent head, had forgotten to eat. miss pinnegar ate very slowly, alone. "don't you want your dinner, alvina?" she said at length. "not as much as i did," said alvina. "why not?" said miss pinnegar. she sounded short, almost like miss frost. oddly like miss frost. alvina took up her fork and began to eat automatically. "i always think," said miss pinnegar, "irish stew is more tasty with a bit of swede in it." "so do i, really," said alvina. "but swedes aren't come yet." "oh! didn't we have some on tuesday?" "no, they were yellow turnips--but they weren't swedes." "well then, yellow turnip. i like a little yellow turnip," said miss pinnegar. "i might have put some in, if i'd known," said alvina. "yes. we will another time," said miss pinnegar. not another word about the cinema: not another breath. as soon as james had eaten his plum tart, he ran away. "what can he have been doing?" said alvina when he had gone. "buying a cinema show--and that man we saw is his manager. it's quite simple." "but what are we going to do with a cinema show?" said alvina. "it's what is _he_ going to do. it doesn't concern me. it's no concern of mine. i shall not lend him anything, i shall not think about it, it will be the same to me as if there _were_ no cinema. which is all i have to say," announced miss pinnegar. "but he's gone and done it," said alvina. "then let him go through with it. it's no affair of mine. after all, your father's affairs don't concern me. it would be impertinent of me to introduce myself into them." "they don't concern _me_ very much," said alvina. "you're different. you're his daughter. he's no connection of mine, i'm glad to say. i pity your mother." "oh, but he was always alike," said alvina. "that's where it is," said miss pinnegar. there was something fatal about her feelings. once they had gone cold, they would never warm up again. as well try to warm up a frozen mouse. it only putrifies. but poor miss pinnegar after this looked older, and seemed to get a little round-backed. and the things she said reminded alvina so often of miss frost. james fluttered into conversation with his daughter the next evening, after miss pinnegar had retired. "i told you i had bought a cinematograph building," said james. "we are negotiating for the machinery now: the dynamo and so on." "but where is it to be?" asked alvina. "down at lumley. i'll take you and show you the site tomorrow. the building--it is a frame-section travelling theatre--will arrive on thursday--next thursday." "but who is in with you, father?" "i am quite alone--quite alone," said james houghton. "i have found an excellent manager, who knows the whole business thoroughly--a mr. may. very nice man. very nice man." "rather short and dressed in grey?" "yes. and i have been thinking--if miss pinnegar will take the cash and issue tickets: if she will take over the ticket-office: and you will play the piano: and if mr. may learns the control of the machine--he is having lessons now--: and if i am the indoors attendant, we shan't need any more staff." "miss pinnegar won't take the cash, father." "why not? why not?" "i can't say why not. but she won't do anything--and if i were you i wouldn't ask her." there was a pause. "oh, well," said james, huffy. "she isn't indispensable." and alvina was to play the piano! here was a blow for her! she hurried off to her bedroom to laugh and cry at once. she just saw herself at that piano, banging off the _merry widow waltz_, and, in tender moments, _the rosary_. time after time, _the rosary_. while the pictures flickered and the audience gave shouts and some grubby boy called "chot-let, penny a bar! chot-let, penny a bar! chot-let, penny a bar!" away she banged at another tune. what a sight for the gods! she burst out laughing. and at the same time, she thought of her mother and miss frost, and she cried as if her heart would break. and then all kinds of comic and incongruous tunes came into her head. she imagined herself dressing up with most priceless variations. _linger longer lucy_, for example. she began to spin imaginary harmonies and variations in her head, upon the theme of _linger longer lucy_. "linger longer lucy, linger longer loo. how i love to linger longer linger long o' you. listen while i sing, love, promise you'll be true, and linger longer longer linger linger longer loo." all the tunes that used to make miss frost so angry. all the dream waltzes and maiden's prayers, and the awful songs. "for in spooney-ooney island is there any one cares for me? in spooney-ooney island why surely there ought to be--" poor miss frost! alvina imagined herself leading a chorus of collier louts, in a bad atmosphere of "woodbines" and oranges, during the intervals when the pictures had collapsed. "how'd you like to spoon with me? how'd you like to spoon with me? (_why ra-ther!_) underneath the oak-tree nice and shady calling me your tootsey-wootsey lady? how'd you like to hug and squeeze, (_just try me!_) dandle me upon your knee, calling me your little lovey-dovey-- how'd you like to spoon with me? (_oh-h--go on!_)" alvina worked herself into quite a fever, with her imaginings. in the morning she told miss pinnegar. "yes," said miss pinnegar, "you see me issuing tickets, don't you? yes--well. i'm afraid he will have to do that part himself. and you're going to play the piano. it's a disgrace! it's a disgrace! it's a disgrace! it's a mercy miss frost and your mother are dead. he's lost every bit of shame--every bit--if he ever had any--which i doubt very much. well, all i can say, i'm glad i am not concerned. and i'm sorry for you, for being his daughter. i'm heart sorry for you, i am. well, well--no sense of shame--no sense of shame--" and miss pinnegar padded out of the room. alvina walked down to lumley and was shown the site and was introduced to mr. may. he bowed to her in his best american fashion, and treated her with admirable american deference. "don't you think," he said to her, "it's an admirable scheme?" "wonderful," she replied. "of cauce," he said, "the erection will be a merely temporary one. of cauce it won't be anything to _look_ at: just an old wooden travelling theatre. but _then_--all we need is to make a start." "and you are going to work the film?" she asked. "yes," he said with pride, "i spend every evening with the operator at marsh's in knarborough. very interesting i find it--very interesting indeed. and _you_ are going to play the piano?" he said, perking his head on one side and looking at her archly. "so father says," she answered. "but what do _you_ say?" queried mr. may. "i suppose i don't have any say." "oh but _surely_. surely you won't do it if you don't wish to. that would never do. can't we hire some young fellow--?" and he turned to mr. houghton with a note of query. "alvina can play as well as anybody in woodhouse," said james. "we mustn't add to our expenses. and wages in particular--" "but surely miss houghton will have her wage. the labourer is worthy of his hire. surely! even of _her_ hire, to put it in the feminine. and for the same wage you could get some unimportant fellow with strong wrists. i'm afraid it will tire miss houghton to death--" "i don't think so," said james. "i don't think so. many of the turns she will not need to accompany--" "well, if it comes to that," said mr. may, "i can accompany some of them myself, when i'm not operating the film. i'm not an expert pianist--but i can play a little, you know--" and he trilled his fingers up and down an imaginary keyboard in front of alvina, cocking his eye at her smiling a little archly. "i'm sure," he continued, "i can accompany anything except a man juggling dinner-plates--and then i'd be afraid of making him drop the plates. but songs--oh, songs! _con molto espressione!_" and again he trilled the imaginary keyboard, and smiled his rather fat cheeks at alvina. she began to like him. there was something a little dainty about him, when you knew him better--really rather fastidious. a showman, true enough! blatant too. but fastidiously so. he came fairly frequently to manchester house after this. miss pinnegar was rather stiff with him and he did not like her. but he was very happy sitting chatting tête-à-tête with alvina. "where is your wife?" said alvina to him. "my wife! oh, don't speak of _her_," he said comically. "she's in london." "why not speak of her?" asked alvina. "oh, every reason for not speaking of her. we don't get on at _all_ well, she and i." "what a pity," said alvina. "dreadful pity! but what are you to do?" he laughed comically. then he became grave. "no," he said. "she's an impossible person." "i see," said alvina. "i'm sure you _don't_ see," said mr. may. "don't--" and here he laid his hand on alvina's arm--"don't run away with the idea that she's _immoral_! you'd never make a greater mistake. oh dear me, no. morality's her strongest point. live on three lettuce leaves, and give the rest to the char. that's her. oh, dreadful times we had in those first years. we only lived together for three years. but dear _me_! how awful it was!" "why?" "there was no pleasing the woman. she wouldn't eat. if i said to her 'what shall we have for supper, grace?' as sure as anything she'd answer 'oh, i shall take a bath when i go to bed--that will be my supper.' she was one of these advanced vegetarian women, don't you know." "how extraordinary!" said alvina. "extraordinary! i should think so. extraordinary hard lines on _me_. and she wouldn't let _me_ eat either. she followed me to the kitchen in a _fury_ while i cooked for myself. why imagine! i prepared a dish of champignons: oh, most _beautiful_ champignons, beautiful--and i put them on the stove to fry in butter: beautiful young champignons. i'm hanged if she didn't go into the kitchen while my back was turned, and pour a pint of old carrot-water into the pan. i was _furious_. imagine!--beautiful fresh young champignons--" "fresh mushrooms," said alvina. "mushrooms--most beautiful things in the world. oh! don't you think so?" and he rolled his eyes oddly to heaven. "they _are_ good," said alvina. "i should say so. and swamped--_swamped_ with her dirty old carrot water. oh i was so angry. and all she could say was, 'well, i didn't want to waste it!' didn't want to waste her old carrot water, and so _ruined_ my champignons. _can_ you imagine such a person?" "it must have been trying." "i should think it was. i lost weight. i lost i don't know how many pounds, the first year i was married to that woman. she hated me to eat. why, one of her great accusations against me, at the last, was when she said: 'i've looked round the larder,' she said to me, 'and seen it was quite empty, and i thought to myself: _now_ he _can't_ cook a supper! and _then_ you did!' there! what do you think of that? the spite of it! 'and _then_ you did!'" "what did she expect you to live on?" asked alvina. "nibble a lettuce leaf with her, and drink water from the tap--and then elevate myself with a bernard shaw pamphlet. that was the sort of woman she was. all it gave _me_ was gas in the stomach." "so overbearing!" said alvina. "oh!" he turned his eyes to heaven, and spread his hands. "i didn't believe my senses. i didn't know such people existed. and her friends! oh the dreadful friends she had--these fabians! oh, their eugenics. they wanted to examine my private morals, for eugenic reasons. oh, you can't imagine such a state. worse than the spanish inquisition. and i stood it for three years. _how_ i stood it, i don't know--" "now don't you see her?" "never! i never let her know where i am! but i _support_ her, of cauce." "and your daughter?" "oh, she's the dearest child in the world. i saw her at a friend's when i came back from america. dearest little thing in the world. but of _cauce_ suspicious of me. treats me as if she didn't _know_ me--" "what a pity!" "oh--unbearable!" he spread his plump, manicured hands, on one finger of which was a green intaglio ring. "how old is your daughter?" "fourteen." "what is her name?" "gemma. she was born in rome, where i was managing for miss maud callum, the _danseuse_." curious the intimacy mr. may established with alvina at once. but it was all purely verbal, descriptive. he made no physical advances. on the contrary, he was like a dove-grey, disconsolate bird pecking the crumbs of alvina's sympathy, and cocking his eye all the time to watch that she did not advance one step towards him. if he had seen the least sign of coming-on-ness in her, he would have fluttered off in a great dither. nothing _horrified_ him more than a woman who was coming-on towards him. it horrified him, it exasperated him, it made him hate the whole tribe of women: horrific two-legged cats without whiskers. if he had been a bird, his innate horror of a cat would have been such. he liked the _angel_, and particularly the angel-mother in woman. oh!--that he worshipped. but coming-on-ness! so he never wanted to be seen out-of-doors with alvina; if he met her in the street he bowed and passed on: bowed very deep and reverential, indeed, but passed on, with his little back a little more strutty and assertive than ever. decidedly he turned his back on her in public. but miss pinnegar, a regular old, grey, dangerous she-puss, eyed him from the corner of her pale eye, as he turned tail. "so unmanly!" she murmured. "in his dress, in his way, in everything--so unmanly." "if i was you, alvina," she said, "i shouldn't see so much of mr. may, in the drawing-room. people will talk." "i should almost feel flattered," laughed alvina. "what do you mean?" snapped miss pinnegar. none the less, mr. may was dependable in matters of business. he was up at half-past five in the morning, and by seven was well on his way. he sailed like a stiff little ship before a steady breeze, hither and thither, out of woodhouse and back again, and across from side to side. sharp and snappy, he was, on the spot. he trussed himself up, when he was angry or displeased, and sharp, snip-snap came his words, rather like scissors. "but how is it--" he attacked arthur witham--"that the gas isn't connected with the main yet? it was to be ready yesterday." "we've had to wait for the fixings for them brackets," said arthur. "_had_ to _wait_ for _fixings_! but didn't you know a fortnight ago that you'd want the fixings?" "i thought we should have some as would do." "oh! you thought so! really! kind of you to think so. and have you just thought about those that are coming, or have you made sure?" arthur looked at him sullenly. he hated him. but mr. may's sharp touch was not to be foiled. "i hope you'll go further than _thinking_," said mr. may. "thinking seems such a slow process. and when do you expect the fittings--?" "tomorrow." "what! another day! another day _still!_ but you're strangely indifferent to time, in your line of business. oh! _tomorrow!_ imagine it! two days late already, and then _tomorrow!_ well i hope by tomorrow you mean _wednesday_, and not tomorrow's tomorrow, or some other absurd and fanciful date that you've just _thought about_. but now, _do_ have the thing finished by tomorrow--" here he laid his hand cajoling on arthur's arm. "you promise me it will all be ready by tomorrow, don't you?" "yes, i'll do it if anybody could do it." "don't say 'if anybody could do it.' say it shall be done." "it shall if i can possibly manage it--" "oh--very well then. mind you manage it--and thank you _very_ much. i shall be _most_ obliged, if it _is_ done." arthur was annoyed, but he was kept to the scratch. and so, early in october the place was ready, and woodhouse was plastered with placards announcing "houghton's pleasure palace." poor mr. may could not but see an irony in the palace part of the phrase. "we can guarantee the _pleasure_," he said. "but personally, i feel i can't take the responsibility for the palace." but james, to use the vulgar expression, was in his eye-holes. "oh, father's in his eye-holes," said alvina to mr. may. "oh!" said mr. may, puzzled and concerned. but it merely meant that james was having the time of his life. he was drawing out announcements. first was a batch of vermilion strips, with the mystic script, in big black letters: houghton's picture palace, underneath which, quite small: opens at lumley on october th, at : p.m. everywhere you went, these vermilion and black bars sprang from the wall at you. then there were other notices, in delicate pale-blue and pale red, like a genuine theatre notice, giving full programs. and beneath these a broad-letter notice announced, in green letters on a yellow ground: "final and ultimate clearance sale at houghton's, knarborough road, on friday, september th. come and buy without price." james was in his eye-holes. he collected all his odds and ends from every corner of manchester house. he sorted them in heaps, and marked the heaps in his own mind. and then he let go. he pasted up notices all over the window and all over the shop: "take what you want and pay what you like." he and miss pinnegar kept shop. the women flocked in. they turned things over. it nearly killed james to take the prices they offered. but take them he did. but he exacted that they should buy one article at a time. "one piece at a time, if you don't mind," he said, when they came up with their three-a-penny handfuls. it was not till later in the evening that he relaxed this rule. well, by eleven o'clock he had cleared out a good deal--really, a very great deal--and many women had bought what they didn't want, at their own figure. feverish but content, james shut the shop for the last time. next day, by eleven, he had removed all his belongings, the door that connected the house with the shop was screwed up fast, the grocer strolled in and looked round his bare extension, took the key from james, and immediately set his boy to paste a new notice in the window, tearing down all james's announcements. poor james had to run round, down knarborough road, and down wellington street as far as the livery stable, then down long narrow passages, before he could get into his own house, from his own shop. but he did not mind. every hour brought the first performance of his pleasure palace nearer. he was satisfied with mr. may: he had to admit that he was satisfied with mr. may. the palace stood firm at last--oh, it was so ricketty when it arrived!--and it glowed with a new coat, all over, of dark-red paint, like ox-blood. it was tittivated up with a touch of lavender and yellow round the door and round the decorated wooden eaving. it had a new wooden slope up to the doors--and inside, a new wooden floor, with red-velvet seats in front, before the curtain, and old chapel-pews behind. the collier youths recognized the pews. "hey! these 'ere's the pews out of the old primitive chapel." "sorry ah! we'n come ter hear t' parson." theme for endless jokes. and the pleasure palace was christened, in some lucky stroke, houghton's endeavour, a reference to that particular chapel effort called the christian endeavour, where alvina and miss pinnegar both figured. "wheer art off, sorry?" "lumley." "houghton's endeavour?" "ah." "rotten." so, when one laconic young collier accosted another. but we anticipate. mr. may had worked hard to get a program for the first week. his pictures were: "the human bird," which turned out to be a ski-ing film from norway, purely descriptive; "the pancake," a humorous film: and then his grand serial: "the silent grip." and then, for turns, his first item was miss poppy traherne, a lady in innumerable petticoats, who could whirl herself into anything you like, from an arum lily in green stockings to a rainbow and a catherine wheel and a cup-and-saucer: marvellous, was miss poppy traherne. the next turn was the baxter brothers, who ran up and down each other's backs and up and down each other's front, and stood on each other's heads and on their own heads, and perched for a moment on each other's shoulders, as if each of them was a flight of stairs with a landing, and the three of them were three flights, three storeys up, the top flight continually running down and becoming the bottom flight, while the middle flight collapsed and became a horizontal corridor. alvina had to open the performance by playing an overture called "welcome all": a ridiculous piece. she was excited and unhappy. on the monday morning there was a rehearsal, mr. may conducting. she played "welcome all," and then took the thumbed sheets which miss poppy traherne carried with her. miss poppy was rather exacting. as she whirled her skirts she kept saying: "a little faster, please"--"a little slower"--in a rather haughty, official voice that was somewhat muffled by the swim of her drapery. "can you give it _expression_?" she cried, as she got the arum lily in full blow, and there was a sound of real ecstasy in her tones. but why she should have called "stronger! stronger!" as she came into being as a cup and saucer, alvina could not imagine: unless miss poppy was fancying herself a strong cup of tea. however, she subsided into her mere self, panted frantically, and then, in a hoarse voice, demanded if she was in the bare front of the show. she scorned to count "welcome all." mr. may said yes. she was the first item. whereupon she began to raise a dust. mr. houghton said, hurriedly interposing, that he meant to make a little opening speech. miss poppy eyed him as if he were a cuckoo-clock, and she had to wait till he'd finished cuckooing. then she said: "that's not every night. there's six nights to a week." james was properly snubbed. it ended by mr. may metamorphizing himself into a pug dog: he said he had got the "costoom" in his bag: and doing a lump-of-sugar scene with one of the baxter brothers, as a brief first item. miss poppy's professional virginity was thus saved from outrage. at the back of the stage there was half-a-yard of curtain screening the two dressing-rooms, ladies and gents. in her spare time alvina sat in the ladies' dressing room, or in its lower doorway, for there was not room right inside. she watched the ladies making up--she gave some slight assistance. she saw the men's feet, in their shabby pumps, on the other side of the curtain, and she heard the men's gruff voices. often a slangy conversation was carried on through the curtain--for most of the turns were acquainted with each other: very affable before each other's faces, very sniffy behind each other's backs. poor alvina was in a state of bewilderment. she was extremely nice--oh, much too nice with the female turns. they treated her with a sort of off-hand friendliness, and they snubbed and patronized her and were a little spiteful with her because mr. may treated her with attention and deference. she felt bewildered, a little excited, and as if she was not herself. the first evening actually came. her father had produced a pink crêpe de chine blouse and a back-comb massed with brilliants--both of which she refused to wear. she stuck to her black blouse and black shirt, and her simple hair-dressing. mr. may said "of cauce! she wasn't intended to attract attention to herself." miss pinnegar actually walked down the hill with her, and began to cry when she saw the ox-blood red erection, with its gas-flares in front. it was the first time she had seen it. she went on with alvina to the little stage door at the back, and up the steps into the scrap of dressing-room. but she fled out again from the sight of miss poppy in her yellow hair and green knickers with green-lace frills. poor miss pinnegar! she stood outside on the trodden grass behind the band of hope, and really cried. luckily she had put a veil on. she went valiantly round to the front entrance, and climbed the steps. the crowd was just coming. there was james's face peeping inside the little ticket-window. "one!" he said officially, pushing out the ticket. and then he recognized her. "oh," he said, "_you're_ not going to pay." "yes i am," she said, and she left her fourpence, and james's coppery, grimy fingers scooped it in, as the youth behind miss pinnegar shoved her forward. "arf way down, fourpenny," said the man at the door, poking her in the direction of mr. may, who wanted to put her in the red velvet. but she marched down one of the pews, and took her seat. the place was crowded with a whooping, whistling, excited audience. the curtain was down. james had let it out to his fellow tradesmen, and it represented a patchwork of local adverts. there was a fat porker and a fat pork-pie, and the pig was saying: "you all know where to find me. inside the crust at frank churchill's, knarborough road, woodhouse." round about the name of w. h. johnson floated a bowler hat, a collar-and-necktie, a pair of braces and an umbrella. and so on and so on. it all made you feel very homely. but miss pinnegar was sadly hot and squeezed in her pew. time came, and the colliers began to drum their feet. it was exactly the excited, crowded audience mr. may wanted. he darted out to drive james round in front of the curtain. but james, fascinated by raking in the money so fast, could not be shifted from the pay-box, and the two men nearly had a fight. at last mr. may was seen shooing james, like a scuffled chicken, down the side gangway and on to the stage. james before the illuminated curtain of local adverts, bowing and beginning and not making a single word audible! the crowd quieted itself, the eloquence flowed on. the crowd was sick of james, and began to shuffle. "come down, come down!" hissed mr. may frantically from in front. but james did not move. he would flow on all night. mr. may waved excitedly at alvina, who sat obscurely at the piano, and darted on to the stage. he raised his voice and drowned james. james ceased to wave his penny-blackened hands, alvina struck up "welcome all" as loudly and emphatically as she could. and all the time miss pinnegar sat like a sphinx--like a sphinx. what she thought she did not know herself. but stolidly she stared at james, and anxiously she glanced sideways at the pounding alvina. she knew alvina had to pound until she received the cue that mr. may was fitted in his pug-dog "costoom." a twitch of the curtain. alvina wound up her final flourish, the curtain rose, and: "well really!" said miss pinnegar, out loud. there was mr. may as a pug dog begging, too lifelike and too impossible. the audience shouted. alvina sat with her hands in her lap. the pug was a great success. curtain! a few bars of toreador--and then miss poppy's sheets of music. soft music. miss poppy was on the ground under a green scarf. and so the accumulating dilation, on to the whirling climax of the perfect arum lily. sudden curtain, and a yell of ecstasy from the colliers. of all blossoms, the arum, the arum lily is most mystical and portentous. now a crash and rumble from alvina's piano. this is the storm from whence the rainbow emerges. up goes the curtain--miss poppy twirling till her skirts lift as in a breeze, rise up and become a rainbow above her now darkened legs. the footlights are all but extinguished. miss poppy is all but extinguished also. the rainbow is not so moving as the arum lily. but the catherine wheel, done at the last moment on one leg and then an amazing leap into the air backwards, again brings down the house. miss poppy herself sets all store on her cup and saucer. but the audience, vulgar as ever, cannot quite see it. and so, alvina slips away with miss poppy's music-sheets, while mr. may sits down like a professional at the piano and makes things fly for the up-and-down-stairs baxter bros. meanwhile, alvina's pale face hovering like a ghost in the side darkness, as it were under the stage. the lamps go out: gurglings and kissings--and then the dither on the screen: "the human bird," in awful shivery letters. it's not a very good machine, and mr. may is not a very good operator. audience distinctly critical. lights up--an "chot-let, penny a bar! chot-let, penny a bar!" even as in alvina's dream--and then "the pancake"--so the first half over. lights up for the interval. miss pinnegar sighed and folded her hands. she looked neither to right nor to left. in spite of herself, in spite of outraged shame and decency, she was excited. but she felt such excitement was not wholesome. in vain the boy most pertinently yelled "chot-let" at her. she looked neither to right nor left. but when she saw alvina nodding to her with a quick smile from the side gangway under the stage, she almost burst into tears. it was too much for her, all at once. and alvina looked almost indecently excited. as she slipped across in front of the audience, to the piano, to play the seductive "dream waltz!" she looked almost fussy, like her father. james, needless to say, flittered and hurried hither and thither around the audience and the stage, like a wagtail on the brink of a pool. the second half consisted of a comic drama acted by two baxter bros., disguised as women, and miss poppy disguised as a man--with a couple of locals thrown in to do the guardsman and the count. this went very well. the winding up was the first instalment of "the silent grip." when lights went up and alvina solemnly struck "god save our gracious king," the audience was on its feet and not very quiet, evidently hissing with excitement like doughnuts in the pan even when the pan is taken off the fire. mr. houghton thanked them for their courtesy and attention, and hoped--and nobody took the slightest notice. miss pinnegar stayed last, waiting for alvina. and alvina, in her excitement, waited for mr. may and her father. mr. may fairly pranced into the empty hall. "well!" he said, shutting both his fists and flourishing them in miss pinnegar's face. "how did it go?" "i think it went very well," she said. "very well! i should think so, indeed. it went like a house on fire. what? didn't it?" and he laughed a high, excited little laugh. james was counting pennies for his life, in the cash-place, and dropping them into a gladstone bag. the others had to wait for him. at last he locked his bag. "well," said mr. may, "done well?" "fairly well," said james, huskily excited. "fairly well." "only fairly? oh-h!" and mr. may suddenly picked up the bag. james turned as if he would snatch it from him. "well! feel that, for fairly well!" said mr. may, handing the bag to alvina. "goodness!" she cried, handing it to miss pinnegar. "would you believe it?" said miss pinnegar, relinquishing it to james. but she spoke coldly, aloof. mr. may turned off the gas at the meter, came talking through the darkness of the empty theatre, picking his way with a flash-light. "c'est le premier pas qui coute," he said, in a sort of american french, as he locked the doors and put the key in his pocket. james tripped silently alongside, bowed under the weight of his gladstone bag of pennies. "how much have we taken, father?" asked alvina gaily. "i haven't counted," he snapped. when he got home he hurried upstairs to his bare chamber. he swept his table clear, and then, in an expert fashion, he seized handfuls of coin and piled them in little columns on his board. there was an army of fat pennies, a dozen to a column, along the back, rows and rows of fat brown rank-and-file. in front of these, rows of slim halfpence, like an advance-guard. and commanding all, a stout column of half-crowns, a few stoutish and important florin-figures, like general and colonels, then quite a file of shillings, like so many captains, and a little cloud of silvery lieutenant sixpences. right at the end, like a frail drummer boy, a thin stick of threepenny pieces. there they all were: burly dragoons of stout pennies, heavy and holding their ground, with a screen of halfpenny light infantry, officered by the immovable half-crown general, who in his turn was flanked by all his staff of florin colonels and shilling captains, from whom lightly moved the nimble sixpenny lieutenants all ignoring the wan, frail joey of the threepenny-bits. time after time james ran his almighty eye over his army. he loved them. he loved to feel that his table was pressed down, that it groaned under their weight. he loved to see the pence, like innumerable pillars of cloud, standing waiting to lead on into wildernesses of unopened resource, while the silver, as pillars of light, should guide the way down the long night of fortune. their weight sank sensually into his muscle, and gave him gratification. the dark redness of bronze, like full-blooded fleas, seemed alive and pulsing, the silver was magic as if winged. chapter vii natcha-kee-tawara mr. may and alvina became almost inseparable, and woodhouse buzzed with scandal. woodhouse could not believe that mr. may was absolutely final in his horror of any sort of coming-on-ness in a woman. it could not believe that he was only _so_ fond of alvina because she was like a sister to him, poor, lonely, harassed soul that he was: a pure sister who really hadn't any body. for although mr. may was rather fond, in an epicurean way, of his own body, yet other people's bodies rather made him shudder. so that his grand utterance on alvina was: "she's not physical, she's mental." he even explained to her one day how it was, in his naïve fashion. "there are two kinds of friendships," he said, "physical and mental. the physical is a thing of the moment. of cauce you quite _like_ the individual, you remain quite nice with them, and so on,--to keep the thing as decent as possible. it _is_ quite decent, so long as you keep it so. but it is a thing of the moment. which you know. it may last a week or two, or a month or two. but you know from the beginning it is going to end--quite finally--quite soon. you take it for what it is. but it's so different with the mental friendships. _they_ are lasting. they are eternal--if anything human (he said yuman) ever is eternal, ever _can_ be eternal." he pressed his hands together in an odd cherubic manner. he was quite sincere: if man ever _can_ be quite sincere. alvina was quite content to be one of his mental and eternal friends, or rather _friendships_--since she existed _in abstractu_ as far as he was concerned. for she did not find him at all physically moving. physically he was not there: he was oddly an absentee. but his naïveté roused the serpent's tooth of her bitter irony. "and your wife?" she said to him. "oh, my wife! dreadful thought! _there_ i made the great mistake of trying to find the two in one person! and _didn't_ i fall between two stools! oh dear, _didn't_ i? oh, i fell between the two stools beautifully, beautifully! and _then_--she nearly set the stools on top of me. i thought i should never get up again. when i was physical, she was mental--bernard shaw and cold baths for supper!--and when i was mental she was physical, and threw her arms round my neck. in the morning, mark you. always in the morning, when i was on the alert for business. yes, invariably. what do you think of it? could the devil himself have invented anything more trying? oh dear me, don't mention it. oh, what a time i had! wonder i'm alive. yes, really! although you smile." alvina did more than smile. she laughed outright. and yet she remained good friends with the odd little man. he bought himself a new, smart overcoat, that fitted his figure, and a new velour hat. and she even noticed, one day when he was curling himself up cosily on the sofa, that he had pale blue silk underwear, and purple silk suspenders. she wondered where he got them, and how he afforded them. but there they were. james seemed for the time being wrapt in his undertaking--particularly in the takings part of it. he seemed for the time being contented--or nearly so, nearly so. certainly there was money coming in. but then he had to pay off all he had borrowed to buy his erection and its furnishings, and a bulk of pennies sublimated into a very small £.s.d. account, at the bank. the endeavour was successful--yes, it was successful. but not overwhelmingly so. on wet nights woodhouse did not care to trail down to lumley. and then lumley was one of those depressed, negative spots on the face of the earth which have no pull at all. in that region of sharp hills with fine hill-brows, and shallow, rather dreary canal-valleys, it was the places on the hill-brows, like woodhouse and hathersedge and rapton which flourished, while the dreary places down along the canals existed only for work-places, not for life and pleasure. it was just like james to have planted his endeavour down in the stagnant dust and rust of potteries and foundries, where no illusion could bloom. he had dreamed of crowded houses every night, and of raised prices. but there was no probability of his being able to raise his prices. he had to figure lower than the woodhouse empire. he was second-rate from the start. his hope now lay in the tramway which was being built from knarborough away through the country--a black country indeed--through woodhouse and lumley and hathersedge, to rapton. when once this tramway-system was working, he would have a supply of youths and lasses always on tap, as it were. so he spread his rainbow wings towards the future, and began to say: "when we've got the trams, i shall buy a new machine and finer lenses, and i shall extend my premises." mr. may did not talk business to alvina. he was terribly secretive with respect to business. but he said to her once, in the early year following their opening: "well, how do you think we're doing, miss houghton?" "we're not doing any better than we did at first, i think," she said. "no," he answered. "no! that's true. that's perfectly true. but why? they seem to like the programs." "i think they do," said alvina. "i think they like them when they're there. but isn't it funny, they don't seem to want to come to them. i know they always talk as if we were second-rate. and they only come because they can't get to the empire, or up to hathersedge. we're a stop-gap. i know we are." mr. may looked down in the mouth. he cocked his blue eyes at her, miserable and frightened. failure began to frighten him abjectly. "why do you think that is?" he said. "i don't believe they like the turns," she said. "but _look_ how they applaud them! _look_ how pleased they are!" "i know. i know they like them once they're there, and they see them. but they don't come again. they crowd the empire--and the empire is only pictures now; and it's much cheaper to run." he watched her dismally. "i can't believe they want nothing but pictures. i can't believe they want everything in the flat," he said, coaxing and miserable. he himself was not interested in the film. his interest was still the human interest in living performers and their living feats. "why," he continued, "they are ever so much more excited after a good turn, than after any film." "i know they are," said alvina. "but i don't believe they want to be excited in that way." "in what way?" asked mr. may plaintively. "by the things which the artistes do. i believe they're jealous." "oh nonsense!" exploded mr. may, starting as if he had been shot. then he laid his hand on her arm. "but forgive my rudeness! i don't mean it, of _cauce_! but do you mean to say that these collier louts and factory girls are jealous of the things the artistes do, because they could never do them themselves?" "i'm sure they are," said alvina. "but i _can't_ believe it," said mr. may, pouting up his mouth and smiling at her as if she were a whimsical child. "what a low opinion you have of human nature!" "have i?" laughed alvina. "i've never reckoned it up. but i'm sure that these common people here are jealous if anybody does anything or has anything they can't have themselves." "i can't believe it," protested mr. may. "could they be so _silly_! and then why aren't they jealous of the extraordinary things which are done on the film?" "because they don't see the flesh-and-blood people. i'm sure that's it. the film is only pictures, like pictures in the _daily mirror_. and pictures don't have any feelings apart from their own feelings. i mean the feelings of the people who watch them. pictures don't have any life except in the people who watch them. and that's why they like them. because they make them feel that they are everything." "the pictures make the colliers and lasses feel that they themselves are everything? but how? they identify themselves with the heroes and heroines on the screen?" "yes--they take it all to themselves--and there isn't anything except themselves. i know it's like that. it's because they can spread themselves over a film, and they _can't_ over a living performer. they're up against the performer himself. and they hate it." mr. may watched her long and dismally. "i _can't_ believe people are like that!--sane people!" he said. "why, to me the whole joy is in the living personality, the curious _personality_ of the artiste. that's what i enjoy so much." "i know. but that's where you're different from them." "but _am_ i?" "yes. you're not as up to the mark as they are." "not up to the mark? what do you mean? do you mean they are more intelligent?" "no, but they're more modern. you like things which aren't yourself. but they don't. they hate to admire anything that they can't take to themselves. they hate anything that isn't themselves. and that's why they like pictures. it's all themselves to them, all the time." he still puzzled. "you know i don't follow you," he said, a little mocking, as if she were making a fool of herself. "because you don't know them. you don't know the common people. you don't know how conceited they are." he watched her a long time. "and you think we ought to cut out the variety, and give nothing but pictures, like the empire?" he said. "i believe it takes best," she said. "and costs less," he answered. "but _then_! it's so dull. oh my _word_, it's so dull. i don't think i could bear it." "and our pictures aren't good enough," she said. "we should have to get a new machine, and pay for the expensive films. our pictures do shake, and our films are rather ragged." "but then, _surely_ they're good enough!" he said. that was how matters stood. the endeavour paid its way, and made just a margin of profit--no more. spring went on to summer, and then there was a very shadowy margin of profit. but james was not at all daunted. he was waiting now for the trams, and building up hopes since he could not build in bricks and mortar. the navvies were busy in troops along the knarborough road, and down lumley hill. alvina became quite used to them. as she went down the hill soon after six o'clock in the evening, she met them trooping home. and some of them she liked. there was an outlawed look about them as they swung along the pavement--some of them; and there was a certain lurking set of the head which rather frightened her because it fascinated her. there was one tall young fellow with a red face and fair hair, who looked as if he had fronted the seas and the arctic sun. he looked at her. they knew each other quite well, in passing. and he would glance at perky mr. may. alvina tried to fathom what the young fellow's look meant. she wondered what he thought of mr. may. she was surprised to hear mr. may's opinion of the navvy. "_he's_ a handsome young man, now!" exclaimed her companion one evening as the navvies passed. and all three turned round, to find all three turning round. alvina laughed, and made eyes. at that moment she would cheerfully have gone along with the navvy. she was getting so tired of mr. may's quiet prance. on the whole, alvina enjoyed the cinema and the life it brought her. she accepted it. and she became somewhat vulgarized in her bearing. she was _déclassée_: she had lost her class altogether. the other daughters of respectable tradesmen avoided her now, or spoke to her only from a distance. she was supposed to be "carrying on" with mr. may. alvina did not care. she rather liked it. she liked being _déclassée_. she liked feeling an outsider. at last she seemed to stand on her own ground. she laughed to herself as she went back and forth from woodhouse to lumley, between manchester house and the pleasure palace. she laughed when she saw her father's theatre-notices plastered about. she laughed when she saw his thrilling announcements in the _woodhouse weekly_. she laughed when she knew that all the woodhouse youths recognized her, and looked on her as one of their inferior entertainers. she was off the map: and she liked it. for after all, she got a good deal of fun out of it. there was not only the continual activity. there were the artistes. every week she met a new set of stars--three or four as a rule. she rehearsed with them on monday afternoons, and she saw them every evening, and twice a week at matinees. james now gave two performances each evening--and he always had _some_ audience. so that alvina had opportunity to come into contact with all the odd people of the inferior stage. she found they were very much of a type: a little frowsy, a little flea-bitten as a rule, indifferent to ordinary morality, and philosophical even if irritable. they were often very irritable. and they had always a certain fund of callous philosophy. alvina did not _like_ them--you were not supposed, really, to get deeply emotional over them. but she found it amusing to see them all and know them all. it was so different from woodhouse, where everything was priced and ticketed. these people were nomads. they didn't care a straw who you were or who you weren't. they had a most irritable professional vanity, and that was all. it was most odd to watch them. they weren't very squeamish. if the young gentlemen liked to peep round the curtain when the young lady was in her knickers: oh, well, she rather roundly told them off, perhaps, but nobody minded. the fact that ladies wore knickers and black silk stockings thrilled nobody, any more than grease-paint or false moustaches thrilled. it was all part of the stock-in-trade. as for immorality--well, what did it amount to? not a great deal. most of the men cared far more about a drop of whiskey than about any more carnal vice, and most of the girls were good pals with each other, men were only there to act with: even if the act was a private love-farce of an improper description. what's the odds? you couldn't get excited about it: not as a rule. mr. may usually took rooms for the artistes in a house down in lumley. when any one particular was coming, he would go to a rather better-class widow in woodhouse. he never let alvina take any part in the making of these arrangements, except with the widow in woodhouse, who had long ago been a servant at manchester house, and even now came in to do cleaning. odd, eccentric people they were, these entertainers. most of them had a streak of imagination, and most of them drank. most of them were middle-aged. most of them had an abstracted manner; in ordinary life, they seemed left aside, somehow. odd, extraneous creatures, often a little depressed, feeling life slip away from them. the cinema was killing them. alvina had quite a serious flirtation with a man who played a flute and piccolo. he was about fifty years old, still handsome, and growing stout. when sober, he was completely reserved. when rather drunk, he talked charmingly and amusingly--oh, most charmingly. alvina quite loved him. but alas, _how_ he drank! but what a charm he had! he went, and she saw him no more. the usual rather american-looking, clean-shaven, slightly pasty young man left alvina quite cold, though he had an amiable and truly chivalrous _galanterie_. he was quite likeable. but so unattractive. alvina was more fascinated by the odd fish: like the lady who did marvellous things with six ferrets, or the jap who was tattooed all over, and had the most amazing strong wrists, so that he could throw down any collier, with one turn of the hand. queer cuts these!--but just a little bit beyond her. she watched them rather from a distance. she wished she could jump across the distance. particularly with the jap, who was almost quite naked, but clothed with the most exquisite tattooing. never would she forget the eagle that flew with terrible spread wings between his shoulders, or the strange mazy pattern that netted the roundness of his buttocks. he was not very large, but nicely shaped, and with no hair on his smooth, tattooed body. he was almost blue in colour--that is, his tattooing was blue, with pickings of brilliant vermilion: as for instance round the nipples, and in a strange red serpent's-jaws over the navel. a serpent went round his loins and haunches. he told her how many times he had had blood-poisoning, during the process of his tattooing. he was a queer, black-eyed creature, with a look of silence and toad-like lewdness. he frightened her. but when he was dressed in common clothes, and was just a cheap, shoddy-looking european jap, he was more frightening still. for his face--he was not tattooed above a certain ring low on his neck--was yellow and flat and basking with one eye open, like some age-old serpent. she felt he was smiling horribly all the time: lewd, unthinkable. a strange sight he was in woodhouse, on a sunny morning; a shabby-looking bit of riff-raff of the east, rather down at the heel. who could have imagined the terrible eagle of his shoulders, the serpent of his loins, his supple, magic skin? the summer passed again, and autumn. winter was a better time for james houghton. the trams, moreover, would begin to run in january. he wanted to arrange a good program for the week when the trams started. a long time ahead, mr. may prepared it. the one item was the natcha-kee-tawara troupe. the natcha-kee-tawara troupe consisted of five persons, madame rochard and four young men. they were a strictly red indian troupe. but one of the young men, the german swiss, was a famous yodeller, and another, the french swiss, was a good comic with a french accent, whilst madame and the german did a screaming two-person farce. their great turn, of course, was the natcha-kee-tawara red indian scene. the natcha-kee-tawaras were due in the third week in january, arriving from the potteries on the sunday evening. when alvina came in from chapel that sunday evening, she found her widow, mrs. rollings, seated in the living room talking with james, who had an anxious look. since opening the pleasure palace james was less regular at chapel. and moreover, he was getting old and shaky, and sunday was the one evening he might spend in peace. add that on this particular black sunday night it was sleeting dismally outside, and james had already a bit of a cough, and we shall see that he did right to stay at home. mrs. rollings sat nursing a bottle. she was to go to the chemist for some cough-cure, because madame had got a bad cold. the chemist was gone to chapel--he wouldn't open till eight. madame and the four young men had arrived at about six. madame, said mrs. rollings, was a little fat woman, and she was complaining all the time that she had got a cold on her chest, laying her hand on her chest and trying her breathing and going "he-e-e-er! herr!" to see if she could breathe properly. she, mrs. rollings, had suggested that madame should put her feet in hot mustard and water, but madame said she must have something to clear her chest. the four young men were four nice civil young fellows. they evidently liked madame. madame had insisted on cooking the chops for the young men. she herself had eaten one, but she laid her hand on her chest when she swallowed. one of the young men had gone out to get her some brandy, and he had come back with half-a-dozen large bottles of bass as well. mr. houghton was very much concerned over madame's cold. he asked the same questions again and again, to try and make sure how bad it was. but mrs. rollings didn't seem quite to know. james wrinkled his brow. supposing madame could not take her part! he was most anxious. "do you think you might go across with mrs. rollings and see how this woman is, alvina?" he said to his daughter. "i should think you'll never turn alvina out on such a night," said miss pinnegar. "and besides, it isn't right. where is mr. may? it's his business to go." "oh!" returned alvina. "_i_ don't mind going. wait a minute, i'll see if we haven't got some of those pastilles for burning. if it's very bad, i can make one of those plasters mother used." and she ran upstairs. she was curious to see what madame and her four young men were like. with mrs. rollings she called at the chemist's back door, and then they hurried through the sleet to the widow's dwelling. it was not far. as they went up the entry they heard the sound of voices. but in the kitchen all was quiet. the voices came from the front room. mrs. rollings tapped. "come in!" said a rather sharp voice. alvina entered on the widow's heels. "i've brought you the cough stuff," said the widow. "and miss huff'n's come as well, to see how you was." four young men were sitting round the table in their shirt-sleeves, with bottles of bass. there was much cigarette smoke. by the fire, which was burning brightly, sat a plump, pale woman with dark bright eyes and finely-drawn eyebrows: she might be any age between forty and fifty. there were grey threads in her tidy black hair. she was neatly dressed in a well-made black dress with a small lace collar. there was a slight look of self-commiseration on her face. she had a cigarette between her drooped fingers. she rose as if with difficulty, and held out her plump hand, on which four or five rings showed. she had dropped the cigarette unnoticed into the hearth. "how do you do," she said. "i didn't catch your name." madame's voice was a little plaintive and plangent now, like a bronze reed mournfully vibrating. "alvina houghton," said alvina. "daughter of him as owns the thee-etter where you're goin' to act," interposed the widow. "oh yes! yes! i see. miss houghton. i didn't know how it was said. huff-ton--yes? miss houghton. i've got a bad cold on my chest--" laying her plump hand with the rings on her plump bosom. "but let me introduce you to my young men--" a wave of the plump hand, whose forefinger was very slightly cigarette-stained, towards the table. the four young men had risen, and stood looking at alvina and madame. the room was small, rather bare, with horse-hair and white-crochet antimacassars and a linoleum floor. the table also was covered with a brightly-patterned american oil-cloth, shiny but clean. a naked gas-jet hung over it. for furniture, there were just chairs, arm-chairs, table, and a horse-hair antimacassar-ed sofa. yet the little room seemed very full--full of people, young men with smart waistcoats and ties, but without coats. "that is max," said madame. "i shall tell you only their names, and not their family names, because that is easier for you--" in the meantime max had bowed. he was a tall swiss with almond eyes and a flattish face and a rather stiff, ramrod figure. "and that is louis--" louis bowed gracefully. he was a swiss frenchman, moderately tall, with prominent cheekbones and a wing of glossy black hair falling on his temple. "and that is géoffroi--geoffrey--" geoffrey made his bow--a broad-shouldered, watchful, taciturn man from alpine france. "and that is francesco--frank--" francesco gave a faint curl of his lip, half smile, as he saluted her involuntarily in a military fashion. he was dark, rather tall and loose, with yellow-tawny eyes. he was an italian from the south. madame gave another look at him. "he doesn't like his english name of frank. you will see, he pulls a face. no, he doesn't like it. we call him ciccio also--" but ciccio was dropping his head sheepishly, with the same faint smile on his face, half grimace, and stooping to his chair, wanting to sit down. "these are my family of young men," said madame. "we are drawn from three races, though only ciccio is not of our mountains. will you please to sit down." they all took their chairs. there was a pause. "my young men drink a little beer, after their horrible journey. as a rule, i do not like them to drink. but tonight they have a little beer. i do not take any myself, because i am afraid of inflaming myself." she laid her hand on her breast, and took long, uneasy breaths. "i feel it. i feel it _here_." she patted her breast. "it makes me afraid for tomorrow. will you perhaps take a glass of beer? ciccio, ask for another glass--" ciccio, at the end of the table, did not rise, but looked round at alvina as if he presumed there would be no need for him to move. the odd, supercilious curl of the lip persisted. madame glared at him. but he turned the handsome side of his cheek towards her, with the faintest flicker of a sneer. "no, thank you. i never take beer," said alvina hurriedly. "no? never? oh!" madame folded her hands, but her black eyes still darted venom at ciccio. the rest of the young men fingered their glasses and put their cigarettes to their lips and blew the smoke down their noses, uncomfortably. madame closed her eyes and leaned back a moment. then her face looked transparent and pallid, there were dark rings under her eyes, the beautifully-brushed hair shone dark like black glass above her ears. she was obviously unwell. the young men looked at her, and muttered to one another. "i'm afraid your cold is rather bad," said alvina. "will you let me take your temperature?" madame started and looked frightened. "oh, i don't think you should trouble to do that," she said. max, the tall, highly-coloured swiss, turned to her, saying: "yes, you must have your temperature taken, and then we s'll know, shan't we. i had a hundred and five when we were in redruth." alvina had taken the thermometer from her pocket. ciccio meanwhile muttered something in french--evidently something rude--meant for max. "what shall i do if i can't work tomorrow!" moaned madame, seeing alvina hold up the thermometer towards the light. "max, what shall we do?" "you will stay in bed, and we must do the white prisoner scene," said max, rather staccato and official. ciccio curled his lip and put his head aside. alvina went across to madame with the thermometer. madame lifted her plump hand and fended off alvina, while she made her last declaration: "never--never have i missed my work, for a single day, for ten years. never. if i am going to lie abandoned, i had better die at once." "lie abandoned!" said max. "you know you won't do no such thing. what are you talking about?" "take the thermometer," said geoffrey roughly, but with feeling. "tomorrow, see, you will be well. quite certain!" said louis. madame mournfully shook her head, opened her mouth, and sat back with closed eyes and the stump of the thermometer comically protruding from a corner of her lips. meanwhile alvina took her plump white wrist and felt her pulse. "we can practise--" began geoffrey. "sh!" said max, holding up his finger and looking anxiously at alvina and madame, who still leaned back with the stump of the thermometer jauntily perking up from her pursed mouth, while her face was rather ghastly. max and louis watched anxiously. geoffrey sat blowing the smoke down his nose, while ciccio callously lit another cigarette, striking a match on his boot-heel and puffing from under the tip of his rather long nose. then he took the cigarette from his mouth, turned his head, slowly spat on the floor, and rubbed his foot on his spit. max flapped his eyelids and looked all disdain, murmuring something about "ein schmutziges italienisches volk," whilst louis, refusing either to see or to hear, framed the word "chien" on his lips. then quick as lightning both turned their attention again to madame. her temperature was a hundred and two. "you'd better go to bed," said alvina. "have you eaten anything?" "one little mouthful," said madame plaintively. max sat looking pale and stricken, louis had hurried forward to take madame's hand. he kissed it quickly, then turned aside his head because of the tears in his eyes. geoffrey gulped beer in large throatfuls, and ciccio, with his head bent, was watching from under his eyebrows. "i'll run round for the doctor--" said alvina. "don't! don't do that, my dear! don't you go and do that! i'm likely to a temperature--" "liable to a temperature," murmured louis pathetically. "i'll go to bed," said madame, obediently rising. "wait a bit. i'll see if there's a fire in the bedroom," said alvina. "oh, my dear, you are too good. open the door for her, ciccio--" ciccio reached across at the door, but was too late. max had hastened to usher alvina out. madame sank back in her chair. "never for ten years," she was wailing. "quoi faire, ah, quoi faire! que ferez-vous, mes pauvres, sans votre kishwégin. que vais-je faire, mourir dans un tel pays! la bonne demoiselle--la bonne demoiselle--elle a du coeur. elle pourrait aussi être belle, s'il y avait un peu plus de chair. max, liebster, schau ich sehr elend aus? ach, oh jeh, oh jeh!" "ach nein, madame, ach nein. nicht so furchtbar elend," said max. "manca il cuore solamente al ciccio," moaned madame. "che natura povera, senza sentimento--niente di bello. ahimé, che amico, che ragazzo duro, aspero--" "trova?" said ciccio, with a curl of the lip. he looked, as he dropped his long, beautiful lashes, as if he might weep for all that, if he were not bound to be misbehaving just now. so madame moaned in four languages as she posed pallid in her arm-chair. usually she spoke in french only, with her young men. but this was an extra occasion. "la pauvre kishwégin!" murmured madame. "elle va finir au monde. elle passe--la pauvre kishwégin." kishwégin was madame's red indian name, the name under which she danced her squaw's fire-dance. now that she knew she was ill, madame seemed to become more ill. her breath came in little pants. she had a pain in her side. a feverish flush seemed to mount her cheek. the young men were all extremely uncomfortable. louis did not conceal his tears. only ciccio kept the thin smile on his lips, and added to madame's annoyance and pain. alvina came down to take her to bed. the young men all rose, and kissed madame's hand as she went out: her poor jewelled hand, that was faintly perfumed with eau de cologne. she spoke an appropriate good-night, to each of them. "good-night, my faithful max, i trust myself to you. good-night, louis, the tender heart. good-night valiant geoffrey. ah ciccio, do not add to the weight of my heart. be good _braves_, all, be brothers in one accord. one little prayer for poor kishwégin. good-night!" after which valediction she slowly climbed the stairs, putting her hand on her knee at each step, with the effort. "no--no," she said to max, who would have followed to her assistance. "do not come up. no--no!" her bedroom was tidy and proper. "tonight," she moaned, "i shan't be able to see that the boys' rooms are well in order. they are not to be trusted, no. they need an overseeing eye: especially ciccio; especially ciccio!" she sank down by the fire and began to undo her dress. "you must let me help you," said alvina. "you know i have been a nurse." "ah, you are too kind, too kind, dear young lady. i am a lonely old woman. i am not used to attentions. best leave me." "let me help you," said alvina. "alas, ahimé! who would have thought kishwégin would need help. i danced last night with the boys in the theatre in leek: and tonight i am put to bed in--what is the name of this place, dear?--it seems i don't remember it." "woodhouse," said alvina. "woodhouse! woodhouse! is there not something called woodlouse? i believe. ugh, horrible! why is it horrible?" alvina quickly undressed the plump, trim little woman. she seemed so soft. alvina could not imagine how she could be a dancer on the stage, strenuous. but madame's softness could flash into wild energy, sudden convulsive power, like a cuttle-fish. alvina brushed out the long black hair, and plaited it lightly. then she got madame into bed. "ah," sighed madame, "the good bed! the good bed! but cold--it is so cold. would you hang up my dress, dear, and fold my stockings?" alvina quickly folded and put aside the dainty underclothing. queer, dainty woman, was madame, even to her wonderful threaded black-and-gold garters. "my poor boys--no kishwégin tomorrow! you don't think i need see a priest, dear? a priest!" said madame, her teeth chattering. "priest! oh no! you'll be better when we can get you warm. i think it's only a chill. mrs. rollings is warming a blanket--" alvina ran downstairs. max opened the sitting-room door and stood watching at the sound of footsteps. his rather bony fists were clenched beneath his loose shirt-cuffs, his eyebrows tragically lifted. "is she much ill?" he asked. "i don't know. but i don't think so. do you mind heating the blanket while mrs. rollings makes thin gruel?" max and louis stood heating blankets. louis' trousers were cut rather tight at the waist, and gave him a female look. max was straight and stiff. mrs. rollings asked geoffrey to fill the coal-scuttles and carry one upstairs. geoffrey obediently went out with a lantern to the coal-shed. afterwards he was to carry up the horse-hair arm-chair. "i must go home for some things," said alvina to ciccio. "will you come and carry them for me?" he started up, and with one movement threw away his cigarette. he did not look at alvina. his beautiful lashes seemed to screen his eyes. he was fairly tall, but loosely built for an italian, with slightly sloping shoulders. alvina noticed the brown, slender mediterranean hand, as he put his fingers to his lips. it was a hand such as she did not know, prehensile and tender and dusky. with an odd graceful slouch he went into the passage and reached for his coat. he did not say a word, but held aloof as he walked with alvina. "i'm sorry for madame," said alvina, as she hurried rather breathless through the night. "she does think for you men." but ciccio vouchsafed no answer, and walked with his hands in the pockets of his water-proof, wincing from the weather. "i'm afraid she will never be able to dance tomorrow," said alvina. "you think she won't be able?" he said. "i'm almost sure she won't." after which he said nothing, and alvina also kept silence till they came to the black dark passage and encumbered yard at the back of the house. "i don't think you can see at all," she said. "it's this way." she groped for him in the dark, and met his groping hand. "this way," she said. it was curious how light his fingers were in their clasp--almost like a child's touch. so they came under the light from the window of the sitting-room. alvina hurried indoors, and the young man followed. "i shall have to stay with madame tonight," she explained hurriedly. "she's feverish, but she may throw it off if we can get her into a sweat." and alvina ran upstairs collecting things necessary. ciccio stood back near the door, and answered all miss pinnegar's entreaties to come to the fire with a shake of the head and a slight smile of the lips, bashful and stupid. "but do come and warm yourself before you go out again," said miss pinnegar, looking at the man as he drooped his head in the distance. he still shook dissent, but opened his mouth at last. "it makes it colder after," he said, showing his teeth in a slight, stupid smile. "oh well, if you think so," said miss pinnegar, nettled. she couldn't make heads or tails of him, and didn't try. when they got back, madame was light-headed, and talking excitedly of her dance, her young men. the three young men were terrified. they had got the blankets scorching hot. alvina smeared the plasters and applied them to madame's side, where the pain was. what a white-skinned, soft, plump child she seemed! her pain meant a touch of pleurisy, for sure. the men hovered outside the door. alvina wrapped the poor patient in the hot blankets, got a few spoonfuls of hot gruel and whiskey down her throat, fastened her down in bed, lowered the light and banished the men from the stairs. then she sat down to watch. madame chafed, moaned, murmured feverishly. alvina soothed her, and put her hands in bed. and at last the poor dear became quiet. her brow was faintly moist. she fell into a quiet sleep, perspiring freely. alvina watched her still, soothed her when she suddenly started and began to break out of the bedclothes, quieted her, pressed her gently, firmly down, folded her tight and made her submit to the perspiration against which, in convulsive starts, she fought and strove, crying that she was suffocating, she was too hot, too hot. "lie still, lie still," said alvina. "you must keep warm." poor madame moaned. how she hated seething in the bath of her own perspiration. her wilful nature rebelled strongly. she would have thrown aside her coverings and gasped into the cold air, if alvina had not pressed her down with that soft, inevitable pressure. so the hours passed, till about one o'clock, when the perspiration became less profuse, and the patient was really better, really quieter. then alvina went downstairs for a moment. she saw the light still burning in the front room. tapping, she entered. there sat max by the fire, a picture of misery, with louis opposite him, nodding asleep after his tears. on the sofa geoffrey snored lightly, while ciccio sat with his head on the table, his arms spread out, dead asleep. again she noticed the tender, dusky mediterranean hands, the slender wrists, slender for a man naturally loose and muscular. "haven't you gone to bed?" whispered alvina. "why?" louis started awake. max, the only stubborn watcher, shook his head lugubriously. "but she's better," whispered alvina. "she's perspired. she's better. she's sleeping naturally." max stared with round, sleep-whitened, owlish eyes, pessimistic and sceptical: "yes," persisted alvina. "come and look at her. but don't wake her, whatever you do." max took off his slippers and rose to his tall height. louis, like a scared chicken, followed. each man held his slippers in his hand. they noiselessly entered and peeped stealthily over the heaped bedclothes. madame was lying, looking a little flushed and very girlish, sleeping lightly, with a strand of black hair stuck to her cheek, and her lips lightly parted. max watched her for some moments. then suddenly he straightened himself, pushed back his brown hair that was brushed up in the german fashion, and crossed himself, dropping his knee as before an altar; crossed himself and dropped his knee once more; and then a third time crossed himself and inclined before the altar. then he straightened himself again, and turned aside. louis also crossed himself. his tears burst out. he bowed and took the edge of a blanket to his lips, kissing it reverently. then he covered his face with his hand. meanwhile madame slept lightly and innocently on. alvina turned to go. max silently followed, leading louis by the arm. when they got downstairs, max and louis threw themselves in each other's arms, and kissed each other on either cheek, gravely, in continental fashion. "she is better," said max gravely, in french. "thanks to god," replied louis. alvina witnessed all this with some amazement. the men did not heed her. max went over and shook geoffrey, louis put his hand on ciccio's shoulder. the sleepers were difficult to wake. the wakers shook the sleeping, but in vain. at last geoffrey began to stir. but in vain louis lifted ciccio's shoulders from the table. the head and the hands dropped inert. the long black lashes lay motionless, the rather long, fine greek nose drew the same light breaths, the mouth remained shut. strange fine black hair, he had, close as fur, animal, and naked, frail-seeming, tawny hands. there was a silver ring on one hand. alvina suddenly seized one of the inert hands that slid on the table-cloth as louis shook the young man's shoulders. tight she pressed the hand. ciccio opened his tawny-yellowish eyes, that seemed to have been put in with a dirty finger, as the saying goes, owing to the sootiness of the lashes and brows. he was quite drunk with his first sleep, and saw nothing. "wake up," said alvina, laughing, pressing his hand again. he lifted his head once more, suddenly clasped her hand, his eyes came to consciousness, his hand relaxed, he recognized her, and he sat back in his chair, turning his face aside and lowering his lashes. "get up, great beast," louis was saying softly in french, pushing him as ox-drivers sometimes push their oxen. ciccio staggered to his feet. "she is better," they told him. "we are going to bed." they took their candles and trooped off upstairs, each one bowing to alvina as he passed. max solemnly, louis gallant, the other two dumb and sleepy. they occupied the two attic chambers. alvina carried up the loose bed from the sofa, and slept on the floor before the fire in madame's room. madame slept well and long, rousing and stirring and settling off again. it was eight o'clock before she asked her first question. alvina was already up. "oh--alors--then i am better, i am quite well. i can dance today." "i don't think today," said alvina. "but perhaps tomorrow." "no, today," said madame. "i can dance today, because i am quite well. i am kishwégin." "you are better. but you must lie still today. yes, really--you will find you are weak when you try to stand." madame watched alvina's thin face with sullen eyes. "you are an englishwoman, severe and materialist," she said. alvina started and looked round at her with wide blue eyes. "why?" she said. there was a wan, pathetic look about her, a sort of heroism which madame detested, but which now she found touching. "come!" said madame, stretching out her plump jewelled hand. "come, i am an ungrateful woman. come, they are not good for you, the people, i see it. come to me." alvina went slowly to madame, and took the outstretched hand. madame kissed her hand, then drew her down and kissed her on either cheek, gravely, as the young men had kissed each other. "you have been good to kishwégin, and kishwégin has a heart that remembers. there, miss houghton, i shall do what you tell me. kishwégin obeys you." and madame patted alvina's hand and nodded her head sagely. "shall i take your temperature?" said alvina. "yes, my dear, you shall. you shall bid me, and i shall obey." so madame lay back on her pillow, submissively pursing the thermometer between her lips and watching alvina with black eyes. "it's all right," said alvina, as she looked at the thermometer. "normal." "normal!" re-echoed madame's rather guttural voice. "good! well, then when shall i dance?" alvina turned and looked at her. "i think, truly," said alvina, "it shouldn't be before thursday or friday." "thursday!" repeated madame. "you say thursday?" there was a note of strong rebellion in her voice. "you'll be so weak. you've only just escaped pleurisy. i can only say what i truly think, can't i?" "ah, you englishwomen," said madame, watching with black eyes. "i think you like to have your own way. in all things, to have your own way. and over all people. you are so good, to have your own way. yes, you good englishwomen. thursday. very well, it shall be thursday. till thursday, then, kishwégin does not exist." and she subsided, already rather weak, upon her pillow again. when she had taken her tea and was washed and her room was tidied, she summoned the young men. alvina had warned max that she wanted madame to be kept as quiet as possible this day. as soon as the first of the four appeared, in his shirt-sleeves and his slippers, in the doorway, madame said: "ah, there you are, my young men! come in! come in! it is not kishwégin addresses you. kishwégin does not exist till thursday, as the english demoiselle makes it." she held out her hand, faintly perfumed with eau de cologne--the whole room smelled of eau de cologne--and max stooped his brittle spine and kissed it. she touched his cheek gently with her other hand. "my faithful max, my support." louis came smiling with a bunch of violets and pinky anemones. he laid them down on the bed before her, and took her hand, bowing and kissing it reverently. "you are better, dear madame?" he said, smiling long at her. "better, yes, gentle louis. and better for thy flowers, chivalric heart." she put the violets and anemones to her face with both hands, and then gently laid them aside to extend her hand to geoffrey. "the good geoffrey will do his best, while there is no kishwégin?" she said as he stooped to her salute. "bien sûr, madame." "ciccio, a button off thy shirt-cuff. where is my needle?" she looked round the room as ciccio kissed her hand. "did you want anything?" said alvina, who had not followed the french. "my needle, to sew on this button. it is there, in the silk bag." "i will do it," said alvina. "thank you." while alvina sewed on the button, madame spoke to her young men, principally to max. they were to obey max, she said, for he was their eldest brother. this afternoon they would practise well the scene of the white prisoner. very carefully they must practise, and they must find some one who would play the young squaw--for in this scene she had practically nothing to do, the young squaw, but just sit and stand. miss houghton--but ah, miss houghton must play the piano, she could not take the part of the young squaw. some other then. while the interview was going on, mr. may arrived, full of concern. "shan't we have the procession!" he cried. "ah, the procession!" cried madame. the natcha-kee-tawara troupe upon request would signalize its entry into any town by a procession. the young men were dressed as indian _braves_, and headed by kishwégin they rode on horseback through the main streets. ciccio, who was the crack horseman, having served a very well-known horsey marchese in an italian cavalry regiment, did a bit of show riding. mr. may was very keen on the procession. he had the horses in readiness. the morning was faintly sunny, after the sleet and bad weather. and now he arrived to find madame in bed and the young men holding council with her. "how _very_ unfortunate!" cried mr. may. "how _very_ unfortunate!" "dreadful! dreadful!" wailed madame from the bed. "but can't we do _anything_?" "yes--you can do the white prisoner scene--the young men can do that, if you find a dummy squaw. ah, i think i must get up after all." alvina saw the look of fret and exhaustion in madame's face. "won't you all go downstairs now?" said alvina. "mr. max knows what you must do." and she shooed the five men out of the bedroom. "i _must_ get up. i won't dance. i will be a dummy. but i must be there. it is too dre-eadful, too dre-eadful!" wailed madame. "don't take any notice of them. they can manage by themselves. men are such babies. let them carry it through by themselves." "children--they are all children!" wailed madame. "all children! and so, what will they do without their old _gouvernante_? my poor _braves_, what will they do without kishwégin? it is too dreadful, too dre-eadful, yes. the poor mr. may--so _disappointed_." "then let him _be_ disappointed," cried alvina, as she forcibly tucked up madame and made her lie still. "you are hard! you are a hard englishwoman. all alike. all alike!" madame subsided fretfully and weakly. alvina moved softly about. and in a few minutes madame was sleeping again. alvina went downstairs. mr. may was listening to max, who was telling in german all about the white prisoner scene. mr. may had spent his boyhood in a german school. he cocked his head on one side, and, laying his hand on max's arm, entertained him in odd german. the others were silent. ciccio made no pretence of listening, but smoked and stared at his own feet. louis and geoffrey half understood, so louis nodded with a look of deep comprehension, whilst geoffrey uttered short, snappy "ja!--ja!--doch!--eben!" rather irrelevant. "i'll be the squaw," cried mr. may in english, breaking off and turning round to the company. he perked up his head in an odd, parrot-like fashion. "_i'll_ be the squaw! what's her name? kishwégin? i'll be kishwégin." and he bridled and beamed self-consciously. the two tall swiss looked down on him, faintly smiling. ciccio, sitting with his arms on his knees on the sofa, screwed round his head and watched the phenomenon of mr. may with inscrutable, expressionless attention. "let us go," said mr. may, bubbling with new importance. "let us go and rehearse _this morning_, and let us do the procession this afternoon, when the colliers are just coming home. there! what? isn't that exactly the idea? well! will you be ready at once, _now_?" he looked excitedly at the young men. they nodded with slow gravity, as if they were already _braves_. and they turned to put on their boots. soon they were all trooping down to lumley, mr. may prancing like a little circus-pony beside alvina, the four young men rolling ahead. "what do you think of it?" cried mr. may. "we've saved the situation--what? don't you think so? don't you think we can congratulate ourselves." they found mr. houghton fussing about in the theatre. he was on tenterhooks of agitation, knowing madame was ill. max gave a brilliant display of yodelling. "but i must _explain_ to them," cried mr. may. "i must _explain_ to them what yodel means." and turning to the empty theatre, he began, stretching forth his hand. "in the high alps of switzerland, where eternal snows and glaciers reign over luscious meadows full of flowers, if you should chance to awaken, as i have done, in some lonely wooden farm amid the mountain pastures, you--er--you--let me see--if you--no--if you should chance to _spend the night_ in some lonely wooden farm, amid the upland pastures, dawn will awake you with a wild, inhuman song, you will open your eyes to the first gleam of icy, eternal sunbeams, your ears will be ringing with weird singing, that has no words and no meaning, but sounds as if some wild and icy god were warbling to himself as he wandered among the peaks of dawn. you look forth across the flowers to the blue snow, and you see, far off, a small figure of a man moving among the grass. it is a peasant singing his mountain song, warbling like some creature that lifted up its voice on the edge of the eternal snows, before the human race began--" during this oration james houghton sat with his chin in his hand, devoured with bitter jealousy, measuring mr. may's eloquence. and then he started, as max, tall and handsome now in tyrolese costume, white shirt and green, square braces, short trousers of chamois leather stitched with green and red, firm-planted naked knees, naked ankles and heavy shoes, warbled his native yodel strains, a piercing and disturbing sound. he was flushed, erect, keen tempered and fierce and mountainous. there was a fierce, icy passion in the man. alvina began to understand madame's subjection to him. louis and geoffrey did a farce dialogue, two foreigners at the same moment spying a purse in the street, struggling with each other and protesting they wanted to take it to the policeman, ciccio, who stood solid and ridiculous. mr. houghton nodded slowly and gravely, as if to give his measured approval. then all retired to dress for the great scene. alvina practised the music madame carried with her. if madame found a good pianist, she welcomed the accompaniment: if not, she dispensed with it. "am i all right?" said a smirking voice. and there was kishwégin, dusky, coy, with long black hair and a short chamois dress, gaiters and moccasins and bare arms: _so_ coy, and _so_ smirking. alvina burst out laughing. "but shan't i do?" protested mr. may, hurt. "yes, you're wonderful," said alvina, choking. "but i _must_ laugh." "but why? tell me why?" asked mr. may anxiously. "is it my _appearance_ you laugh at, or is it only _me_? if it's me i don't mind. but if it's my appearance, tell me so." here an appalling figure of ciccio in war-paint strolled on to the stage. he was naked to the waist, wore scalp-fringed trousers, was dusky-red-skinned, had long black hair and eagle's feathers--only two feathers--and a face wonderfully and terribly painted with white, red, yellow, and black lines. he was evidently pleased with himself. his curious soft slouch, and curious way of lifting his lip from his white teeth, in a sort of smile, was very convincing. "you haven't got the girdle," he said, touching mr. may's plump waist--"and some flowers in your hair." mr. may here gave a sharp cry and a jump. a bear on its hind legs, slow, shambling, rolling its loose shoulders, was stretching a paw towards him. the bear dropped heavily on four paws again, and a laugh came from its muzzle. "you won't have to dance," said geoffrey out of the bear. "come and put in the flowers," said mr. may anxiously, to alvina. in the dressing-room, the dividing-curtain was drawn. max, in deerskin trousers but with unpainted torso looked very white and strange as he put the last touches of war-paint on louis' face. he glanced round at alvina, then went on with his work. there was a sort of nobility about his erect white form and stiffly-carried head, the semi-luminous brown hair. he seemed curiously superior. alvina adjusted the maidenly mr. may. louis arose, a _brave_ like ciccio, in war-paint even more hideous. max slipped on a tattered hunting-shirt and cartridge belt. his face was a little darkened. he was the white prisoner. they arranged the scenery, while alvina watched. it was soon done. a back cloth of tree-trunks and dark forest: a wigwam, a fire, and a cradle hanging from a pole. as they worked, alvina tried in vain to dissociate the two _braves_ from their war-paint. the lines were drawn so cleverly that the grimace of ferocity was fixed and horrible, so that even in the quiet work of scene-shifting louis' stiffish, female grace seemed full of latent cruelty, whilst ciccio's more muscular slouch made her feel she would not trust him for one single moment. awful things men were, savage, cruel, underneath their civilization. the scene had its beauty. it began with kishwégin alone at the door of the wigwam, cooking, listening, giving an occasional push to the hanging cradle, and, if only madame were taking the part, crooning an indian cradle-song. enter the _brave_ louis with his white prisoner, max, who has his hands bound to his side. kishwégin gravely salutes her husband--the bound prisoner is seated by the fire--kishwégin serves food, and asks permission to feed the prisoner. the _brave_ louis, hearing a sound, starts up with his bow and arrow. there is a dumb scene of sympathy between kishwégin and the prisoner--the prisoner wants his bonds cut. re-enter the _brave_ louis--he is angry with kishwégin--enter the _brave_ ciccio hauling a bear, apparently dead. kishwégin examines the bear, ciccio examines the prisoner. ciccio tortures the prisoner, makes him stand, makes him caper unwillingly. kishwégin swings the cradle. the prisoner is tripped up--falls, and cannot rise. he lies near the fallen bear. kishwégin carries food to ciccio. the two _braves_ converse in dumb show, kishwégin swings the cradle and croons. the men rise once more and bend over the prisoner. as they do so, there is a muffled roar. the bear is sitting up. louis swings round, and at the same moment the bear strikes him down. ciccio springs forward and stabs the bear, then closes with it. kishwégin runs and cuts the prisoner's bonds. he rises, and stands trying to lift his numbed and powerless arms, while the bear slowly crushes ciccio, and kishwégin kneels over her husband. the bear drops ciccio lifeless, and turns to kishwégin. at that moment max manages to kill the bear--he takes kishwégin by the hand and kneels with her beside the dead louis. it was wonderful how well the men played their different parts. but mr. may was a little too frisky as kishwégin. however, it would do. ciccio got dressed as soon as possible, to go and look at the horses hired for the afternoon procession. alvina accompanied him, mr. may and the others were busy. "you know i think it's quite wonderful, your scene," she said to ciccio. he turned and looked down at her. his yellow, dusky-set eyes rested on her good-naturedly, without seeing her, his lip curled in a self-conscious, contemptuous sort of smile. "not without madame," he said, with the slow, half-sneering, stupid smile. "without madame--" he lifted his shoulders and spread his hands and tilted his brows--"fool's play, you know." "no," said alvina. "i think mr. may is good, considering. what does madame _do_?" she asked a little jealously. "do?" he looked down at her with the same long, half-sardonic look of his yellow eyes, like a cat looking casually at a bird which flutters past. and again he made his shrugging motion. "she does it all, really. the others--they are nothing--what they are madame has made them. and now they think they've done it all, you see. you see, that's it." "but how has madame made it all? thought it out, you mean?" "thought it out, yes. and then _done_ it. you should see her dance--ah! you should see her dance round the bear, when i bring him in! ah, a beautiful thing, you know. she claps her hand--" and ciccio stood still in the street, with his hat cocked a little on one side, rather common-looking, and he smiled along his fine nose at alvina, and he clapped his hands lightly, and he tilted his eyebrows and his eyelids as if facially he were imitating a dance, and all the time his lips smiled stupidly. as he gave a little assertive shake of his head, finishing, there came a great yell of laughter from the opposite pavement, where a gang of pottery lasses, in aprons all spattered with grey clay, and hair and boots and skin spattered with pallid spots, had stood to watch. the girls opposite shrieked again, for all the world like a gang of grey baboons. ciccio turned round and looked at them with a sneer along his nose. they yelled the louder. and he was horribly uncomfortable, walking there beside alvina with his rather small and effeminately-shod feet. "how stupid they are," said alvina. "i've got used to them." "they should be--" he lifted his hand with a sharp, vicious movement--"_smacked_," he concluded, lowering his hand again. "who is going to do it?" said alvina. he gave a neapolitan grimace, and twiddled the fingers of one hand outspread in the air, as if to say: "there you are! you've got to thank the fools who've failed to do it." "why do you all love madame so much?" alvina asked. "how, love?" he said, making a little grimace. "we like her--we love her--as if she were a mother. you say _love_--" he raised his shoulders slightly, with a shrug. and all the time he looked down at alvina from under his dusky eyelashes, as if watching her sideways, and his mouth had the peculiar, stupid, self-conscious, half-jeering smile. alvina was a little bit annoyed. but she felt that a great instinctive good-naturedness came out of him, he was self-conscious and constrained, knowing she did not follow his language of gesture. for him, it was not yet quite natural to express himself in speech. gesture and grimace were instantaneous, and spoke worlds of things, if you would but accept them. but certainly he was stupid, in her sense of the word. she could hear mr. may's verdict of him: "like a child, you know, just as charming and just as tiresome and just as stupid." "where is your home?" she asked him. "in italy." she felt a fool. "which part?" she insisted. "naples," he said, looking down at her sideways, searchingly. "it must be lovely," she said. "ha--!" he threw his head on one side and spread out his hands, as if to say--"what do you want, if you don't find naples lovely." "i should like to see it. but i shouldn't like to die," she said. "what?" "they say 'see naples and die,'" she laughed. he opened his mouth, and understood. then he smiled at her directly. "you know what that means?" he said cutely. "it means see naples and die afterwards. don't die _before_ you've seen it." he smiled with a knowing smile. "i see! i see!" she cried. "i never thought of that." he was pleased with her surprise and amusement. "ah naples!" he said. "she is lovely--" he spread his hand across the air in front of him--"the sea--and posilippo--and sorrento--and capri--ah-h! you've never been out of england?" "no," she said. "i should love to go." he looked down into her eyes. it was his instinct to say at once he would take her. "you've seen nothing--nothing," he said to her. "but if naples is so lovely, how could you leave it?" she asked. "what?" she repeated her question. for answer, he looked at her, held out his hand, and rubbing the ball of his thumb across the tips of his fingers, said, with a fine, handsome smile: "pennies! money! you can't earn money in naples. ah, naples is beautiful, but she is poor. you live in the sun, and you earn fourteen, fifteen pence a day--" "not enough," she said. he put his head on one side and tilted his brows, as if to say "what are you to do?" and the smile on his mouth was sad, fine, and charming. there was an indefinable air of sadness or wistfulness about him, something so robust and fragile at the same time, that she was drawn in a strange way. "but you'll go back?" she said. "where?" "to italy. to naples." "yes, i shall go back to italy," he said, as if unwilling to commit himself. "but perhaps i shan't go back to naples." "never?" "ah, never! i don't say never. i shall go to naples, to see my mother's sister. but i shan't go to live--" "have you a mother and father?" "i? no! i have a brother and two sisters--in america. parents, none. they are dead." "and you wander about the world--" she said. he looked at her, and made a slight, sad gesture, indifferent also. "but you have madame for a mother," she said. he made another gesture this time: pressed down the corners of his mouth as if he didn't like it. then he turned with the slow, fine smile. "does a man want two mothers? eh?" he said, as if he posed a conundrum. "i shouldn't think so," laughed alvina. he glanced at her to see what she meant, what she understood. "my mother is dead, see!" he said. "frenchwomen--frenchwomen--they have their babies till they are a hundred--" "what do you mean?" said alvina, laughing. "a frenchman is a little man when he's seven years old--and if his mother comes, he is a little baby boy when he's seventy. do you know that?" "i _didn't_ know it," said alvina. "but now--you do," he said, lurching round a corner with her. they had come to the stables. three of the horses were there, including the thoroughbred ciccio was going to ride. he stood and examined the beasts critically. then he spoke to them with strange sounds, patted them, stroked them down, felt them, slid his hand down them, over them, under them, and felt their legs. then, he looked up from stooping there under the horses, with a long, slow look of his yellow eyes, at alvina. she felt unconsciously flattered. his long, yellow look lingered, holding her eyes. she wondered what he was thinking. yet he never spoke. he turned again to the horses. they seemed to understand him, to prick up alert. "this is mine," he said, with his hand on the neck of the old thoroughbred. it was a bay with a white blaze. "i think he's nice," she said. "he seems so sensitive." "in england," he answered suddenly, "horses live a long time, because they _don't_ live--never alive--see? in england railway-engines are alive, and horses go on wheels." he smiled into her eyes as if she understood. she was a trifle nervous as he smiled at her from out of the stable, so yellow-eyed and half-mysterious, derisive. her impulse was to turn and go away from the stable. but a deeper impulse made her smile into his face, as she said to him: "they like you to touch them." "who?" his eyes kept hers. curious how _dark_ they seemed, with only a yellow ring of pupil. he was looking right into her, beyond her usual self, impersonal. "the horses," she said. she was afraid of his long, cat-like look. yet she felt convinced of his ultimate good-nature. he seemed to her to be the only passionately good-natured man she had ever seen. she watched him vaguely, with strange vague trust, implicit belief in him. in him--in what? that afternoon the colliers trooping home in the winter afternoon were rejoiced with a spectacle: kishwégin, in her deerskin, fringed gaiters and fringed frock of deerskin, her long hair down her back, and with marvellous cloths and trappings on her steed, riding astride on a tall white horse, followed by max in chieftain's robes and chieftain's long head-dress of dyed feathers, then by the others in war-paint and feathers and brilliant navajo blankets. they carried bows and spears. ciccio was without his blanket, naked to the waist, in war-paint, and brandishing a long spear. he dashed up from the rear, saluted the chieftain with his arm and his spear on high as he swept past, suddenly drew up his rearing steed, and trotted slowly back again, making his horse perform its paces. he was extraordinarily velvety and alive on horseback. crowds of excited, shouting children ran chattering along the pavements. the colliers, as they tramped grey and heavy, in an intermittent stream uphill from the low grey west, stood on the pavement in wonder as the cavalcade approached and passed, jingling the silver bells of its trappings, vibrating the wonderful colours of the barred blankets and saddle cloths, the scarlet wool of the accoutrements, the bright tips of feathers. women shrieked as ciccio, in his war-paint, wheeled near the pavement. children screamed and ran. the colliers shouted. ciccio smiled in his terrifying war-paint, brandished his spear and trotted softly, like a flower on its stem, round to the procession. miss pinnegar and alvina and james houghton had come round into knarborough road to watch. it was a great moment. looking along the road they saw all the shopkeepers at their doors, the pavements eager. and then, in the distance, the white horse jingling its trappings of scarlet hair and bells, with the dusky kishwégin sitting on the saddle-blanket of brilliant, lurid stripes, sitting impassive and all dusky above that intermittent flashing of colour: then the chieftain, dark-faced, erect, easy, swathed in a white blanket, with scarlet and black stripes, and all his strange crest of white, tip-dyed feathers swaying down his back: as he came nearer one saw the wolfskin and the brilliant moccasins against the black sides of his horse; louis and goeffrey followed, lurid, horrid in the face, wearing blankets with stroke after stroke of blazing colour upon their duskiness, and sitting stern, holding their spears: lastly, ciccio, on his bay horse with a green seat, flickering hither and thither in the rear, his feathers swaying, his horse sweating, his face ghastlily smiling in its war-paint. so they advanced down the grey pallor of knarborough road, in the late wintry afternoon. somewhere the sun was setting, and far overhead was a flush of orange. "well i never!" murmured miss pinnegar. "well i never!" the strange savageness of the striped navajo blankets seemed to her unsettling, advancing down knarborough road: she examined kishwégin curiously. "can you _believe_ that that's mr. may--he's exactly like a girl. well, well--it makes you wonder what is and what isn't. but _aren't_ they good? what? most striking. exactly like indians. you can't believe your eyes. my word what a terrifying race they--" here she uttered a scream and ran back clutching the wall as ciccio swept past, brushing her with his horse's tail, and actually swinging his spear so as to touch alvina and james houghton lightly with the butt of it. james too started with a cry, the mob at the corner screamed. but alvina caught the slow, mischievous smile as the painted horror showed his teeth in passing; she was able to flash back an excited laugh. she felt his yellow-tawny eyes linger on her, in that one second, as if negligently. "i call that too much!" miss pinnegar was crying, thoroughly upset. "now that was unnecessary! why it was enough to scare one to death. besides, it's dangerous. it ought to be put a stop to. i don't believe in letting these show-people have liberties." the cavalcade was slowly passing, with its uneasy horses and its flare of striped colour and its silent riders. ciccio was trotting softly back, on his green saddle-cloth, suave as velvet, his dusky, naked torso beautiful. "eh, you'd think he'd get his death," the women in the crowd were saying. "a proper savage one, that. makes your blood run cold--" "ay, an' a man for all that, take's painted face for what's worth. a tidy man, _i_ say." he did not look at alvina. the faint, mischievous smile uncovered his teeth. he fell in suddenly behind geoffrey, with a jerk of his steed, calling out to geoffrey in italian. it was becoming cold. the cavalcade fell into a trot, mr. may shaking rather badly. ciccio halted, rested his lance against a lamp-post, switched his green blanket from beneath him, flung it round him as he sat, and darted off. they had all disappeared over the brow of lumley hill, descending. he was gone too. in the wintry twilight the crowd began, lingeringly, to turn away. and in some strange way, it manifested its disapproval of the spectacle: as grown-up men and women, they were a little bit insulted by such a show. it was an anachronism. they wanted a direct appeal to the mind. miss pinnegar expressed it. "well," she said, when she was safely back in manchester house, with the gas lighted, and as she was pouring the boiling water into the tea-pot, "you may say what you like. it's interesting in a way, just to show what savage red-indians were like. but it's childish. it's only childishness. i can't understand, myself, how people can go on liking shows. nothing happens. it's not like the cinema, where you see it all and take it all in at once; you _know_ everything at a glance. you don't know anything by looking at these people. you know they're only men dressed up, for money. i can't see why you should encourage it. i don't hold with idle show-people, parading round, i don't, myself. i like to go to the cinema once a week. it's instruction, you take it all in at a glance, all you need to know, and it lasts you for a week. you can get to know everything about people's actual lives from the cinema. i don't see why you want people dressing up and showing off." they sat down to their tea and toast and marmalade, during this harangue. miss pinnegar was always like a douche of cold water to alvina, bringing her back to consciousness after a delicious excitement. in a minute madame and ciccio and all seemed to become unreal--the actual unrealities: while the ragged dithering pictures of the film were actual, real as the day. and alvina was always put out when this happened. she really hated miss pinnegar. yet she had nothing to answer. they _were_ unreal, madame and ciccio and the rest. ciccio was just a fantasy blown in on the wind, to blow away again. the real, permanent thing was woodhouse, the _semper idem_ knarborough road, and the unchangeable grubby gloom of manchester house, with the stuffy, padding miss pinnegar, and her father, whose fingers, whose very soul seemed dirty with pennies. these were the solid, permanent fact. these were life itself. and ciccio, splashing up on his bay horse and green cloth, he was a mountebank and an extraneous nonentity, a coloured old rag blown down the knarborough road into limbo. into limbo. whilst miss pinnegar and her father sat frowsily on for ever, eating their toast and cutting off the crust, and sipping their third cup of tea. they would never blow away--never, never. woodhouse was there to eternity. and the natcha-kee-tawara troupe was blowing like a rag of old paper into limbo. nothingness! poor madame! poor gallant histrionic madame! the frowsy miss pinnegar could crumple her up and throw her down the utilitarian drain, and have done with her. whilst miss pinnegar lived on for ever. this put alvina into a sharp temper. "miss pinnegar," she said. "i do think you go on in the most unattractive way sometimes. you're a regular spoil-sport." "well," said miss pinnegar tartly. "i don't approve of your way of sport, i'm afraid." "you can't disapprove of it as much as i hate your spoil-sport existence," said alvina in a flare. "alvina, are you mad!" said her father. "wonder i'm not," said alvina, "considering what my life is." chapter viii ciccio madame did not pick up her spirits, after her cold. for two days she lay in bed, attended by mrs. rollings and alvina and the young men. but she was most careful never to give any room for scandal. the young men might not approach her save in the presence of some third party. and then it was strictly a visit of ceremony or business. "oh, your woodhouse, how glad i shall be when i have left it," she said to alvina. "i feel it is unlucky for me." "do you?" said alvina. "but if you'd had this bad cold in some places, you might have been much worse, don't you think." "oh my dear!" cried madame. "do you think i could confuse you in my dislike of this woodhouse? oh no! you are not woodhouse. on the contrary, i think it is unkind for you also, this place. you look--also--what shall i say--thin, not very happy." it was a note of interrogation. "i'm sure i dislike woodhouse much more than you can," replied alvina. "i am sure. yes! i am sure. i see it. why don't you go away? why don't you marry?" "nobody wants to marry me," said alvina. madame looked at her searchingly, with shrewd black eyes under her arched eyebrows. "how!" she exclaimed. "how don't they? you are not bad looking, only a little too thin--too haggard--" she watched alvina. alvina laughed uncomfortably. "is there _nobody_?" persisted madame. "not now," said alvina. "absolutely nobody." she looked with a confused laugh into madame's strict black eyes. "you see i didn't care for the woodhouse young men, either. i _couldn't_." madame nodded slowly up and down. a secret satisfaction came over her pallid, waxy countenance, in which her black eyes were like twin swift extraneous creatures: oddly like two bright little dark animals in the snow. "sure!" she said, sapient. "sure! how could you? but there are other men besides these here--" she waved her hand to the window. "i don't meet them, do i?" said alvina. "no, not often. but sometimes! sometimes!" there was a silence between the two women, very pregnant. "englishwomen," said madame, "are so practical. why are they?" "i suppose they can't help it," said alvina. "but they're not half so practical and clever as _you_, madame." "oh la--la! i am practical differently. i am practical impractically--" she stumbled over the words. "but your sue now, in jude the obscure--is it not an interesting book? and is she not always too practically practical. if she had been impractically practical she could have been quite happy. do you know what i mean?--no. but she is ridiculous. sue: so anna karénine. ridiculous both. don't you think?" "why?" said alvina. "why did they both make everybody unhappy, when they had the man they wanted, and enough money? i think they are both so silly. if they had been beaten, they would have lost all their practical ideas and troubles, merely forgot them, and been happy enough. i am a woman who says it. such ideas they have are not tragical. no, not at all. they are nonsense, you see, nonsense. that is all. nonsense. sue and anna, they are--non-sensical. that is all. no tragedy whatsoever. nonsense. i am a woman. i know men also. and i know nonsense when i see it. englishwomen are all nonsense: the worst women in the world for nonsense." "well, i am english," said alvina. "yes, my dear, you are english. but you are not necessarily so non-sensical. why are you at all?" "nonsensical?" laughed alvina. "but i don't know what you call my nonsense." "ah," said madame wearily. "they never understand. but i like you, my dear. i am an old woman--" "younger than i," said alvina. "younger than you, because i am practical from the heart, and not only from the head. you are not practical from the heart. and yet you have a heart." "but all englishwomen have good hearts," protested alvina. "no! no!" objected madame. "they are all ve-ry kind, and ve-ry practical with their kindness. but they have no heart in all their kindness. it is all head, all head: the kindness of the head." "i can't agree with you," said alvina. "no. no. i don't expect it. but i don't mind. you are very kind to me, and i thank you. but it is from the head, you see. and so i thank you from the head. from the heart--no." madame plucked her white fingers together and laid them on her breast with a gesture of repudiation. her black eyes stared spitefully. "but madame," said alvina, nettled, "i should never be half such a good business woman as you. isn't that from the head?" "ha! of course! of course you wouldn't be a good business woman. because you are kind from the head. i--" she tapped her forehead and shook her head--"i am not kind from the head. from the head i am business-woman, good business-woman. of course i am a good business-woman--of course! but--" here she changed her expression, widened her eyes, and laid her hand on her breast--"when the heart speaks--then i listen with the heart. i do not listen with the head. the heart hears the heart. the head--that is another thing. but you have blue eyes, you cannot understand. only dark eyes--" she paused and mused. "and what about yellow eyes?" asked alvina, laughing. madame darted a look at her, her lips curling with a very faint, fine smile of derision. yet for the first time her black eyes dilated and became warm. "yellow eyes like ciccio's?" she said, with her great watchful eyes and her smiling, subtle mouth. "they are the darkest of all." and she shook her head roguishly. "are they!" said alvina confusedly, feeling a blush burning up her throat into her face. "ha--ha!" laughed madame. "ha-ha! i am an old woman, you see. my heart is old enough to be kind, and my head is old enough to be clever. my heart is kind to few people--very few--especially in this england. my young men know that. but perhaps to you it is kind." "thank you," said alvina. "there! from the head _thank you_. it is not well done, you see. you see!" but alvina ran away in confusion. she felt madame was having her on a string. mr. may enjoyed himself hugely playing kishwégin. when madame came downstairs louis, who was a good satirical mimic, imitated him. alvina happened to come into their sitting-room in the midst of their bursts of laughter. they all stopped and looked at her cautiously. "continuez! continuez!" said madame to louis. and to alvina: "sit down, my dear, and see what a good actor we have in our louis." louis glanced round, laid his head a little on one side and drew in his chin, with mr. may's smirk exactly, and wagging his tail slightly, he commenced to play the false kishwégin. he sidled and bridled and ejaculated with raised hands, and in the dumb show the tall frenchman made such a ludicrous caricature of mr. houghton's manager that madame wept again with laughter, whilst max leaned back against the wall and giggled continuously like some pot involuntarily boiling. geoffrey spread his shut fists across the table and shouted with laughter, ciccio threw back his head and showed all his teeth in a loud laugh of delighted derision. alvina laughed also. but she flushed. there was a certain biting, annihilating quality in louis' derision of the absentee. and the others enjoyed it so much. at moments alvina caught her lip between her teeth, it was so screamingly funny, and so annihilating. she laughed in spite of herself. in spite of herself she was shaken into a convulsion of laughter. louis was masterful--he mastered her psyche. she laughed till her head lay helpless on the chair, she could not move. helpless, inert she lay, in her orgasm of laughter. the end of mr. may. yet she was hurt. and then madame wiped her own shrewd black eyes, and nodded slow approval. suddenly louis started and held up a warning finger. they all at once covered their smiles and pulled themselves together. only alvina lay silently laughing. "oh, good morning, mrs. rollings!" they heard mr. may's voice. "your company is lively. is miss houghton here? may i go through?" they heard his quick little step and his quick little tap. "come in," called madame. the natcha-kee-tawaras all sat with straight faces. only poor alvina lay back in her chair in a new weak convulsion. mr. may glanced quickly round, and advanced to madame. "oh, good-morning, madame, so glad to see you downstairs," he said, taking her hand and bowing ceremoniously. "excuse my intruding on your mirth!" he looked archly round. alvina was still incompetent. she lay leaning sideways in her chair, and could not even speak to him. "it was evidently a good joke," he said. "may i hear it too?" "oh," said madame, drawling. "it was no joke. it was only louis making a fool of himself, doing a turn." "must have been a good one," said mr. may. "can't we put it on?" "no," drawled madame, "it was nothing--just a non-sensical mood of the moment. won't you sit down? you would like a little whiskey?--yes?" max poured out whiskey and water for mr. may. alvina sat with her face averted, quiet, but unable to speak to mr. may. max and louis had become polite. geoffrey stared with his big, dark-blue eyes stolidly at the newcomer. ciccio leaned with his arms on his knees, looking sideways under his long lashes at the inert alvina. "well," said madame, "and are you satisfied with your houses?" "oh yes," said mr. may. "quite! the two nights have been excellent. excellent!" "ah--i am glad. and miss houghton tells me i should not dance tomorrow, it is too soon." "miss houghton _knows_," said mr. may archly. "of course!" said madame. "i must do as she tells me." "why yes, since it is for your good, and not hers." "of course! of course! it is very kind of her." "miss houghton is _most_ kind--to _every one_," said mr. may. "i am sure," said madame. "and i am very glad you have been such a good kishwégin. that is very nice also." "yes," replied mr. may. "i begin to wonder if i have mistaken my vocation. i should have been _on_ the boards, instead of behind them." "no doubt," said madame. "but it is a little late--" the eyes of the foreigners, watching him, flattered mr. may. "i'm afraid it is," he said. "yes. popular taste is a mysterious thing. how do you feel, now? do you feel they appreciate your work as much as they did?" madame watched him with her black eyes. "no," she replied. "they don't. the pictures are driving us away. perhaps we shall last for ten years more. and after that, we are finished." "you think so," said mr. may, looking serious. "i am sure," she said, nodding sagely. "but why is it?" said mr. may, angry and petulant. "why is it? i don't know. i don't know. the pictures are cheap, and they are easy, and they cost the audience nothing, no feeling of the heart, no appreciation of the spirit, cost them nothing of these. and so they like them, and they don't like us, because they must _feel_ the things we do, from the heart, and appreciate them from the spirit. there!" "and they don't want to appreciate and to feel?" said mr. may. "no. they don't want. they want it all through the eye, and finished--so! just curiosity, impertinent curiosity. that's all. in all countries, the same. and so--in ten years' time--no more kishwégin at all." "no. then what future have you?" said mr. may gloomily. "i may be dead--who knows. if not, i shall have my little apartment in lausanne, or in bellizona, and i shall be a bourgeoise once more, and the good catholic which i am." "which i am also," said mr. may. "so! are you? an american catholic?" "well--english--irish--american." "so!" mr. may never felt more gloomy in his life than he did that day. where, finally, was he to rest his troubled head? there was not all peace in the natcha-kee-tawara group either. for thursday, there was to be a change of program--"kishwégin's wedding--" (with the white prisoner, be if said)--was to take the place of the previous scene. max of course was the director of the rehearsal. madame would not come near the theatre when she herself was not to be acting. though very quiet and unobtrusive as a rule, max could suddenly assume an air of _hauteur_ and overbearing which was really very annoying. geoffrey always fumed under it. but ciccio it put into unholy, ungovernable tempers. for max, suddenly, would reveal his contempt of the eyetalian, as he called ciccio, using the cockney word. "bah! quelle tête de veau," said max, suddenly contemptuous and angry because ciccio, who really was slow at taking in the things said to him, had once more failed to understand. "comment?" queried ciccio, in his slow, derisive way. "_comment_!" sneered max, in echo. "_what?_ _what?_ why what _did_ i say? calf's-head i said. pig's-head, if that seems more suitable to you." "to whom? to me or to you?" said ciccio, sidling up. "to you, lout of an italian." max's colour was up, he held himself erect, his brown hair seemed to rise erect from his forehead, his blue eyes glared fierce. "that is to say, to me, from an uncivilized german pig, ah? ah?" all this in french. alvina, as she sat at the piano, saw max tall and blanched with anger; ciccio with his neck stuck out, oblivious and convulsed with rage, stretching his neck at max. all were in ordinary dress, but without coats, acting in their shirt-sleeves. ciccio was clutching a property knife. "now! none of that! none of that!" said mr. may, peremptory. but ciccio, stretching forward taut and immobile with rage, was quite unconscious. his hand was fast on his stage knife. "a dirty eyetalian," said max, in english, turning to mr. may. "they understand nothing." but the last word was smothered in ciccio's spring and stab. max half started on to his guard, received the blow on his collar-bone, near the pommel of the shoulder, reeled round on top of mr. may, whilst ciccio sprang like a cat down from the stage and bounded across the theatre and out of the door, leaving the knife rattling on the boards behind him. max recovered and sprang like a demon, white with rage, straight out into the theatre after him. "stop--stop--!" cried mr. may. "halte, max! max, max, attends!" cried louis and geoffrey, as louis sprang down after his friend. thud went the boards again, with the spring of a man. alvina, who had been seated waiting at the piano below, started up and overturned her chair as ciccio rushed past her. now max, white, with set blue eyes, was upon her. "don't--!" she cried, lifting her hand to stop his progress. he saw her, swerved, and hesitated, turned to leap over the seats and avoid her, when louis caught him and flung his arms round him. "max--attends, ami! laisse le partir. max, tu sais que je t'aime. tu le sais, ami. tu le sais. laisse le partir." max and louis wrestled together in the gangway, max looking down with hate on his friend. but louis was determined also, he wrestled as fiercely as max, and at last the latter began to yield. he was panting and beside himself. louis still held him by the hand and by the arm. "let him go, brother, he isn't worth it. what does he understand, max, dear brother, what does he understand? these fellows from the south, they are half children, half animal. they don't know what they are doing. has he hurt you, dear friend? has he hurt you? it was a dummy knife, but it was a heavy blow--the dog of an italian. let us see." so gradually max was brought to stand still. from under the edge of his waistcoat, on the shoulder, the blood was already staining the shirt. "are you cut, brother, brother?" said louis. "let us see." max now moved his arm with pain. they took off his waistcoat and pushed back his shirt. a nasty blackening wound, with the skin broken. "if the bone isn't broken!" said louis anxiously. "if the bone isn't broken! lift thy arm, frère--lift. it hurts you--so--. no--no--it is not broken--no--the bone is not broken." "there is no bone broken, i know," said max. "the animal. he hasn't done _that_, at least." "where do you imagine he's gone?" asked mr. may. the foreigners shrugged their shoulders, and paid no heed. there was no more rehearsal. "we had best go home and speak to madame," said mr. may, who was very frightened for his evening performance. they locked up the endeavour. alvina was thinking of ciccio. he was gone in his shirt sleeves. she had taken his jacket and hat from the dressing-room at the back, and carried them under her rain-coat, which she had on her arm. madame was in a state of perturbation. she had heard some one come in at the back, and go upstairs, and go out again. mrs. rollings had told her it was the italian, who had come in in his shirt-sleeves and gone out in his black coat and black hat, taking his bicycle, without saying a word. poor madame! she was struggling into her shoes, she had her hat on, when the others arrived. "what is it?" she cried. she heard a hurried explanation from louis. "ah, the animal, the animal, he wasn't worth all my pains!" cried poor madame, sitting with one shoe off and one shoe on. "why, max, why didst thou not remain man enough to control that insulting mountain temper of thine. have i not said, and said, and said that in the natcha-kee-tawara there was but one nation, the red indian, and but one tribe, the tribe of kishwe? and now thou hast called him a dirty italian, or a dog of an italian, and he has behaved like an animal. too much, too much of an animal, too little _esprit_. but thou, max, art almost as bad. thy temper is a devil's, which maybe is worse than an animal's. ah, this woodhouse, a curse is on it, i know it is. would we were away from it. will the week never pass? we shall have to find ciccio. without him the company is ruined--until i get a substitute. i must get a substitute. and how?--and where?--in this country?--tell me that. i am tired of natcha-kee-tawara. there is no true tribe of kishwe--no, never. i have had enough of natcha-kee-tawara. let us break up, let us part, _mes braves_, let us say adieu here in this _funeste_ woodhouse." "oh, madame, dear madame," said louis, "let us hope. let us swear a closer fidelity, dear madame, our kishwégin. let us never part. max, thou dost not want to part, brother, well-loved? thou dost not want to part, brother whom i love? and thou, geoffrey, thou--" madame burst into tears, louis wept too, even max turned aside his face, with tears. alvina stole out of the room, followed by mr. may. in a while madame came out to them. "oh," she said. "you have not gone away! we are wondering which way ciccio will have gone, on to knarborough or to marchay. geoffrey will go on his bicycle to find him. but shall it be to knarborough or to marchay?" "ask the policeman in the market-place," said alvina. "he's sure to have noticed him, because ciccio's yellow bicycle is so uncommon." mr. may tripped out on this errand, while the others discussed among themselves where ciccio might be. mr. may returned, and said that ciccio had ridden off down the knarborough road. it was raining slightly. "ah!" said madame. "and now how to find him, in that great town. i am afraid he will leave us without pity." "surely he will want to speak to geoffrey before he goes," said louis. "they were always good friends." they all looked at geoffrey. he shrugged his broad shoulders. "always good friends," he said. "yes. he will perhaps wait for me at his cousin's in battersea. in knarborough, i don't know." "how much money had he?" asked mr. may. madame spread her hands and lifted her shoulders. "who knows?" she said. "these italians," said louis, turning to mr. may. "they have always money. in another country, they will not spend one sou if they can help. they are like this--" and he made the neapolitan gesture drawing in the air with his fingers. "but would he abandon you all without a word?" cried mr. may. "yes! yes!" said madame, with a sort of stoic pathos. "_he_ would. he alone would do such a thing. but he would do it." "and what point would he make for?" "what point? you mean where would he go? to battersea, no doubt, to his cousin--and then to italy, if he thinks he has saved enough money to buy land, or whatever it is." "and so good-bye to him," said mr. may bitterly. "geoffrey ought to know," said madame, looking at geoffrey. geoffrey shrugged his shoulders, and would not give his comrade away. "no," he said. "i don't know. he will leave a message at battersea, i know. but i don't know if he will go to italy." "and you don't know where to find him in knarborough?" asked mr. may, sharply, very much on the spot. "no--i don't. perhaps at the station he will go by train to london." it was evident geoffrey was not going to help mr. may. "alors!" said madame, cutting through this futility. "go thou to knarborough, geoffrey, and see--and be back at the theatre for work. go now. and if thou can'st find him, bring him again to us. tell him to come out of kindness to me. tell him." and she waved the young man away. he departed on his nine mile ride through the rain to knarborough. "they know," said madame. "they know each other's places. it is a little more than a year since we came to knarborough. but they will remember." geoffrey rode swiftly as possible through the mud. he did not care very much whether he found his friend or not. he liked the italian, but he never looked on him as a permanency. he knew ciccio was dissatisfied, and wanted a change. he knew that italy was pulling him away from the troupe, with which he had been associated now for three years or more. and the swiss from martigny knew that the neapolitan would go, breaking all ties, one day suddenly back to italy. it was so, and geoffrey was philosophical about it. he rode into town, and the first thing he did was to seek out the music-hall artistes at their lodgings. he knew a good many of them. they gave him a welcome and a whiskey--but none of them had seen ciccio. they sent him off to other artistes, other lodging-houses. he went the round of associates known and unknown, of lodgings strange and familiar, of third-rate possible public houses. then he went to the italians down in the marsh--he knew these people always ask for one another. and then, hurrying, he dashed to the midland station, and then to the great central station, asking the porters on the london departure platform if they had seen his pal, a man with a yellow bicycle, and a black bicycle cape. all to no purpose. geoffrey hurriedly lit his lamp and swung off in the dark back to woodhouse. he was a powerfully built, imperturbable fellow. he pressed slowly uphill through the streets, then ran downhill into the darkness of the industrial country. he had continually to cross the new tram-lines, which were awkward, and he had occasionally to dodge the brilliantly-illuminated tram-cars which threaded their way across-country through so much darkness. all the time it rained, and his back wheel slipped under him, in the mud and on the new tram-track. as he pressed in the long darkness that lay between slaters mill and durbeyhouses, he saw a light ahead--another cyclist. he moved to his side of the road. the light approached very fast. it was a strong acetylene flare. he watched it. a flash and a splash and he saw the humped back of what was probably ciccio going by at a great pace on the low racing machine. "hi cic'--! ciccio!" he yelled, dropping off his own bicycle. "ha-er-er!" he heard the answering shout, unmistakably italian, way down the darkness. he turned--saw the other cyclist had stopped. the flare swung round, and ciccio softly rode up. he dropped off beside geoffrey. "toi!" said ciccio. "hé! où vas-tu?" "hé!" ejaculated ciccio. their conversation consisted a good deal in noises variously ejaculated. "coming back?" asked geoffrey. "where've you been?" retorted ciccio. "knarborough--looking for thee. where have you--?" "buckled my front wheel at durbeyhouses." "come off?" "hé!" "hurt?" "nothing." "max is all right." "merde!" "come on, come back with me." "nay." ciccio shook his head. "madame's crying. wants thee to come back." ciccio shook his head. "come on, cic'--" said geoffrey. ciccio shook his head. "never?" said geoffrey. "basta--had enough," said ciccio, with an invisible grimace. "come for a bit, and we'll clear together." ciccio again shook his head. "what, is it adieu?" ciccio did not speak. "don't go, comrade," said geoffrey. "faut," said ciccio, slightly derisive. "eh alors! i'd like to come with thee. what?" "where?" "doesn't matter. thou'rt going to italy?" "who knows!--seems so." "i'd like to go back." "eh alors!" ciccio half veered round. "wait for me a few days," said geoffrey. "where?" "see you tomorrow in knarborough. go to mrs. pym's, hampden street. gittiventi is there. right, eh?" "i'll think about it." "eleven o'clock, eh?" "i'll think about it." "friends ever--ciccio--eh?" geoffrey held out his hand. ciccio slowly took it. the two men leaned to each other and kissed farewell, on either cheek. "tomorrow, cic'--" "au revoir, gigi." ciccio dropped on to his bicycle and was gone in a breath. geoffrey waited a moment for a tram which was rushing brilliantly up to him in the rain. then he mounted and rode in the opposite direction. he went straight down to lumley, and madame had to remain on tenterhooks till ten o'clock. she heard the news, and said: "tomorrow i go to fetch him." and with this she went to bed. in the morning she was up betimes, sending a note to alvina. alvina appeared at nine o'clock. "you will come with me?" said madame. "come. together we will go to knarborough and bring back the naughty ciccio. come with me, because i haven't all my strength. yes, you will? good! good! let us tell the young men, and we will go now, on the tram-car." "but i am not properly dressed," said alvina. "who will see?" said madame. "come, let us go." they told geoffrey they would meet him at the corner of hampden street at five minutes to eleven. "you see," said madame to alvina, "they are very funny, these young men, particularly italians. you must never let them think you have caught them. perhaps he will not let us see him--who knows? perhaps he will go off to italy all the same." they sat in the bumping tram-car, a long and wearying journey. and then they tramped the dreary, hideous streets of the manufacturing town. at the corner of the street they waited for geoffrey, who rode up muddily on his bicycle. "ask ciccio to come out to us, and we will go and drink coffee at the geisha restaurant--or tea or something," said madame. again the two women waited wearily at the street-end. at last geoffrey returned, shaking his head. "he won't come?" cried madame. "no." "he says he is going back to italy?" "to london." "it is the same. you can never trust them. is he quite obstinate?" geoffrey lifted his shoulders. madame could see the beginnings of defection in him too. and she was tired and dispirited. "we shall have to finish the natcha-kee-tawara, that is all," she said fretfully. geoffrey watched her stolidly, impassively. "dost thou want to go with him?" she asked suddenly. geoffrey smiled sheepishly, and his colour deepened. but he did not speak. "go then--" she said. "go then! go with him! but for the sake of my honour, finish this week at woodhouse. can i make miss houghton's father lose these two nights? where is your shame? finish this week and then go, go--but finish this week. tell francesco that. i have finished with him. but let him finish this engagement. don't put me to shame, don't destroy my honour, and the honour of the natcha-kee-tawara. tell him that." geoffrey turned again into the house. madame, in her chic little black hat and spotted veil, and her trim black coat-and-skirt, stood there at the street-corner staring before her, shivering a little with cold, but saying no word of any sort. again geoffrey appeared out of the doorway. his face was impassive. "he says he doesn't want," he said. "ah!" she cried suddenly in french, "the ungrateful, the animal! he shall suffer. see if he shall not suffer. the low canaille, without faith or feeling. my max, thou wert right. ah, such canaille should be beaten, as dogs are beaten, till they follow at heel. will no one beat him for me, no one? yes. go back. tell him before he leaves england he shall feel the hand of kishwégin, and it shall be heavier than the black hand. tell him that, the coward, that causes a woman's word to be broken against her will. ah, canaille, canaille! neither faith nor feeling, neither faith nor feeling. trust them not, dogs of the south." she took a few agitated steps down the pavement. then she raised her veil to wipe away her tears of anger and bitter disappointment. "wait a bit," said alvina. "i'll go." she was touched. "no. don't you!" cried madame. "yes i will," she said. the light of battle was in her eyes. "you'll come with me to the door," she said to geoffrey. geoffrey started obediently, and led the way up a long narrow stair, covered with yellow-and-brown oil-cloth, rather worn, on to the top of the house. "ciccio," he said, outside the door. "oui!" came the curly voice of ciccio. geoffrey opened the door. ciccio was sitting on a narrow bed, in a rather poor attic, under the steep slope of the roof. "don't come in," said alvina to geoffrey, looking over her shoulder at him as she entered. then she closed the door behind her, and stood with her back to it, facing the italian. he sat loose on the bed, a cigarette between his fingers, dropping ash on the bare boards between his feet. he looked up curiously at alvina. she stood watching him with wide, bright blue eyes, smiling slightly, and saying nothing. he looked up at her steadily, on his guard, from under his long black lashes. "won't you come?" she said, smiling and looking into his eyes. he flicked off the ash of his cigarette with his little finger. she wondered why he wore the nail of his little finger so long, so very long. still she smiled at him, and still he gave no sign. "do come!" she urged, never taking her eyes from him. he made not the slightest movement, but sat with his hands dropped between his knees, watching her, the cigarette wavering up its blue thread of smoke. "won't you?" she said, as she stood with her back to the door. "won't you come?" she smiled strangely and vividly. suddenly she took a pace forward, stooped, watching his face as if timidly, caught his brown hand in her own and lifted it towards herself. his hand started, dropped the cigarette, but was not withdrawn. "you will come, won't you?" she said, smiling gently into his strange, watchful yellow eyes, that looked fixedly into hers, the dark pupil opening round and softening. she smiled into his softening round eyes, the eyes of some animal which stares in one of its silent, gentler moments. and suddenly she kissed his hand, kissed it twice, quickly, on the fingers and the back. he wore a silver ring. even as she kissed his fingers with her lips, the silver ring seemed to her a symbol of his subjection, inferiority. she drew his hand slightly. and he rose to his feet. she turned round and took the door-handle, still holding his fingers in her left hand. "you are coming, aren't you?" she said, looking over her shoulder into his eyes. and taking consent from his unchanging eyes, she let go his hand and slightly opened the door. he turned slowly, and taking his coat from a nail, slung it over his shoulders and drew it on. then he picked up his hat, and put his foot on his half-smoked cigarette, which lay smoking still. he followed her out of the room, walking with his head rather forward, in the half loutish, sensual-subjected way of the italians. as they entered the street, they saw the trim, french figure of madame standing alone, as if abandoned. her face was very white under her spotted veil, her eyes very black. she watched ciccio following behind alvina in his dark, hangdog fashion, and she did not move a muscle until he came to a standstill in front of her. she was watching his face. "te voilà donc!" she said, without expression. "allons boire un café, hé? let us go and drink some coffee." she had now put an inflection of tenderness into her voice. but her eyes were black with anger. ciccio smiled slowly, the slow, fine, stupid smile, and turned to walk alongside. madame said nothing as they went. geoffrey passed on his bicycle, calling out that he would go straight to woodhouse. when the three sat with their cups of coffee, madame pushed up her veil just above her eyes, so that it was a black band above her brows. her face was pale and full like a child's, but almost stonily expressionless, her eyes were black and inscrutable. she watched both ciccio and alvina with her black, inscrutable looks. "would you like also biscuits with your coffee, the two of you?" she said, with an amiable intonation which her strange black looks belied. "yes," said alvina. she was a little flushed, as if defiant, while ciccio sat sheepishly, turning aside his ducked head, the slow, stupid, yet fine smile on his lips. "and no more trouble with max, hein?--you ciccio?" said madame, still with the amiable intonation and the same black, watching eyes. "no more of these stupid scenes, hein? what? do you answer me." "no more from me," he said, looking up at her with a narrow, cat-like look in his derisive eyes. "ho? no? no more? good then! it is good! we are glad, aren't we, miss houghton, that ciccio has come back and there are to be no more rows?--hein?--aren't we?" "_i'm_ awfully glad," said alvina. "awfully glad--yes--awfully glad! you hear, you ciccio. and you remember another time. what? don't you? hé?" he looked up at her, the slow, derisive smile curling his lips. "sure," he said slowly, with subtle intonation. "yes. good! well then! well then! we are all friends. we are all friends, aren't we, all the natcha-kee-tawaras? hé? what you think? what you say?" "yes," said ciccio, again looking up at her with his yellow, glinting eyes. "all right! all right then! it is all right--forgotten--" madame sounded quite frank and restored. but the sullen watchfulness in her eyes, and the narrowed look in ciccio's, as he glanced at her, showed another state behind the obviousness of the words. "and miss houghton is one of us! yes? she has united us once more, and so she has become one of us." madame smiled strangely from her blank, round white face. "i should love to be one of the natcha-kee-tawaras," said alvina. "yes--well--why not? why not become one? why not? what you say, ciccio? you can play the piano, perhaps do other things. perhaps better than kishwégin. what you say, ciccio, should she not join us? is she not one of us?" he smiled and showed his teeth but did not answer. "well, what is it? say then? shall she not?" "yes," said ciccio, unwilling to commit himself. "yes, so i say! so i say. quite a good idea! we will think of it, and speak perhaps to your father, and you shall come! yes." so the two women returned to woodhouse by the tram-car, while ciccio rode home on his bicycle. it was surprising how little madame and alvina found to say to one another. madame effected the reunion of her troupe, and all seemed pretty much as before. she had decided to dance the next night, the saturday night. on sunday the party would leave for warsall, about thirty miles away, to fulfil their next engagement. that evening ciccio, whenever he had a moment to spare, watched alvina. she knew it. but she could not make out what his watching meant. in the same way he might have watched a serpent, had he found one gliding in the theatre. he looked at her sideways, furtively, but persistently. and yet he did not want to meet her glance. he avoided her, and watched her. as she saw him standing, in his negligent, muscular, slouching fashion, with his head dropped forward, and his eyes sideways, sometimes she disliked him. but there was a sort of _finesse_ about his face. his skin was delicately tawny, and slightly lustrous. the eyes were set in so dark, that one expected them to be black and flashing. and then one met the yellow pupils, sulphureous and remote. it was like meeting a lion. his long, fine nose, his rather long, rounded chin and curling lips seemed refined through ages of forgotten culture. he was waiting: silent there, with something muscular and remote about his very droop, he was waiting. what for? alvina could not guess. she wanted to meet his eye, to have an open understanding with him. but he would not. when she went up to talk to him, he answered in his stupid fashion, with a smile of the mouth and no change of the eyes, saying nothing at all. obstinately he held away from her. when he was in his war-paint, for one moment she hated his muscular, handsome, downward-drooping torso: so stupid and full. the fine sharp uprightness of max seemed much finer, clearer, more manly. ciccio's velvety, suave heaviness, the very heave of his muscles, so full and softly powerful, sickened her. she flashed away angrily on her piano. madame, who was dancing kishwégin on the last evening, cast sharp glances at her. alvina had avoided madame as ciccio had avoided alvina--elusive and yet conscious, a distance, and yet a connection. madame danced beautifully. no denying it, she was an artist. she became something quite different: fresh, virginal, pristine, a magic creature flickering there. she was infinitely delicate and attractive. her _braves_ became glamorous and heroic at once, and magically she cast her spell over them. it was all very well for alvina to bang the piano crossly. she could not put out the glow which surrounded kishwégin and her troupe. ciccio was handsome now: without war-paint, and roused, fearless and at the same time suggestive, a dark, mysterious glamour on his face, passionate and remote. a stranger--and so beautiful. alvina flashed at the piano, almost in tears. she hated his beauty. it shut her apart. she had nothing to do with it. madame, with her long dark hair hanging in finely-brushed tresses, her cheek burning under its dusky stain, was another creature. how soft she was on her feet. how humble and remote she seemed, as across a chasm from the men. how submissive she was, with an eternity of inaccessible submission. her hovering dance round the dead bear was exquisite: her dark, secretive curiosity, her admiration of the massive, male strength of the creature, her quivers of triumph over the dead beast, her cruel exultation, and her fear that he was not really dead. it was a lovely sight, suggesting the world's morning, before eve had bitten any white-fleshed apple, whilst she was still dusky, dark-eyed, and still. and then her stealthy sympathy with the white prisoner! now indeed she was the dusky eve tempted into knowledge. her fascination was ruthless. she kneeled by the dead _brave_, her husband, as she had knelt by the bear: in fear and admiration and doubt and exultation. she gave him the least little push with her foot. dead meat like the bear! and a flash of delight went over her, that changed into a sob of mortal anguish. and then, flickering, wicked, doubtful, she watched ciccio wrestling with the bear. she was the clue to all the action, was kishwégin. and her dark _braves_ seemed to become darker, more secret, malevolent, burning with a cruel fire, and at the same time wistful, knowing their end. ciccio laughed in a strange way, as he wrestled with the bear, as he had never laughed on the previous evenings. the sound went out into the audience, a soft, malevolent, derisive sound. and when the bear was supposed to have crushed him, and he was to have fallen, he reeled out of the bear's arms and said to madame, in his derisive voice: "vivo sempre, madame." and then he fell. madame stopped as if shot, hearing his words: "i am still alive, madame." she remained suspended motionless, suddenly wilted. then all at once her hand went to her mouth with a scream: "the bear!" so the scene concluded itself. but instead of the tender, half-wistful triumph of kishwégin, a triumph electric as it should have been when she took the white man's hand and kissed it, there was a doubt, a hesitancy, a nullity, and max did not quite know what to do. after the performance, neither madame nor max dared say anything to ciccio about his innovation into the play. louis felt he had to speak--it was left to him. "i say, cic'--" he said, "why did you change the scene? it might have spoiled everything if madame wasn't such a genius. why did you say that?" "why," said ciccio, answering louis' french in italian, "i am tired of being dead, you see." madame and max heard in silence. when alvina had played _god save the king_ she went round behind the stage. but ciccio and geoffrey had already packed up the property, and left. madame was talking to james houghton. louis and max were busy together. mr. may came to alvina. "well," he said. "that closes another week. i think we've done very well, in face of difficulties, don't you?" "wonderfully," she said. but poor mr. may spoke and looked pathetically. he seemed to feel forlorn. alvina was not attending to him. her eye was roving. she took no notice of him. madame came up. "well, miss houghton," she said, "time to say good-bye, i suppose." "how do you feel after dancing?" asked alvina. "well--not so strong as usual--but not so bad, you know. i shall be all right--thanks to you. i think your father is more ill than i. to me he looks very ill." "father wears himself away," said alvina. "yes, and when we are no longer young, there is not so much to wear. well, i must thank you once more--" "what time do you leave in the morning?" "by the train at half-past ten. if it doesn't rain, the young men will cycle--perhaps all of them. then they will go when they like--" "i will come round to say good-bye--" said alvina. "oh no--don't disturb yourself--" "yes, i want to take home the things--the kettle for the bronchitis, and those things--" "oh thank you very much--but don't trouble yourself. i will send ciccio with them--or one of the others--" "i should like to say good-bye to you all," persisted alvina. madame glanced round at max and louis. "are we not all here? no. the two have gone. no! well! well what time will you come?" "about nine?" "very well, and i leave at ten. very well. then _au revoir_ till the morning. good-night." "good-night," said alvina. her colour was rather flushed. she walked up with mr. may, and hardly noticed he was there. after supper, when james houghton had gone up to count his pennies, alvina said to miss pinnegar: "don't you think father looks rather seedy, miss pinnegar?" "i've been thinking so a long time," said miss pinnegar tartly. "what do you think he ought to do?" "he's killing himself down there, in all weathers and freezing in that box-office, and then the bad atmosphere. he's killing himself, that's all." "what can we do?" "nothing so long as there's that place down there. nothing at all." alvina thought so too. so she went to bed. she was up in time, and watching the clock. it was a grey morning, but not raining. at five minutes to nine, she hurried off to mrs. rollings. in the back yard the bicycles were out, glittering and muddy according to their owners. ciccio was crouching mending a tire, crouching balanced on his toes, near the earth. he turned like a quick-eared animal glancing up as she approached, but did not rise. "are you getting ready to go?" she said, looking down at him. he screwed his head round to her unwillingly, upside down, his chin tilted up at her. she did not know him thus inverted. her eyes rested on his face, puzzled. his chin seemed so large, aggressive. he was a little bit repellent and brutal, inverted. yet she continued: "would you help me to carry back the things we brought for madame?" he rose to his feet, but did not look at her. he was wearing broken cycling shoes. he stood looking at his bicycle tube. "not just yet," she said. "i want to say good-bye to madame. will you come in half an hour?" "yes, i will come," he said, still watching his bicycle tube, which sprawled nakedly on the floor. the forward drop of his head was curiously beautiful to her, the straight, powerful nape of the neck, the delicate shape of the back of the head, the black hair. the way the neck sprang from the strong, loose shoulders was beautiful. there was something mindless but _intent_ about the forward reach of his head. his face seemed colourless, neutral-tinted and expressionless. she went indoors. the young men were moving about making preparations. "come upstairs, miss houghton!" called madame's voice from above. alvina mounted, to find madame packing. "it is an uneasy moment, when we are busy to move," said madame, looking up at alvina as if she were a stranger. "i'm afraid i'm in the way. but i won't stay a minute." "oh, it is all right. here are the things you brought--" madame indicated a little pile--"and thank you _very_ much, _very_ much. i feel you saved my life. and now let me give you one little token of my gratitude. it is not much, because we are not millionaires in the natcha-kee-tawara. just a little remembrance of our troublesome visit to woodhouse." she presented alvina with a pair of exquisite bead moccasins, woven in a weird, lovely pattern, with soft deerskin soles and sides. "they belong to kishwégin, so it is kishwégin who gives them to you, because she is grateful to you for saving her life, or at least from a long illness." "oh--but i don't want to take them--" said alvina. "you don't like them? why?" "i think they're lovely, lovely! but i don't want to take them from you--" "if i give them, you do not take them from me. you receive them. hé?" and madame pressed back the slippers, opening her plump jewelled hands in a gesture of finality. "but i don't like to take _these_," said alvina. "i feel they belong to natcha-kee-tawara. and i don't want to rob natcha-kee-tawara, do i? do take them back." "no, i have given them. you cannot rob natcha-kee-tawara in taking a pair of shoes--impossible!" "and i'm sure they are much too small for me." "ha!" exclaimed madame. "it is that! try." "i know they are," said alvina, laughing confusedly. she sat down and took off her own shoe. the moccasin was a little too short--just a little. but it was charming on the foot, charming. "yes," said madame. "it is too short. very well. i must find you something else." "please don't," said alvina. "please don't find me anything. i don't want anything. please!" "what?" said madame, eyeing her closely. "you don't want? why? you don't want anything from natcha-kee-tawara, or from kishwégin? hé? from which?" "don't give me anything, please," said alvina. "all right! all right then. i won't. i won't give you anything. i can't give you anything you want from natcha-kee-tawara." and madame busied herself again with the packing. "i'm awfully sorry you are going," said alvina. "sorry? why? yes, so am i sorry we shan't see you any more. yes, so i am. but perhaps we shall see you another time--hé? i shall send you a post-card. perhaps i shall send one of the young men on his bicycle, to bring you something which i shall buy for you. yes? shall i?" "oh! i should be awfully glad--but don't buy--" alvina checked herself in time. "don't buy anything. send me a little thing from natcha-kee-tawara. i _love_ the slippers--" "but they are too small," said madame, who had been watching her with black eyes that read every motive. madame too had her avaricious side, and was glad to get back the slippers. "very well--very well, i will do that. i will send you some small thing from natcha-kee-tawara, and one of the young men shall bring it. perhaps ciccio? hé?" "thank you _so_ much," said alvina, holding out her hand. "good-bye. i'm so sorry you're going." "well--well! we are not going so very far. not so very far. perhaps we shall see each other another day. it may be. good-bye!" madame took alvina's hand, and smiled at her winsomely all at once, kindly, from her inscrutable black eyes. a sudden unusual kindness. alvina flushed with surprise and a desire to cry. "yes. i am sorry you are not with natcha-kee-tawara. but we shall see. good-bye. i shall do my packing." alvina carried down the things she had to remove. then she went to say good-bye to the young men, who were in various stages of their toilet. max alone was quite presentable. ciccio was just putting on the outer cover of his front tire. she watched his brown thumbs press it into place. he was quick and sure, much more capable, and even masterful, than you would have supposed, seeing his tawny mediterranean hands. he spun the wheel round, patting it lightly. "is it finished?" "yes, i think." he reached his pump and blew up the tire. she watched his softly-applied force. what physical, muscular force there was in him. then he swung round the bicycle, and stood it again on its wheels. after which he quickly folded his tools. "will you come now?" she said. he turned, rubbing his hands together, and drying them on an old cloth. he went into the house, pulled on his coat and his cap, and picked up the things from the table. "where are you going?" max asked. ciccio jerked his head towards alvina. "oh, allow me to carry them, miss houghton. he is not fit--" said max. true, ciccio had no collar on, and his shoes were burst. "i don't mind," said alvina hastily. "he knows where they go. he brought them before." "but i will carry them. i am dressed. allow me--" and he began to take the things. "you get dressed, ciccio." ciccio looked at alvina. "do you want?" he said, as if waiting for orders. "do let ciccio take them," said alvina to max. "thank you _ever_ so much. but let him take them." so alvina marched off through the sunday morning streets, with the italian, who was down at heel and encumbered with an armful of sick-room apparatus. she did not know what to say, and he said nothing. "we will go in this way," she said, suddenly opening the hall door. she had unlocked it before she went out, for that entrance was hardly ever used. so she showed the italian into the sombre drawing-room, with its high black bookshelves with rows and rows of calf-bound volumes, its old red and flowered carpet, its grand piano littered with music. ciccio put down the things as she directed, and stood with his cap in his hands, looking aside. "thank you so much," she said, lingering. he curled his lips in a faint deprecatory smile. "nothing," he murmured. his eye had wandered uncomfortably up to a portrait on the wall. "that was my mother," said alvina. he glanced down at her, but did not answer. "i am so sorry you're going away," she said nervously. she stood looking up at him with wide blue eyes. the faint smile grew on the lower part of his face, which he kept averted. then he looked at her. "we have to move," he said, with his eyes watching her reservedly, his mouth twisting with a half-bashful smile. "do you like continually going away?" she said, her wide blue eyes fixed on his face. he nodded slightly. "we have to do it. i like it." what he said meant nothing to him. he now watched her fixedly, with a slightly mocking look, and a reserve he would not relinquish. "do you think i shall ever see you again?" she said. "should you like--?" he answered, with a sly smile and a faint shrug. "i should like awfully--" a flush grew on her cheek. she heard miss pinnegar's scarcely audible step approaching. he nodded at her slightly, watching her fixedly, turning up the corners of his eyes slyly, his nose seeming slyly to sharpen. "all right. next week, eh? in the morning?" "do!" cried alvina, as miss pinnegar came through the door. he glanced quickly over his shoulder. "oh!" cried miss pinnegar. "i couldn't imagine who it was." she eyed the young fellow sharply. "couldn't you?" said alvina. "we brought back these things." "oh yes. well--you'd better come into the other room, to the fire," said miss pinnegar. "i shall go along. good-bye!" said ciccio, and with a slight bow to alvina, and a still slighter to miss pinnegar, he was out of the room and out of the front door, as if turning tail. "i suppose they're going this morning," said miss pinnegar. chapter ix alvina becomes allaye alvina wept when the natchas had gone. she loved them so much, she wanted to be with them. even ciccio she regarded as only one of the natchas. she looked forward to his coming as to a visit from the troupe. how dull the theatre was without them! she was tired of the endeavour. she wished it did not exist. the rehearsal on the monday morning bored her terribly. her father was nervous and irritable. the previous week had tried him sorely. he had worked himself into a state of nervous apprehension such as nothing would have justified, unless perhaps, if the wooden walls of the endeavour had burnt to the ground, with james inside victimized like another samson. he had developed a nervous horror of all artistes. he did not feel safe for one single moment whilst he depended on a single one of them. "we shall have to convert into all pictures," he said in a nervous fever to mr. may. "don't make any more engagements after the end of next month." "really!" said mr. may. "really! have you quite decided?" "yes quite! yes quite!" james fluttered. "i have written about a new machine, and the supply of films from chanticlers." "really!" said mr. may. "oh well then, in that case--" but he was filled with dismay and chagrin. "of cauce," he said later to alvina, "i can't _possibly_ stop on if we are nothing but a picture show!" and he arched his blanched and dismal eyelids with ghastly finality. "why?" cried alvina. "oh--why!" he was rather ironic. "well, it's not my line at _all_. i'm not a _film-operator_!" and he put his head on one side with a grimace of contempt and superiority. "but you are, as well," said alvina. "yes, _as well_. but not _only_! you _may_ wash the dishes in the scullery. but you're not only the _char_, are you?" "but is it the same?" cried alvina. "of cauce!" cried mr. may. "of _cauce_ it's the same." alvina laughed, a little heartlessly, into his pallid, stricken eyes. "but what will you do?" she asked. "i shall have to look for something else," said the injured but dauntless little man. "there's nothing _else_, is there?" "wouldn't you stay on?" she asked. "i wouldn't think of it. i wouldn't think of it." he turtled like an injured pigeon. "well," she said, looking laconically into his face: "it's between you and father--" "of _cauce_!" he said. "naturally! where else--!" but his tone was a little spiteful, as if he had rested his last hopes on alvina. alvina went away. she mentioned the coming change to miss pinnegar. "well," said miss pinnegar, judicious but aloof, "it's a move in the right direction. but i doubt if it'll do any good." "do you?" said alvina. "why?" "i don't believe in the place, and i never did," declared miss pinnegar. "i don't believe any good will come of it." "but why?" persisted alvina. "what makes you feel so sure about it?" "i don't know. but that's how i feel. and i have from the first. it was wrong from the first. it was wrong to begin it." "but why?" insisted alvina, laughing. "your father had no business to be led into it. he'd no business to touch this show business. it isn't like him. it doesn't belong to him. he's gone against his own nature and his own life." "oh but," said alvina, "father was a showman even in the shop. he always was. mother said he was like a showman in a booth." miss pinnegar was taken aback. "well!" she said sharply. "if _that's_ what you've seen in him!"--there was a pause. "and in that case," she continued tartly, "i think some of the showman has come out in his daughter! or show-woman!--which doesn't improve it, to my idea." "why is it any worse?" said alvina. "i enjoy it--and so does father." "no," cried miss pinnegar. "there you're wrong! there you make a mistake. it's all against his better nature." "really!" said alvina, in surprise. "what a new idea! but which is father's better nature?" "you may not know it," said miss pinnegar coldly, "and if so, i can never tell you. but that doesn't alter it." she lapsed into dead silence for a moment. then suddenly she broke out, vicious and cold: "he'll go on till he's killed himself, and _then_ he'll know." the little adverb _then_ came whistling across the space like a bullet. it made alvina pause. was her father going to die? she reflected. well, all men must die. she forgot the question in others that occupied her. first, could she bear it, when the endeavour was turned into another cheap and nasty film-shop? the strange figures of the artistes passing under her observation had really entertained her, week by week. some weeks they had bored her, some weeks she had detested them, but there was always a chance in the coming week. think of the natcha-kee-tawaras! she thought too much of the natcha-kee-tawaras. she knew it. and she tried to force her mind to the contemplation of the new state of things, when she banged at the piano to a set of dithering and boring pictures. there would be her father, herself, and mr. may--or a new operator, a new manager. the new manager!--she thought of him for a moment--and thought of the mechanical factory-faced persons who _managed_ wright's and the woodhouse empire. but her mind fell away from this barren study. she was obsessed by the natcha-kee-tawaras. they seemed to have fascinated her. which of them it was, or what it was that had cast the spell over her, she did not know. but she was as if hypnotized. she longed to be with them. her soul gravitated towards them all the time. monday passed, and ciccio did not come: tuesday passed: and wednesday. in her soul she was sceptical of their keeping their promise--either madame or ciccio. why should they keep their promise? she knew what these nomadic artistes were. and her soul was stubborn within her. on wednesday night there was another sensation at the endeavour. mr. may found james houghton fainting in the box-office after the performance had begun. what to do? he could not interrupt alvina, nor the performance. he sent the chocolate-and-orange boy across to the pear tree for brandy. james revived. "i'm all right," he said, in a brittle fashion. "i'm all right. don't bother." so he sat with his head on his hand in the box-office, and mr. may had to leave him to operate the film. when the interval arrived, mr. may hurried to the box-office, a narrow hole that james could just sit in, and there he found the invalid in the same posture, semi-conscious. he gave him more brandy. "i'm all right, i tell you," said james, his eyes flaring. "leave me alone." but he looked anything but all right. mr. may hurried for alvina. when the daughter entered the ticket place, her father was again in a state of torpor. "father," she said, shaking his shoulder gently. "what's the matter." he murmured something, but was incoherent. she looked at his face. it was grey and blank. "we shall have to get him home," she said. "we shall have to get a cab." "give him a little brandy," said mr. may. the boy was sent for the cab, james swallowed a spoonful of brandy. he came to himself irritably. "what? what," he said. "i won't have all this fuss. go on with the performance, there's no need to bother about me." his eye was wild. "you must go home, father," said alvina. "leave me alone! will you leave me alone! hectored by women all my life--hectored by women--first one, then another. i won't stand it--i won't stand it--" he looked at alvina with a look of frenzy as he lapsed again, fell with his head on his hands on his ticket-board. alvina looked at mr. may. "we must get him home," she said. she covered him up with a coat, and sat by him. the performance went on without music. at last the cab came. james, unconscious, was driven up to woodhouse. he had to be carried indoors. alvina hurried ahead to make a light in the dark passage. "father's ill!" she announced to miss pinnegar. "didn't i say so!" said miss pinnegar, starting from her chair. the two women went out to meet the cab-man, who had james in his arms. "can you manage?" cried alvina, showing a light. "he doesn't weigh much," said the man. "tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu!" went miss pinnegar's tongue, in a rapid tut-tut of distress. "what have i said, now," she exclaimed. "what have i said all along?" james was laid on the sofa. his eyes were half-shut. they made him drink brandy, the boy was sent for the doctor, alvina's bed was warmed. the sick man was got to bed. and then started another vigil. alvina sat up in the sick room. james started and muttered, but did not regain consciousness. dawn came, and he was the same. pneumonia and pleurisy and a touch of meningitis. alvina drank her tea, took a little breakfast, and went to bed at about nine o'clock in the morning, leaving james in charge of miss pinnegar. time was all deranged. miss pinnegar was a nervous nurse. she sat in horror and apprehension, her eyebrows raised, starting and looking at james in terror whenever he made a noise. she hurried to him and did what she could. but one would have said she was repulsed, she found her task unconsciously repugnant. during the course of the morning mrs. rollings came up and said that the italian from last week had come, and could he speak to miss houghton. "tell him she's resting, and mr. houghton is seriously ill," said miss pinnegar sharply. when alvina came downstairs at about four in the afternoon she found a package: a comb of carved bone, and a message from madame: "to miss houghton, with kindest greetings and most sincere thanks from kishwégin." the comb with its carved, beast-faced serpent was her portion. alvina asked if there had been any other message. none. mr. may came in, and stayed for a dismal half-hour. then alvina went back to her nursing. the patient was no better, still unconscious. miss pinnegar came down, red eyed and sullen looking. the condition of james gave little room for hope. in the early morning he died. alvina called mrs. rollings, and they composed the body. it was still only five o'clock, and not light. alvina went to lie down in her father's little, rather chilly chamber at the end of the corridor. she tried to sleep, but could not. at half-past seven she arose, and started the business of the new day. the doctor came--she went to the registrar--and so on. mr. may came. it was decided to keep open the theatre. he would find some one else for the piano, some one else to issue the tickets. in the afternoon arrived frederick houghton, james's cousin and nearest relative. he was a middle-aged, blond, florid, church-going draper from knarborough, well-to-do and very _bourgeois_. he tried to talk to alvina in a fatherly fashion, or a friendly, or a helpful fashion. but alvina could not listen to him. he got on her nerves. hearing the gate bang, she rose and hurried to the window. she was in the drawing-room with her cousin, to give the interview its proper air of solemnity. she saw ciccio rearing his yellow bicycle against the wall, and going with his head forward along the narrow, dark way of the back yard, to the scullery door. "excuse me a minute," she said to her cousin, who looked up irritably as she left the room. she was just in time to open the door as ciccio tapped. she stood on the doorstep above him. he looked up, with a faint smile, from under his black lashes. "how nice of you to come," she said. but her face was blanched and tired, without expression. only her large eyes looked blue in their tiredness, as she glanced down at ciccio. he seemed to her far away. "madame asks how is mr. houghton," he said. "father! he died this morning," she said quietly. "he died!" exclaimed the italian, a flash of fear and dismay going over his face. "yes--this morning." she had neither tears nor emotion, but just looked down on him abstractedly, from her height on the kitchen step. he dropped his eyes and looked at his feet. then he lifted his eyes again, and looked at her. she looked back at him, as from across a distance. so they watched each other, as strangers across a wide, abstract distance. he turned and looked down the dark yard, towards the gate where he could just see the pale grey tire of his bicycle, and the yellow mud-guard. he seemed to be reflecting. if he went now, he went for ever. involuntarily he turned and lifted his face again towards alvina, as if studying her curiously. she remained there on the doorstep, neutral, blanched, with wide, still, neutral eyes. she did not seem to see him. he studied her with alert, yellow-dusky, inscrutable eyes, until she met his look. and then he gave the faintest gesture with his head, as of summons towards him. her soul started, and died in her. and again he gave the slight, almost imperceptible jerk of the head, backwards and sideways, as if summoning her towards him. his face too was closed and expressionless. but in his eyes, which kept hers, there was a dark flicker of ascendancy. he was going to triumph over her. she knew it. and her soul sank as if it sank out of her body. it sank away out of her body, left her there powerless, soulless. and yet as he turned, with his head stretched forward, to move away: as he glanced slightly over his shoulder: she stepped down from the step, down to his level, to follow him. he went ducking along the dark yard, nearly to the gate. near the gate, near his bicycle, was a corner made by a shed. here he turned, lingeringly, to her, and she lingered in front of him. her eyes were wide and neutral and submissive, with a new, awful submission as if she had lost her soul. so she looked up at him, like a victim. there was a faint smile in his eyes. he stretched forward over her. "you love me? yes?--yes?" he said, in a voice that seemed like a palpable contact on her. "yes," she whispered involuntarily, soulless, like a victim. he put his arm round her, subtly, and lifted her. "yes," he re-echoed, almost mocking in his triumph. "yes. yes!" and smiling, he kissed her, delicately, with a certain finesse of knowledge. she moaned in spirit, in his arms, felt herself dead, dead. and he kissed her with a finesse, a passionate finesse which seemed like coals of fire on her head. they heard footsteps. miss pinnegar was coming to look for her. ciccio set her down, looked long into her eyes, inscrutably, smiling, and said: "i come tomorrow." with which he ducked and ran out of the yard, picking up his bicycle like a feather, and, taking no notice of miss pinnegar, letting the yard-door bang to behind him. "alvina!" said miss pinnegar. but alvina did not answer. she turned, slipped past, ran indoors and upstairs to the little bare bedroom she had made her own. she locked the door and kneeled down on the floor, bowing down her head to her knees in a paroxysm on the floor. in a paroxysm--because she loved him. she doubled herself up in a paroxysm on her knees on the floor--because she loved him. it was far more like pain, like agony, than like joy. she swayed herself to and fro in a paroxysm of unbearable sensation, because she loved him. miss pinnegar came and knocked at the door. "alvina! alvina! oh, you are there! whatever are you doing? aren't you coming down to speak to your cousin?" "soon," said alvina. and taking a pillow from the bed, she crushed it against herself and swayed herself unconsciously, in her orgasm of unbearable feeling. right in her bowels she felt it--the terrible, unbearable feeling. how could she bear it. she crouched over until she became still. a moment of stillness seemed to cover her like sleep: an eternity of sleep in that one second. then she roused and got up. she went to the mirror, still, evanescent, and tidied her hair, smoothed her face. she was so still, so remote, she felt that nothing, nothing could ever touch her. and so she went downstairs, to that horrible cousin of her father's. she seemed so intangible, remote and virginal, that her cousin and miss pinnegar both failed to make anything of her. she answered their questions simply, but did not talk. they talked to each other. and at last the cousin went away, with a profound dislike of miss alvina. she did not notice. she was only glad he was gone. and she went about for the rest of the day elusive and vague. she slept deeply that night, without dreams. the next day was saturday. it came with a great storm of wind and rain and hail: a fury. alvina looked out in dismay. she knew ciccio would not be able to come--he could not cycle, and it was impossible to get by train and return the same day. she was almost relieved. she was relieved by the intermission of fate, she was thankful for the day of neutrality. in the early afternoon came a telegram: coming both tomorrow morning deepest sympathy madame. tomorrow was sunday: and the funeral was in the afternoon. alvina felt a burning inside her, thinking of ciccio. she winced--and yet she wanted him to come. terribly she wanted him to come. she showed the telegram to miss pinnegar. "good gracious!" said the weary miss pinnegar. "fancy those people. and i warrant they'll want to be at the funeral. as if he was anything to _them_--" "i think it's very nice of her," said alvina. "oh well," said miss pinnegar. "if you think so. i don't fancy he would have wanted such people following, myself. and what does she mean by _both_. who's the other?" miss pinnegar looked sharply at alvina. "ciccio," said alvina. "the italian! why goodness me! what's _he_ coming for? i can't make you out, alvina. is that his name, chicho? i never heard such a name. doesn't sound like a name at all to me. there won't be room for them in the cabs." "we'll order another." "more expense. i never knew such impertinent people--" but alvina did not hear her. on the next morning she dressed herself carefully in her new dress. it was black voile. carefully she did her hair. ciccio and madame were coming. the thought of ciccio made her shudder. she hung about, waiting. luckily none of the funeral guests would arrive till after one o'clock. alvina sat listless, musing, by the fire in the drawing-room. she left everything now to miss pinnegar and mrs. rollings. miss pinnegar, red-eyed and yellow-skinned, was irritable beyond words. it was nearly mid-day when alvina heard the gate. she hurried to open the front door. madame was in her little black hat and her black spotted veil, ciccio in a black overcoat was closing the yard door behind her. "oh, my dear girl!" madame cried, trotting forward with outstretched black-kid hands, one of which held an umbrella: "i am so shocked--i am so shocked to hear of your poor father. am i to believe it?--am i really? no, i can't." she lifted her veil, kissed alvina, and dabbed her eyes. ciccio came up the steps. he took off his hat to alvina, smiled slightly as he passed her. he looked rather pale, constrained. she closed the door and ushered them into the drawing-room. madame looked round like a bird, examining the room and the furniture. she was evidently a little impressed. but all the time she was uttering her condolences. "tell me, poor girl, how it happened?" "there isn't much to tell," said alvina, and she gave the brief account of james's illness and death. "worn out! worn out!" madame said, nodding slowly up and down. her black veil, pushed up, sagged over her brows like a mourning band. "you cannot afford to waste the stamina. and will you keep on the theatre--with mr. may--?" ciccio was sitting looking towards the fire. his presence made alvina tremble. she noticed how the fine black hair of his head showed no parting at all--it just grew like a close cap, and was pushed aside at the forehead. sometimes he looked at her, as madame talked, and again looked at her, and looked away. at last madame came to a halt. there was a long pause. "you will stay to the funeral?" said alvina. "oh my dear, we shall be too much--" "no," said alvina. "i have arranged for you--" "there! you think of everything. but i will come, not ciccio. he will not trouble you." ciccio looked up at alvina. "i should like him to come," said alvina simply. but a deep flush began to mount her face. she did not know where it came from, she felt so cold. and she wanted to cry. madame watched her closely. "siamo di accordo," came the voice of ciccio. alvina and madame both looked at him. he sat constrained, with his face averted, his eyes dropped, but smiling. madame looked closely at alvina. "is it true what he says?" she asked. "i don't understand him," said alvina. "i don't understand what he said." "that you have agreed with him--" madame and ciccio both watched alvina as she sat in her new black dress. her eyes involuntarily turned to his. "i don't know," she said vaguely. "have i--?" and she looked at him. madame kept silence for some moments. then she said gravely: "well!--yes!--well!" she looked from one to another. "well, there is a lot to consider. but if you have decided--" neither of them answered. madame suddenly rose and went to alvina. she kissed her on either cheek. "i shall protect you," she said. then she returned to her seat. "what have you said to miss houghton?" she said suddenly to ciccio, tackling him direct, and speaking coldly. he looked at madame with a faint derisive smile. then he turned to alvina. she bent her head and blushed. "speak then," said madame, "you have a reason." she seemed mistrustful of him. but he turned aside his face, and refused to speak, sitting as if he were unaware of madame's presence. "oh well," said madame. "i shall be there, signorino." she spoke with a half-playful threat. ciccio curled his lip. "you do not know him yet," she said, turning to alvina. "i know that," said alvina, offended. then she added: "wouldn't you like to take off your hat?" "if you truly wish me to stay," said madame. "yes, please do. and will you hang your coat in the hall?" she said to ciccio. "oh!" said madame roughly. "he will not stay to eat. he will go out to somewhere." alvina looked at him. "would you rather?" she said. he looked at her with sardonic yellow eyes. "if you want," he said, the awkward, derisive smile curling his lips and showing his teeth. she had a moment of sheer panic. was he just stupid and bestial? the thought went clean through her. his yellow eyes watched her sardonically. it was the clean modelling of his dark, other-world face that decided her--for it sent the deep spasm across her. "i'd like you to stay," she said. a smile of triumph went over his face. madame watched him stonily as she stood beside her chair, one hand lightly balanced on her hip. alvina was reminded of kishwégin. but even in madame's stony mistrust there was an element of attraction towards him. he had taken his cigarette case from his pocket. "on ne fume pas dans le salon," said madame brutally. "will you put your coat in the passage?--and do smoke if you wish," said alvina. he rose to his feet and took off his overcoat. his face was obstinate and mocking. he was rather floridly dressed, though in black, and wore boots of black patent leather with tan uppers. handsome he was--but undeniably in bad taste. the silver ring was still on his finger--and his close, fine, unparted hair went badly with smart english clothes. he looked common--alvina confessed it. and her heart sank. but what was she to do? he evidently was not happy. obstinacy made him stick out the situation. alvina and madame went upstairs. madame wanted to see the dead james. she looked at his frail, handsome, ethereal face, and crossed herself as she wept. "un bel homme, cependant," she whispered. "mort en un jour. c'est trop fort, voyez!" and she sniggered with fear and sobs. they went down to alvina's bare room. madame glanced round, as she did in every room she entered. "this was father's bedroom," said alvina. "the other was mine. he wouldn't have it anything but like this--bare." "nature of a monk, a hermit," whispered madame. "who would have thought it! ah, the men, the men!" and she unpinned her hat and patted her hair before the small mirror, into which she had to peep to see herself. alvina stood waiting. "and now--" whispered madame, suddenly turning: "what about this ciccio, hein?" it was ridiculous that she would not raise her voice above a whisper, upstairs there. but so it was. she scrutinized alvina with her eyes of bright black glass. alvina looked back at her, but did not know what to say. "what about him, hein? will you marry him? why will you?" "i suppose because i like him," said alvina, flushing. madame made a little grimace. "oh yes!" she whispered, with a contemptuous mouth. "oh yes!--because you like him! but you know nothing _of_ him--nothing. how can you like him, not knowing him? he may be a real bad character. how would you like him then?" "he isn't, is he?" said alvina. "i don't know. i don't know. he may be. even i, i don't know him--no, though he has been with me for three years. what is he? he is a man of the people, a boatman, a labourer, an artist's model. he sticks to nothing--" "how old is he?" asked alvina. "he is twenty-five--a boy only. and you? you are older." "thirty," confessed alvina. "thirty! well now--so much difference! how can you trust him? how can you? why does he want to marry you--why?" "i don't know--" said alvina. "no, and i don't know. but i know something of these italian men, who are labourers in every country, just labourers and under-men always, always down, down, down--" and madame pressed her spread palms downwards. "and so--when they have a chance to come up--" she raised her hand with a spring--"they are very conceited, and they take their chance. he will want to rise, by you, and you will go down, with him. that is how it is. i have seen it before--yes--more than one time--" "but," said alvina, laughing ruefully. "he can't rise much because of me, can he?" "how not? how not? in the first place, you are english, and he thinks to rise by that. then you are not of the lower class, you are of the higher class, the class of the masters, such as employ ciccio and men like him. how will he not rise in the world by you? yes, he will rise very much. or he will draw you down, down--yes, one or another. and then he thinks that now you have money--now your father is dead--" here madame glanced apprehensively at the closed door--"and they all like money, yes, very much, all italians--" "do they?" said alvina, scared. "i'm sure there won't _be_ any money. i'm sure father is in debt." "what? you think? do you? really? oh poor miss houghton! well--and will you tell ciccio that? eh? hein?" "yes--certainly--if it matters," said poor alvina. "of course it matters. of course it matters very much. it matters to him. because he will not have much. he saves, saves, saves, as they all do, to go back to italy and buy a piece of land. and if he has you, it will cost him much more, he cannot continue with natcha-kee-tawara. all will be much more difficult--" "oh, i will tell him in time," said alvina, pale at the lips. "you will tell him! yes. that is better. and then you will see. but he is obstinate--as a mule. and if he will still have you, then you must think. can you live in england as the wife of a labouring man, a dirty eyetalian, as they all say? it is serious. it is not pleasant for you, who have not known it. i also have not known it. but i have seen--" alvina watched with wide, troubled eyes, while madame darted looks, as from bright, deep black glass. "yes," said alvina. "i should hate being a labourer's wife in a nasty little house in a street--" "in a house?" cried madame. "it would not be in a house. they live many together in one house. it would be two rooms, or even one room, in another house with many people not quite clean, you see--" alvina shook her head. "i couldn't stand that," she said finally. "no!" madame nodded approval. "no! you could not. they live in a bad way, the italians. they do not know the english home--never. they don't like it. nor do they know the swiss clean and proper house. no. they don't understand. they run into their holes to sleep or to shelter, and that is all." "the same in italy?" said alvina. "even more--because there it is sunny very often--" "and you don't need a house," said alvina. "i should like that." "yes, it is nice--but you don't know the life. and you would be alone with people like animals. and if you go to italy he will beat you--he will beat you--" "if i let him," said alvina. "but you can't help it, away there from everybody. nobody will help you. if you are a wife in italy, nobody will help you. you are his property, when you marry by italian law. it is not like england. there is no divorce in italy. and if he beats you, you are helpless--" "but why should he beat me?" said alvina. "why should he want to?" "they do. they are so jealous. and then they go into their ungovernable tempers, horrible tempers--" "only when they are provoked," said alvina, thinking of max. "yes, but you will not know what provokes him. who can _say_ when he will be provoked? and then he beats you--" there seemed to be a gathering triumph in madame's bright black eyes. alvina looked at her, and turned to the door. "at any rate i know now," she said, in rather a flat voice. "and it is _true_. it is all of it true," whispered madame vindictively. alvina wanted to run from her. "i _must_ go to the kitchen," she said. "shall we go down?" alvina did not go into the drawing-room with madame. she was too much upset, and she had almost a horror of seeing ciccio at that moment. miss pinnegar, her face stained carmine by the fire, was helping mrs. rollings with the dinner. "are they both staying, or only one?" she said tartly. "both," said alvina, busying herself with the gravy, to hide her distress and confusion. "the man as well," said miss pinnegar. "what does the woman want to bring _him_ for? i'm sure i don't know what your father would say--a common show-fellow, _looks_ what he is--and staying to dinner." miss pinnegar was thoroughly out of temper as she tried the potatoes. alvina set the table. then she went to the drawing-room. "will you come to dinner?" she said to her two guests. ciccio rose, threw his cigarette into the fire, and looked round. outside was a faint, watery sunshine: but at least it was out of doors. he felt himself imprisoned and out of his element. he had an irresistible impulse to go. when he got into the hall he laid his hand on his hat. the stupid, constrained smile was on his face. "i'll go now," he said. "we have set the table for you," said alvina. "stop now, since you have stopped for so long," said madame, darting her black looks at him. but he hurried on his coat, looking stupid. madame lifted her eyebrows disdainfully. "this is polite behaviour!" she said sarcastically. alvina stood at a loss. "you return to the funeral?" said madame coldly. he shook his head. "when you are ready to go," he said. "at four o'clock," said madame, "when the funeral has come home. then we shall be in time for the train." he nodded, smiled stupidly, opened the door, and went. "this is just like him, to be so--so--" madame could not express herself as she walked down to the kitchen. "miss pinnegar, this is madame," said alvina. "how do you do?" said miss pinnegar, a little distant and condescending. madame eyed her keenly. "where is the man? i don't know his name," said miss pinnegar. "he wouldn't stay," said alvina. "what _is_ his name, madame?" "marasca--francesco. francesco marasca--neapolitan." "marasca!" echoed alvina. "it has a bad sound--a sound of a bad augury, bad sign," said madame. "ma-rà-sca!" she shook her head at the taste of the syllables. "why do you think so?" said alvina. "do you think there is a meaning in sounds? goodness and badness?" "yes," said madame. "certainly. some sounds are good, they are for life, for creating, and some sounds are bad, they are for destroying. ma-rà-sca!--that is bad, like swearing." "but what sort of badness? what does it do?" said alvina. "what does it do? it sends life down--down--instead of lifting it up." "why should things always go up? why should life always go up?" said alvina. "i don't know," said madame, cutting her meat quickly. there was a pause. "and what about other names," interrupted miss pinnegar, a little lofty. "what about houghton, for example?" madame put down her fork, but kept her knife in her hand. she looked across the room, not at miss pinnegar. "houghton--! huff-ton!" she said. "when it is said, it has a sound _against_: that is, against the neighbour, against humanity. but when it is written _hough-ton!_ then it is different, it is _for_." "it is always pronounced _huff-ton_," said miss pinnegar. "by us," said alvina. "we ought to know," said miss pinnegar. madame turned to look at the unhappy, elderly woman. "you are a relative of the family?" she said. "no, not a relative. but i've been here many years," said miss pinnegar. "oh, yes!" said madame. miss pinnegar was frightfully affronted. the meal, with the three women at table, passed painfully. miss pinnegar rose to go upstairs and weep. she felt very forlorn. alvina rose to wipe the dishes, hastily, because the funeral guests would all be coming. madame went into the drawing-room to smoke her sly cigarette. mr. may was the first to turn up for the lugubrious affair: very tight and tailored, but a little extinguished, all in black. he never wore black, and was very unhappy in it, being almost morbidly sensitive to the impression the colour made on him. he was set to entertain madame. she did not pretend distress, but sat black-eyed and watchful, very much her business self. "what about the theatre?--will it go on?" she asked. "well i don't know. i don't know miss houghton's intentions," said mr. may. he was a little stilted today. "it's hers?" said madame. "why, as far as i understand--" "and if she wants to sell out--?" mr. may spread his hands, and looked dismal, but distant. "you should form a company, and carry on--" said madame. mr. may looked even more distant, drawing himself up in an odd fashion, so that he looked as if he were trussed. but madame's shrewd black eyes and busy mind did not let him off. "buy miss houghton out--" said madame shrewdly. "of cauce," said mr. may. "miss houghton herself must decide." "oh sure--! you--are you married?" "yes." "your wife here?" "my wife is in london." "and children--?" "a daughter." madame slowly nodded her head up and down, as if she put thousands of two-and-two's together. "you think there will be much to come to miss houghton?" she said. "do you mean property? i really can't say. i haven't enquired." "no, but you have a good idea, eh?" "i'm afraid i haven't. "no! well! it won't be much, then?" "really, i don't know. i should say, not a _large_ fortune--!" "no--eh?" madame kept him fixed with her black eyes. "do you think the other one will get anything?" "the _other one_--?" queried mr. may, with an uprising cadence. madame nodded slightly towards the kitchen. "the old one--the miss--miss pin--pinny--what you call her." "miss pinnegar! the manageress of the work-girls? really, i don't know at all--" mr. may was most freezing. "ha--ha! ha--ha!" mused madame quietly. then she asked: "which work-girls do you say?" and she listened astutely to mr. may's forced account of the work-room upstairs, extorting all the details she desired to gather. then there was a pause. madame glanced round the room. "nice house!" she said. "is it their own?" "so i _believe_--" again madame nodded sagely. "debts perhaps--eh? mortgage--" and she looked slyly sardonic. "really!" said mr. may, bouncing to his feet. "do you mind if i go to speak to mrs. rollings--" "oh no--go along," said madame, and mr. may skipped out in a temper. madame was left alone in her comfortable chair, studying details of the room and making accounts in her own mind, until the actual funeral guests began to arrive. and then she had the satisfaction of sizing them up. several arrived with wreaths. the coffin had been carried down and laid in the small sitting-room--mrs. houghton's sitting-room. it was covered with white wreaths and streamers of purple ribbon. there was a crush and a confusion. and then at last the hearse and the cabs had arrived--the coffin was carried out--alvina followed, on the arm of her father's cousin, whom she disliked. miss pinnegar marshalled the other mourners. it was a wretched business. but it was a great funeral. there were nine cabs, besides the hearse--woodhouse had revived its ancient respect for the house of houghton. a posse of minor tradesmen followed the cabs--all in black and with black gloves. the richer tradesmen sat in the cabs. poor alvina, this was the only day in all her life when she was the centre of public attention. for once, every eye was upon her, every mind was thinking about her. poor alvina! said every member of the woodhouse "middle class": poor alvina houghton, said every collier's wife. poor thing, left alone--and hardly a penny to bless herself with. lucky if she's not left with a pile of debts. james houghton ran through some money in his day. ay, if she had her rights she'd be a rich woman. why, her mother brought three or four thousands with her. ay, but james sank it all in throttle-ha'penny and klondyke and the endeavour. well, he was his own worst enemy. he paid his way. i'm not so sure about that. look how he served his wife, and now alvina. i'm not so sure he was his own worst enemy. he was bad enough enemy to his own flesh and blood. ah well, he'll spend no more money, anyhow. no, he went sudden, didn't he? but he was getting very frail, if you noticed. oh yes, why he fair seemed to totter down to lumley. do you reckon as that place pays its way? what, the endeavour?--they say it does. they say it makes a nice bit. well, it's mostly pretty full. ay, it is. perhaps it won't be now mr. houghton's gone. perhaps not. i wonder if he _will_ leave much. i'm sure he won't. everything he's got's mortgaged up to the hilt. he'll leave debts, you see if he doesn't. what is she going to do then? she'll have to go out of manchester house--her and miss pinnegar. wonder what she'll do. perhaps she'll take up that nursing. she never made much of that, did she--and spent a sight of money on her training, they say. she's a bit like her father in the business line--all flukes. pity some nice young man doesn't turn up and marry her. i don't know, she doesn't seem to hook on, does she? why she's never had a proper boy. they make out she was engaged once. ay, but nobody ever saw him, and it was off as soon as it was on. can you remember she went with albert witham for a bit. did she? no, i never knew. when was that? why, when he was at oxford, you know, learning for his head master's place. why didn't she marry him then? perhaps he never asked her. ay, there's that to it. she'd have looked down her nose at him, times gone by. ay, but that's all over, my boy. she'd snap at anybody now. look how she carries on with that manager. why, _that's_ something awful. haven't you ever watched her in the cinema? she never lets him alone. and it's anybody alike. oh, she doesn't respect herself. i don't consider. no girl who respected herself would go on as she does, throwing herself at every feller's head. does she, though? ay, any performer or anybody. she's a tidy age, though. she's not much chance of getting off. how old do you reckon she is? must be well over thirty. you never say. well, she _looks_ it. she does beguy--a dragged old maid. oh but she sprightles up a bit sometimes. ay, when she thinks she's hooked on to somebody. i wonder why she never did take? it's funny. oh, she was too high and mighty before, and now it's too late. nobody wants her. and she's got no relations to go to either, has she? no, that's her father's cousin who she's walking with. look, they're coming. he's a fine-looking man, isn't he? you'd have thought they'd have buried miss frost beside mrs. houghton. you would, wouldn't you? i should think alvina will lie by miss frost. they say the grave was made for both of them. ay, she was a lot more of a mother to her than her own mother. she _was_ good to them, miss frost was. alvina thought the world of her. that's her stone--look, down there. not a very grand one, considering. no, it isn't. look, there's room for alvina's name underneath. sh!-- alvina had sat back in the cab and watched from her obscurity the many faces on the street: so familiar, so familiar, familiar as her own face. and now she seemed to see them from a great distance, out of her darkness. her big cousin sat opposite her--how she disliked his presence. in chapel she cried, thinking of her mother, and miss frost, and her father. she felt so desolate--it all seemed so empty. bitterly she cried, when she bent down during the prayer. and her crying started miss pinnegar, who cried almost as bitterly. it was all rather horrible. the afterwards--the horrible afterwards. there was the slow progress to the cemetery. it was a dull, cold day. alvina shivered as she stood on the bleak hillside, by the open grave. her coat did not seem warm enough, her old black seal-skin furs were not much protection. the minister stood on the plank by the grave, and she stood near, watching the white flowers blowing in the cold wind. she had watched them for her mother--and for miss frost. she felt a sudden clinging to miss pinnegar. yet they would have to part. miss pinnegar had been so fond of her father, in a quaint, reserved way. poor miss pinnegar, that was all life had offered her. well, after all, it had been a home and a home life. to which home and home life alvina now clung with a desperate yearning, knowing inevitably she was going to lose it, now her father was gone. strange, that he was gone. but he was weary, worn very thin and weary. he had lived his day. how different it all was, now, at his death, from the time when alvina knew him as a little child and thought him such a fine gentleman. you live and learn and lose. for one moment she looked at madame, who was shuddering with cold, her face hidden behind her black spotted veil. but madame seemed immensely remote: so unreal. and ciccio--what was his name? she could not think of it. what was it? she tried to think of madame's slow enunciation. marasca--maraschino. marasca! maraschino! what was maraschino? where had she heard it. cudgelling her brains, she remembered the doctors, and the suppers after the theatre. and maraschino--why, that was the favourite white liqueur of the innocent dr. young. she could remember even now the way he seemed to smack his lips, saying the word _maraschino_. yet she didn't think much of it. hot, bitterish stuff--nothing: not like green chartreuse, which dr. james gave her. maraschino! yes, that was it. made from cherries. well, ciccio's name was nearly the same. ridiculous! but she supposed italian words were a good deal alike. ciccio, the marasca, the bitter cherry, was standing on the edge of the crowd, looking on. he had no connection whatever with the proceedings--stood outside, self-conscious, uncomfortable, bitten by the wind, and hating the people who stared at him. he saw the trim, plump figure of madame, like some trim plump partridge among a flock of barn-yard fowls. and he depended on her presence. without her, he would have felt too horribly uncomfortable on that raw hillside. she and he were in some way allied. but these others, how alien and uncouth he felt them. impressed by their fine clothes, the english working-classes were none the less barbarians to him, uncivilized: just as he was to them an uncivilized animal. uncouth, they seemed to him, all raw angles and harshness, like their own weather. not that he thought about them. but he felt it in his flesh, the harshness and discomfort of them. and alvina was one of them. as she stood there by the grave, pale and pinched and reserved looking, she was of a piece with the hideous cold grey discomfort of the whole scene. never had anything been more uncongenial to him. he was dying to get away--to clear out. that was all he wanted. only some southern obstinacy made him watch, from the duskiness of his face, the pale, reserved girl at the grave. perhaps he even disliked her, at that time. but he watched in his dislike. when the ceremony was over, and the mourners turned away to go back to the cabs, madame pressed forward to alvina. "i shall say good-bye now, miss houghton. we must go to the station for the train. and thank you, thank you. good-bye." "but--" alvina looked round. "ciccio is there. i see him. we must catch the train." "oh but--won't you drive? won't you ask ciccio to drive with you in the cab? where is he?" madame pointed him out as he hung back among the graves, his black hat cocked a little on one side. he was watching. alvina broke away from her cousin, and went to him. "madame is going to drive to the station," she said. "she wants you to get in with her." he looked round at the cabs. "all right," he said, and he picked his way across the graves to madame, following alvina. "so, we go together in the cab," said madame to him. then: "good-bye, my dear miss houghton. perhaps we shall meet once more. who knows? my heart is with you, my dear." she put her arms round alvina and kissed her, a little theatrically. the cousin looked on, very much aloof. ciccio stood by. "come then, ciccio," said madame. "good-bye," said alvina to him. "you'll come again, won't you?" she looked at him from her strained, pale face. "all right," he said, shaking her hand loosely. it sounded hopelessly indefinite. "you will come, won't you?" she repeated, staring at him with strained, unseeing blue eyes. "all right," he said, ducking and turning away. she stood quite still for a moment, quite lost. then she went on with her cousin to her cab, home to the funeral tea. "good-bye!" madame fluttered a black-edged handkerchief. but ciccio, most uncomfortable in his four-wheeler, kept hidden. the funeral tea, with its baked meats and sweets, was a terrible affair. but it came to an end, as everything comes to an end, and miss pinnegar and alvina were left alone in the emptiness of manchester house. "if you weren't here, miss pinnegar, i should be quite by myself," said alvina, blanched and strained. "yes. and so should i without you," said miss pinnegar doggedly. they looked at each other. and that night both slept in miss pinnegar's bed, out of sheer terror of the empty house. during the days following the funeral, no one could have been more tiresome than alvina. james had left everything to his daughter, excepting some rights in the work-shop, which were miss pinnegar's. but the question was, how much did "everything" amount to? there was something less than a hundred pounds in the bank. there was a mortgage on manchester house. there were substantial bills owing on account of the endeavour. alvina had about a hundred pounds left from the insurance money, when all funeral expenses were paid. of that she was sure, and of nothing else. for the rest, she was almost driven mad by people coming to talk to her. the lawyer came, the clergyman came, her cousin came, the old, stout, prosperous tradesmen of woodhouse came, mr. may came, miss pinnegar came. and they all had schemes, and they all had advice. the chief plan was that the theatre should be sold up: and that manchester house should be sold, reserving a lease on the top floor, where miss pinnegar's work-rooms were: that miss pinnegar and alvina should move into a small house, miss pinnegar keeping the work-room, alvina giving music-lessons: that the two women should be partners in the work-shop. there were other plans, of course. there was a faction against the chapel faction, which favoured the plan sketched out above. the theatre faction, including mr. may and some of the more florid tradesmen, favoured the risking of everything in the endeavour. alvina was to be the proprietress of the endeavour, she was to run it on some sort of successful lines, and abandon all other enterprise. minor plans included the election of alvina to the post of parish nurse, at six pounds a month: a small private school; a small haberdashery shop; and a position in the office of her cousin's knarborough business. to one and all alvina answered with a tantalizing: "i don't know what i'm going to do. i don't know. i can't say yet. i shall see. i shall see." till one and all became angry with her. they were all so benevolent, and all so sure that they were proposing the very best thing she could do. and they were all nettled, even indignant that she did not jump at their proposals. she listened to them all. she even invited their advice. continually she said: "well, what do _you_ think of it?" and she repeated the chapel plan to the theatre group, the theatre plan to the chapel party, the nursing to the pianoforte proposers, the haberdashery shop to the private school advocates. "tell me what _you_ think," she said repeatedly. and they all told her they thought _their_ plan was best. and bit by bit she told every advocate the proposal of every other advocate "well, lawyer beeby thinks--" and "well now, mr. clay, the minister, advises--" and so on and so on, till it was all buzzing through thirty benevolent and officious heads. and thirty benevolently-officious wills were striving to plant each one its own particular scheme of benevolence. and alvina, naïve and pathetic, egged them all on in their strife, without even knowing what she was doing. one thing only was certain. some obstinate will in her own self absolutely refused to have her mind made up. she would _not_ have her mind made up for her, and she would not make it up for herself. and so everybody began to say "i'm getting tired of her. you talk to her, and you get no forrarder. she slips off to something else. i'm not going to bother with her any more." in truth, woodhouse was in a fever, for three weeks or more, arranging alvina's unarrangeable future for her. offers of charity were innumerable--for three weeks. meanwhile, the lawyer went on with the proving of the will and the drawing up of a final account of james's property; mr. may went on with the endeavour, though alvina did not go down to play; miss pinnegar went on with the work-girls: and alvina went on unmaking her mind. ciccio did not come during the first week. alvina had a post-card from madame, from cheshire: rather far off. but such was the buzz and excitement over her material future, such a fever was worked up round about her that alvina, the petty-propertied heroine of the moment, was quite carried away in a storm of schemes and benevolent suggestions. she answered madame's post-card, but did not give much thought to the natcha-kee-tawaras. as a matter of fact, she was enjoying a real moment of importance, there at the centre of woodhouse's rather domineering benevolence: a benevolence which she unconsciously, but systematically frustrated. all this scheming for selling out and making reservations and hanging on and fixing prices and getting private bids for manchester house and for the endeavour, the excitement of forming a limited company to run the endeavour, of seeing a lawyer about the sale of manchester house and the auctioneer about the sale of the furniture, of receiving men who wanted to pick up the machines upstairs cheap, and of keeping everything dangling, deciding nothing, putting everything off till she had seen somebody else, this for the moment fascinated her, went to her head. it was not until the second week had passed that her excitement began to merge into irritation, and not until the third week had gone by that she began to feel herself entangled in an asphyxiating web of indecision, and her heart began to sing because ciccio had never turned up. now she would have given anything to see the natcha-kee-tawaras again. but she did not know where they were. now she began to loathe the excitement of her property: doubtfully hers, every stick of it. now she would give anything to get away from woodhouse, from the horrible buzz and entanglement of her sordid affairs. now again her wild recklessness came over her. she suddenly said she was going away somewhere: she would not say where. she cashed all the money she could: a hundred-and-twenty-five pounds. she took the train to cheshire, to the last address of the natcha-kee-tawaras: she followed them to stockport: and back to chinley: and there she was stuck for the night. next day she dashed back almost to woodhouse, and swerved round to sheffield. there, in that black town, thank heaven, she saw their announcement on the wall. she took a taxi to their theatre, and then on to their lodgings. the first thing she saw was louis, in his shirt sleeves, on the landing above. she laughed with excitement and pleasure. she seemed another woman. madame looked up, almost annoyed, when she entered. "i couldn't keep away from you, madame," she cried. "evidently," said madame. madame was darning socks for the young men. she was a wonderful mother for them, sewed for them, cooked for them, looked after them most carefully. not many minutes was madame idle. "do you mind?" said alvina. madame darned for some moments without answering. "and how is everything at woodhouse?" she asked. "i couldn't bear it any longer. i couldn't bear it. so i collected all the money i could, and ran away. nobody knows where i am." madame looked up with bright, black, censorious eyes, at the flushed girl opposite. alvina had a certain strangeness and brightness, which madame did not know, and a frankness which the frenchwoman mistrusted, but found disarming. "and all the business, the will and all?" said madame. "they're still fussing about it." "and there is some money?" "i have got a hundred pounds here," laughed alvina. "what there will be when everything is settled, i don't know. but not very much, i'm sure of that." "how much do you think? a thousand pounds?" "oh, it's just possible, you know. but it's just as likely there won't be another penny--" madame nodded slowly, as always when she did her calculations. "and if there is nothing, what do you intend?" said madame. "i don't know," said alvina brightly. "and if there is something?" "i don't know either. but i thought, if you would let me play for you, i could keep myself for some time with my own money. you said perhaps i might be with the natcha-kee-tawaras. i wish you would let me." madame bent her head so that nothing showed but the bright black folds of her hair. then she looked up, with a slow, subtle, rather jeering smile. "ciccio didn't come to see you, hein?" "no," said alvina. "yet he promised." again madame smiled sardonically. "do you call it a promise?" she said. "you are easy to be satisfied with a word. a hundred pounds? no more?" "a hundred and twenty--" "where is it?" "in my bag at the station--in notes. and i've got a little here--" alvina opened her purse, and took out some little gold and silver. "at the station!" exclaimed madame, smiling grimly. "then perhaps you have nothing." "oh, i think it's quite safe, don't you--?" "yes--maybe--since it is england. and you think a hundred and twenty pounds is enough?" "what for?" "to satisfy ciccio." "i wasn't thinking of him," cried alvina. "no?" said madame ironically. "i can propose it to him. wait one moment." she went to the door and called ciccio. he entered, looking not very good-tempered. "be so good, my dear," said madame to him, "to go to the station and fetch miss houghton's little bag. you have got the ticket, have you?" alvina handed the luggage ticket to madame. "midland railway," said madame. "and, ciccio, you are listening--? mind! there is a hundred and twenty pounds of miss houghton's money in the bag. you hear? mind it is not lost." "it's all i have," said alvina. "for the time, for the time--till the will is proved, it is all the cash she has. so mind doubly. you hear?" "all right," said ciccio. "tell him what sort of a bag, miss houghton," said madame. alvina told him. he ducked and went. madame listened for his final departure. then she nodded sagely at alvina. "take off your hat and coat, my dear. soon we will have tea--when cic' returns. let him think, let him think what he likes. so much money is certain, perhaps there will be more. let him think. it will make all the difference that there is so much cash--yes, so much--" "but would it _really_ make a difference to him?" cried alvina. "oh my dear!" exclaimed madame. "why should it not? we are on earth, where we must eat. we are not in paradise. if it were a thousand pounds, then he would want very badly to marry you. but a hundred and twenty is better than a blow to the eye, eh? why sure!" "it's dreadful, though--!" said alvina. "oh la-la! dreadful! if it was max, who is sentimental, then no, the money is nothing. but all the others--why, you see, they are men, and they know which side to butter their bread. men are like cats, my dear, they don't like their bread without butter. why should they? nor do i, nor do i." "can i help with the darning?" said alvina. "hein? i shall give you ciccio's socks, yes? he pushes holes in the toes--you see?" madame poked two fingers through the hole in the toe of a red-and-black sock, and smiled a little maliciously at alvina. "i don't mind which sock i darn," she said. "no? you don't? well then, i give you another. but if you like i will speak to him--" "what to say?" asked alvina. "to say that you have so much money, and hope to have more. and that you like him--yes? am i right? you like him very much?--hein? is it so?" "and then what?" said alvina. "that he should tell me if he should like to marry you also--quite simply. what? yes?" "no," said alvina. "don't say anything--not yet." "hé? not yet? not yet. all right, not yet then. you will see--" alvina sat darning the sock and smiling at her own shamelessness. the point that amused her most of all was the fact that she was not by any means sure she wanted to marry him. there was madame spinning her web like a plump prolific black spider. there was ciccio, the unrestful fly. and there was herself, who didn't know in the least what she was doing. there sat two of them, madame and herself, darning socks in a stuffy little bedroom with a gas fire, as if they had been born to it. and after all, woodhouse wasn't fifty miles away. madame went downstairs to get tea ready. wherever she was, she superintended the cooking and the preparation of meals for her young men, scrupulous and quick. she called alvina downstairs. ciccio came in with the bag. "see, my dear, that your money is safe," said madame. alvina unfastened her bag and counted the crisp white notes. "and now," said madame, "i shall lock it in my little bank, yes, where it will be safe. and i shall give you a receipt, which the young men will witness." the party sat down to tea, in the stuffy sitting-room. "now, boys," said madame, "what do you say? shall miss houghton join the natcha-kee-tawaras? shall she be our pianist?" the eyes of the four young men rested on alvina. max, as being the responsible party, looked business-like. louis was tender, geoffrey round-eyed and inquisitive, ciccio furtive. "with great pleasure," said max. "but can the natcha-kee-tawaras afford to pay a pianist for themselves?" "no," said madame. "no. i think not. miss houghton will come for one month, to prove, and in that time she shall pay for herself. yes? so she fancies it." "can we pay her expenses?" said max. "no," said alvina. "let me pay everything for myself, for a month. i should like to be with you, awfully--" she looked across with a look half mischievous, half beseeching at the erect max. he bowed as he sat at table. "i think we shall all be honoured," he said. "certainly," said louis, bowing also over his tea-cup. geoffrey inclined his head, and ciccio lowered his eyelashes in indication of agreement. "now then," said madame briskly, "we are all agreed. tonight we will have a bottle of wine on it. yes, gentlemen? what d'you say? chianti--hein?" they all bowed above the table. "and miss houghton shall have her professional name, eh? because we cannot say miss houghton--what?" "do call me alvina," said alvina. "alvina--al-vy-na! no, excuse me, my dear, i don't like it. i don't like this 'vy' sound. tonight we shall find a name." after tea they inquired for a room for alvina. there was none in the house. but two doors away was another decent lodging-house, where a bedroom on the top floor was found for her. "i think you are very well here," said madame. "quite nice," said alvina, looking round the hideous little room, and remembering her other term of probation, as a maternity nurse. she dressed as attractively as possible, in her new dress of black voile, and imitating madame, she put four jewelled rings on her fingers. as a rule she only wore the mourning-ring of black enamel and diamond, which had been always on miss frost's finger. now she left off this, and took four diamond rings, and one good sapphire. she looked at herself in her mirror as she had never done before, really interested in the effect she made. and in her dress she pinned a valuable old ruby brooch. then she went down to madame's house. madame eyed her shrewdly, with just a touch of jealousy: the eternal jealousy that must exist between the plump, pale partridge of a frenchwoman, whose black hair is so glossy and tidy, whose black eyes are so acute, whose black dress is so neat and _chic_, and the rather thin englishwoman in soft voile, with soft, rather loose brown hair and demure, blue-grey eyes. "oh--a difference--what a difference! when you have a little more flesh--then--" madame made a slight click with her tongue. "what a good brooch, eh?" madame fingered the brooch. "old paste--old paste--antique--" "no," said alvina. "they are real rubies. it was my great-grandmother's." "do you mean it? real? are you sure--" "i think i'm quite sure." madame scrutinized the jewels with a fine eye. "hm!" she said. and alvina did not know whether she was sceptical, or jealous, or admiring, or really impressed. "and the diamonds are real?" said madame, making alvina hold up her hands. "i've always understood so," said alvina. madame scrutinized, and slowly nodded her head. then she looked into alvina's eyes, really a little jealous. "another four thousand francs there," she said, nodding sagely. "really!" said alvina. "for sure. it's enough--it's enough--" and there was a silence between the two women. the young men had been out shopping for the supper. louis, who knew where to find french and german stuff, came in with bundles, ciccio returned with a couple of flasks, geoffrey with sundry moist papers of edibles. alvina helped madame to put the anchovies and sardines and tunny and ham and salami on various plates, she broke off a bit of fern from one of the flower-pots, to stick in the pork-pie, she set the table with its ugly knives and forks and glasses. all the time her rings sparkled, her red brooch sent out beams, she laughed and was gay, she was quick, and she flattered madame by being very deferential to her. whether she was herself or not, in the hideous, common, stuffy sitting-room of the lodging-house she did not know or care. but she felt excited and gay. she knew the young men were watching her. max gave his assistance wherever possible. geoffrey watched her rings, half spell-bound. but alvina was concerned only to flatter the plump, white, soft vanity of madame. she carefully chose for madame the finest plate, the clearest glass, the whitest-hafted knife, the most delicate fork. all of which madame saw, with acute eyes. at the theatre the same: alvina played for kishwégin, only for kishwégin. and madame had the time of her life. "you know, my dear," she said afterward to alvina, "i understand sympathy in music. music goes straight to the heart." and she kissed alvina on both cheeks, throwing her arms round her neck dramatically. "i'm _so_ glad," said the wily alvina. and the young men stirred uneasily, and smiled furtively. they hurried home to the famous supper. madame sat at one end of the table, alvina at the other. madame had max and louis by her side, alvina had ciccio and geoffrey. ciccio was on alvina's right hand: a delicate hint. they began with hors d'oeuvres and tumblers three parts full of chianti. alvina wanted to water her wine, but was not allowed to insult the sacred liquid. there was a spirit of great liveliness and conviviality. madame became paler, her eyes blacker, with the wine she drank, her voice became a little raucous. "tonight," she said, "the natcha-kee-tawaras make their feast of affiliation. the white daughter has entered the tribe of the hirondelles, swallows that pass from land to land, and build their nests between roof and wall. a new swallow, a new huron from the tents of the pale-face, from the lodges of the north, from the tribe of the yenghees." madame's black eyes glared with a kind of wild triumph down the table at alvina. "nameless, without having a name, comes the maiden with the red jewels, dark-hearted, with the red beams. wine from the pale-face shadows, drunken wine for kishwégin, strange wine for the _braves_ in their nostrils, vaali, _à vous_." madame lifted her glass. "vaali, drink to her--boire à elle--" she thrust her glass forwards in the air. the young men thrust their glasses up towards alvina, in a cluster. she could see their mouths all smiling, their teeth white as they cried in their throats: "vaali! vaali! boire à vous." ciccio was near to her. under the table he laid his hand on her knee. quickly she put forward her hand to protect herself. he took her hand, and looked at her along the glass as he drank. she saw his throat move as the wine went down it. he put down his glass, still watching her. "vaali!" he said, in his throat. then across the table "hé, gigi--viale! le petit chemin! comment? me prends-tu? l'allée--" there came a great burst of laughter from louis. "it is good, it is good!" he cried. "oh madame! viale, it is italian for the little way, the alley. that is too rich." max went off into a high and ribald laugh. "l'allée italienne!" he said, and shouted with laughter. "alley or avenue, what does it matter," cried madame in french, "so long as it is a good journey." here geoffrey at last saw the joke. with a strange determined flourish he filled his glass, cocking up his elbow. "a toi, cic'--et bon voyage!" he said, and then he tilted up his chin and swallowed in great throatfuls. "certainly! certainly!" cried madame. "to thy good journey, my ciccio, for thou art not a great traveller--" "na, pour _ça_, y'a plus d'une voie," said geoffrey. during this passage in french alvina sat with very bright eyes looking from one to another, and not understanding. but she knew it was something improper, on her account. her eyes had a bright, slightly-bewildered look as she turned from one face to another. ciccio had let go her hand, and was wiping his lips with his fingers. he too was a little self-conscious. "assez de cette éternelle voix italienne," said madame. "courage, courage au chemin d'angleterre." "assez de cette éternelle voix rauque," said ciccio, looking round. madame suddenly pulled herself together. "they will not have my name. they will call you allay!" she said to alvina. "is it good? will it do?" "quite," said alvina. and she could not understand why gigi, and then the others after him, went off into a shout of laughter. she kept looking round with bright, puzzled eyes. her face was slightly flushed and tender looking, she looked naïve, young. "then you will become one of the tribe of natcha-kee-tawara, of the name allaye? yes?" "yes," said alvina. "and obey the strict rules of the tribe. do you agree?" "yes." "then listen." madame primmed and preened herself like a black pigeon, and darted glances out of her black eyes. "we are one tribe, one nation--say it." "we are one tribe, one nation," repeated alvina. "say all," cried madame. "we are one tribe, one nation--" they shouted, with varying accent. "good!" said madame. "and no nation do we know but the nation of the hirondelles--" "no nation do we know but the nation of the hirondelles," came the ragged chant of strong male voices, resonant and gay with mockery. "hurons--hirondelles, means _swallows_," said madame. "yes, i know," said alvina. "so! you know! well, then! we know no nation but the hirondelles. we have no law but huron law!" "we have no law but huron law!" sang the response, in a deep, sardonic chant. "we have no lawgiver except kishwÉgin." "we have no lawgiver except kishwégin," they sang sonorous. "we have no home but the tent of kishwÉgin." "we have no home but the tent of kishwégin." "there is no good but the good of natcha-kee-tawara." "there is no good but the good of natcha-kee-tawara." "we are the hirondelles." "we are the hirondelles." "we are kishwÉgin." "we are kishwégin." "we are mondagua." "we are mondagua--" "we are atonquois--" "we are atonquois--" "we are pacohuila--" "we are pacohuila--" "we are walgatchka--" "we are walgatchka--" "we are allaye--" "we are allaye--" "la musica! pacohuila, la musica!" cried madame, starting to her feet and sounding frenzied. ciccio got up quickly and took his mandoline from its case. "a--a--ai--aii--eee--ya--" began madame, with a long, faint wail. and on the wailing mandoline the music started. she began to dance a slight but intense dance. then she waved for a partner, and set up a tarantella wail. louis threw off his coat and sprang to tarantella attention, ciccio rang out the peculiar tarantella, and madame and louis danced in the tight space. "brava--brava!" cried the others, when madame sank into her place. and they crowded forward to kiss her hand. one after the other, they kissed her fingers, whilst she laid her left hand languidly on the head of one man after another, as she sat slightly panting. ciccio however did not come up, but sat faintly twanging the mandoline. nor did alvina leave her place. "pacohuila!" cried madame, with an imperious gesture. "allaye! come--" ciccio laid down his mandoline and went to kiss the fingers of kishwégin. alvina also went forward. madame held out her hand. alvina kissed it. madame laid her hand on the head of alvina. "this is the squaw allaye, this is the daughter of kishwégin," she said, in her tawara manner. "and where is the _brave_ of allaye, where is the arm that upholds the daughter of kishwégin, which of the swallows spreads his wings over the gentle head of the new one!" "pacohuila!" said louis. "pacohuila! pacohuila! pacohuila!" said the others. "spread soft wings, spread dark-roofed wings, pacohuila," said kishwégin, and ciccio, in his shirt-sleeves solemnly spread his arms. "stoop, stoop, allaye, beneath the wings of pacohuila," said kishwégin, faintly pressing alvina on the shoulder. alvina stooped and crouched under the right arm of pacohuila. "has the bird flown home?" chanted kishwégin, to one of the strains of their music. "the bird is home--" chanted the men. "is the nest warm?" chanted kishwégin. "the nest is warm." "does the he-bird stoop--?" "he stoops." "who takes allaye?" "pacohuila." ciccio gently stooped and raised alvina to her feet. "c'est ça!" said madame, kissing her. "and now, children, unless the sheffield policeman will knock at our door, we must retire to our wigwams all--" ciccio was watching alvina. madame made him a secret, imperative gesture that he should accompany the young woman. "you have your key, allaye?" she said. "did i have a key?" said alvina. madame smiled subtly as she produced a latch-key. "kishwégin must open your doors for you all," she said. then, with a slight flourish, she presented the key to ciccio. "i give it to him? yes?" she added, with her subtle, malicious smile. ciccio, smiling slightly, and keeping his head ducked, took the key. alvina looked brightly, as if bewildered, from one to another. "also the light!" said madame, producing a pocket flash-light, which she triumphantly handed to ciccio. alvina watched him. she noticed how he dropped his head forward from his straight, strong shoulders, how beautiful that was, the strong, forward-inclining nape and back of the head. it produced a kind of dazed submission in her, the drugged sense of unknown beauty. "and so good-night, allaye--bonne nuit, fille des tawara." madame kissed her, and darted black, unaccountable looks at her. each _brave_ also kissed her hand, with a profound salute. then the men shook hands warmly with ciccio, murmuring to him. he did not put on his hat nor his coat, but ran round as he was to the neighbouring house with her, and opened the door. she entered, and he followed, flashing on the light. so she climbed weakly up the dusty, drab stairs, he following. when she came to her door, she turned and looked at him. his face was scarcely visible, it seemed, and yet so strange and beautiful. it was the unknown beauty which almost killed her. "you aren't coming?" she quavered. he gave an odd, half-gay, half-mocking twitch of his thick dark brows, and began to laugh silently. then he nodded again, laughing at her boldly, carelessly, triumphantly, like the dark southerner he was. her instinct was to defend herself. when suddenly she found herself in the dark. she gasped. and as she gasped, he quite gently put her inside her room, and closed the door, keeping one arm round her all the time. she felt his heavy muscular predominance. so he took her in both arms, powerful, mysterious, horrible in the pitch dark. yet the sense of the unknown beauty of him weighed her down like some force. if for one moment she could have escaped from that black spell of his beauty, she would have been free. but she could not. he was awful to her, shameless so that she died under his shamelessness, his smiling, progressive shamelessness. yet she could not see him ugly. if only she could, for one second, have seen him ugly, he would not have killed her and made her his slave as he did. but the spell was on her, of his darkness and unfathomed handsomeness. and he killed her. he simply took her and assassinated her. how she suffered no one can tell. yet all the time, his lustrous dark beauty, unbearable. when later she pressed her face on his chest and cried, he held her gently as if she was a child, but took no notice, and she felt in the darkness that he smiled. it was utterly dark, and she knew he smiled, and she began to get hysterical. but he only kissed her, his smiling deepening to a heavy laughter, silent and invisible, but sensible, as he carried her away once more. he intended her to be his slave, she knew. and he seemed to throw her down and suffocate her like a wave. and she could have fought, if only the sense of his dark, rich handsomeness had not numbed her like a venom. so she was suffocated in his passion. in the morning when it was light he turned and looked at her from under his long black lashes, a long, steady, cruel, faintly-smiling look from his tawny eyes, searching her as if to see whether she were still alive. and she looked back at him, heavy-eyed and half subjected. he smiled slightly at her, rose, and left her. and she turned her face to the wall, feeling beaten. yet not quite beaten to death. save for the fatal numbness of her love for him, she could still have escaped him. but she lay inert, as if envenomed. he wanted to make her his slave. when she went down to the natcha-kee-tawaras for breakfast she found them waiting for her. she was rather frail and tender-looking, with wondering eyes that showed she had been crying. "come, daughter of the tawaras," said madame brightly to her. "we have been waiting for you. good-morning, and all happiness, eh? look, it is a gift-day for you--" madame smilingly led alvina to her place. beside her plate was a bunch of violets, a bunch of carnations, a pair of exquisite bead moccasins, and a pair of fine doeskin gloves delicately decorated with feather-work on the cuffs. the slippers were from kishwégin, the gloves from mondagua, the carnations from atonquois, the violets from walgatchka--all _to the daughter of the tawaras, allaye_, as it said on the little cards. "the gift of pacohuila you know," said madame, smiling. "the brothers of pacohuila are your brothers." one by one they went to her and each one laid the back of her fingers against his forehead, saying in turn: "i am your brother mondagua, allaye!" "i am your brother atonquois, allaye!" "i am your brother walgatchka, allaye, best brother, you know--" so spoke geoffrey, looking at her with large, almost solemn eyes of affection. alvina smiled a little wanly, wondering where she was. it was all so solemn. was it all mockery, play-acting? she felt bitterly inclined to cry. meanwhile madame came in with the coffee, which she always made herself, and the party sat down to breakfast. ciccio sat on alvina's right, but he seemed to avoid looking at her or speaking to her. all the time he looked across the table, with the half-asserted, knowing look in his eyes, at gigi: and all the time he addressed himself to gigi, with the throaty, rich, plangent quality in his voice, that alvina could not bear, it seemed terrible to her: and he spoke in french: and the two men seemed to be exchanging unspeakable communications. so that alvina, for all her wistfulness and subjectedness, was at last seriously offended. she rose as soon as possible from table. in her own heart she wanted attention and public recognition from ciccio--none of which she got. she returned to her own house, to her own room, anxious to tidy everything, not wishing to have her landlady in the room. and she half expected ciccio to come to speak to her. as she was busy washing a garment in the bowl, her landlady knocked and entered. she was a rough and rather beery-looking yorkshire woman, not attractive. "oh, yo'n made yer bed then, han' yer!" "yes," said alvina. "i've done everything." "i see yer han. yo'n bin sharp." alvina did not answer. "seems yer doin' yersen a bit o' weshin'." still alvina didn't answer. "yo' can 'ing it i' th' back yard." "i think it'll dry here," said alvina. "isna much dryin' up here. send us howd when 't's ready. yo'll 'appen be wantin' it. i can dry it off for yer i' t' kitchen. you don't take a drop o' nothink, do yer?" "no," said alvina. "i don't like it." "summat a bit stronger 'n 't bottle, my sakes alive! well, yo mun ha'e yer fling, like t' rest. but coom na, which on 'em is it? i catched sight on 'im goin' out, but i didna ma'e out then which on 'em it wor. he--eh, it's a pity you don't take a drop of nothink, it's a world's pity. is it the fairest on 'em, the tallest." "no," said alvina. "the darkest one." "oh ay! well, 's a strappin' anuff feller, for them as goes that road. i thought madame was partikler. i s'll charge yer a bit more, yer know. i s'll 'ave to make a bit out of it. _i'm_ partikler as a rule. i don't like 'em comin' in an' goin' out, you know. things get said. you look so quiet, you do. come now, it's worth a hextra quart to me, else i shan't have it, i shan't. you can't make as free as all that with the house, you know, be it what it may--" she stood red-faced and dour in the doorway. alvina quietly gave her half-a-sovereign. "nay, lass," said the woman, "if you share niver a drop o' th' lashins, you mun split it. five shillin's is oceans, ma wench. i'm not down on you--not me. on'y we've got to keep up appearances a bit, you know. dash my rags, it's a caution!" "i haven't got five shillings--" said alvina. "yer've not? all right, gi'e 's ha 'efcrown today, an' t'other termorrer. it'll keep, it'll keep. god bless you for a good wench. a' open 'eart 's worth all your bum-righteousness. it is for me. an' a sight more. you're all right, ma wench, you're all right--" and the rather bleary woman went nodding away. alvina ought to have minded. but she didn't. she even laughed into her ricketty mirror. at the back of her thoughts, all she minded was that ciccio did not pay her some attention. she really expected him now to come to speak to her. if she could have imagined how far he was from any such intention. so she loitered unwillingly at her window high over the grey, hard, cobbled street, and saw her landlady hastening along the black asphalt pavement, her dirty apron thrown discreetly over what was most obviously a quart jug. she followed the squat, intent figure with her eye, to the public-house at the corner. and then she saw ciccio humped over his yellow bicycle, going for a steep and perilous ride with gigi. still she lingered in her sordid room. she could feel madame was expecting her. but she felt inert, weak, incommunicative. only a real fear of offending madame drove her down at last. max opened the door to let her in. "ah!" he said. "you've come. we were wondering about you." "thank you," she said, as she passed into the dirty hall where still two bicycles stood. "madame is in the kitchen," he said. alvina found madame trussed in a large white apron, busy rubbing a yellow-fleshed hen with lemon, previous to boiling. "ah!" said madame. "so there you are! i have been out and done my shopping, and already begun to prepare the dinner. yes, you may help me. can you wash leeks? yes? every grain of sand? shall i trust you then--?" madame usually had a kitchen to herself, in the morning. she either ousted her landlady, or used her as second cook. for madame was a gourmet, if not gourmand. if she inclined towards self-indulgence in any direction, it was in the direction of food. she _loved_ a good table. and hence the tawaras saved less money than they might. she was an exacting, tormenting, bullying cook. alvina, who knew well enough how to prepare a simple dinner, was offended by madame's exactions. madame turning back the green leaves of a leek, and hunting a speck of earth down into the white, like a flea in a bed, was too much for alvina. "i'm afraid i shall never be particular enough," she said. "can't i do anything else for you?" "for me? i need nothing to be done for me. but for the young men--yes, i will show you in one minute--" and she took alvina upstairs to her room, and gave her a pair of the thin leather trousers fringed with hair, belonging to one of the _braves_. a seam had ripped. madame gave alvina a fine awl and some waxed thread. "the leather is not good in these things of gigi's," she said. "it is badly prepared. see, like this." and she showed alvina another place where the garment was repaired. "keep on your apron. at the week-end you must fetch more clothes, not spoil this beautiful gown of voile. where have you left your diamonds? what? in your room? are they locked? oh my dear--!" madame turned pale and darted looks of fire at alvina. "if they are stolen--!" she cried. "oh! i have become quite weak, hearing you!" she panted and shook her head. "if they are not stolen, you have the holy saints alone to be thankful for keeping them. but run, run!" and madame really stamped her foot. "bring me everything you've got--every _thing_ that is valuable. i shall lock it up. how _can_ you--" alvina was hustled off to her lodging. fortunately nothing was gone. she brought all to madame, and madame fingered the treasures lovingly. "now what you want you must ask me for," she said. with what close curiosity madame examined the ruby brooch. "you can have that if you like, madame," said alvina. "you mean--what?" "i will give you that brooch if you like to take it--" "give me this--!" cried madame, and a flash went over her face. then she changed into a sort of wheedling. "no--no. i shan't take it! i shan't take it. you don't want to give away such a thing." "i don't mind," said alvina. "do take it if you like it." "oh no! oh no! i can't take it. a beautiful thing it is, really. it would be worth over a thousand francs, because i believe it is quite genuine." "i'm sure it's genuine," said alvina. "do have it since you like it." "oh, i can't! i can't!--" "yes do--" "the beautiful red stones!--antique gems, antique gems--! and do you really give it to me?" "yes, i should like to." "you are a girl with a noble heart--" madame threw her arms round alvina's neck, and kissed her. alvina felt very cool about it. madame locked up the jewels quickly, after one last look. "my fowl," she said, "which must not boil too fast." at length alvina was called down to dinner. the young men were at table, talking as young men do, not very interestingly. after the meal, ciccio sat and twanged his mandoline, making its crying noise vibrate through the house. "i shall go and look at the town," said alvina. "and who shall go with you?" asked madame. "i will go alone," said alvina, "unless you will come, madame." "alas no, i can't. i can't come. will you really go alone?" "yes, i want to go to the women's shops," said alvina. "you want to! all right then! and you will come home at tea-time, yes?" as soon as alvina had gone out ciccio put away his mandoline and lit a cigarette. then after a while he hailed geoffrey, and the two young men sallied forth. alvina, emerging from a draper's shop in rotherhampton broadway, found them loitering on the pavement outside. and they strolled along with her. so she went into a shop that sold ladies' underwear, leaving them on the pavement. she stayed as long as she could. but there they were when she came out. they had endless lounging patience. "i thought you would be gone on," she said. "no hurry," said ciccio, and he took away her parcels from her, as if he had a right. she wished he wouldn't tilt the flap of his black hat over one eye, and she wished there wasn't quite so much waist-line in the cut of his coat, and that he didn't smoke cigarettes against the end of his nose in the street. but wishing wouldn't alter him. he strayed alongside as if he half belonged, and half didn't--most irritating. she wasted as much time as possible in the shops, then they took the tram home again. ciccio paid the three fares, laying his hand restrainingly on gigi's hand, when gigi's hand sought pence in his trouser pocket, and throwing his arm over his friend's shoulder, in affectionate but vulgar triumph, when the fares were paid. alvina was on her high horse. they tried to talk to her, they tried to ingratiate themselves--but she wasn't having any. she talked with icy pleasantness. and so the tea-time passed, and the time after tea. the performance went rather mechanically, at the theatre, and the supper at home, with bottled beer and boiled ham, was a conventionally cheerful affair. even madame was a little afraid of alvina this evening. "i am tired, i shall go early to my room," said alvina. "yes, i think we are all tired," said madame. "why is it?" said max metaphysically--"why is it that two merry evenings never follow one behind the other." "max, beer makes thee a _farceur_ of a fine quality," said madame. alvina rose. "please don't get up," she said to the others. "i have my key and can see quite well," she said. "good-night all." they rose and bowed their good-nights. but ciccio, with an obstinate and ugly little smile on his face, followed her. "please don't come," she said, turning at the street door. but obstinately he lounged into the street with her. he followed her to her door. "did you bring the flash-light?" she said. "the stair is so dark." he looked at her, and turned as if to get the light. quickly she opened the house-door and slipped inside, shutting it sharply in his face. he stood for some moments looking at the door, and an ugly little look mounted his straight nose. he too turned indoors. alvina hurried to bed and slept well. and the next day the same, she was all icy pleasantness. the natcha-kee-tawaras were a little bit put out by her. she was a spoke in their wheel, a scotch to their facility. she made them irritable. and that evening--it was friday--ciccio did not rise to accompany her to her house. and she knew they were relieved that she had gone. that did not please her. the next day, which was saturday, the last and greatest day of the week, she found herself again somewhat of an outsider in the troupe. the tribe had assembled in its old unison. she was the intruder, the interloper. and ciccio never looked at her, only showed her the half-averted side of his cheek, on which was a slightly jeering, ugly look. "will you go to woodhouse tomorrow?" madame asked her, rather coolly. they none of them called her allaye any more. "i'd better fetch some things, hadn't i?" said alvina. "certainly, if you think you will stay with us." this was a nasty slap in the face for her. but: "i want to," she said. "yes! then you will go to woodhouse tomorrow, and come to mansfield on monday morning? like that shall it be? you will stay one night at woodhouse?" through alvina's mind flitted the rapid thought--"they want an evening without me." her pride mounted obstinately. she very nearly said--"i may stay in woodhouse altogether." but she held her tongue. after all, they were very common people. they ought to be glad to have her. look how madame snapped up that brooch! and look what an uncouth lout ciccio was! after all, she was demeaning herself shamefully staying with them in common, sordid lodgings. after all, she had been bred up differently from that. they had horribly low standards--such low standards--not only of morality, but of life altogether. really, she had come down in the world, conforming to such standards of life. she evoked the images of her mother and miss frost: ladies, and noble women both. whatever could she be thinking of herself! however, there was time for her to retrace her steps. she had not given herself away. except to ciccio. and her heart burned when she thought of him, partly with anger and mortification, partly, alas, with undeniable and unsatisfied love. let her bridle as she might, her heart burned, and she wanted to look at him, she wanted him to notice her. and instinct told her that he might ignore her for ever. she went to her room an unhappy woman, and wept and fretted till morning, chafing between humiliation and yearning. chapter x the fall of manchester house alvina rose chastened and wistful. as she was doing her hair, she heard the plaintive nasal sound of ciccio's mandoline. she looked down the mixed vista of back-yards and little gardens, and was able to catch sight of a portion of ciccio, who was sitting on a box in the blue-brick yard of his house, bare-headed and in his shirt-sleeves, twitching away at the wailing mandoline. it was not a warm morning, but there was a streak of sunshine. alvina had noticed that ciccio did not seem to feel the cold, unless it were a wind or a driving rain. he was playing the wildly-yearning neapolitan songs, of which alvina knew nothing. but, although she only saw a section of him, the glimpse of his head was enough to rouse in her that overwhelming fascination, which came and went in spells. his remoteness, his southernness, something velvety and dark. so easily she might miss him altogether! within a hair's-breadth she had let him disappear. she hurried down. geoffrey opened the door to her. she smiled at him in a quick, luminous smile, a magic change in her. "i could hear ciccio playing," she said. geoffrey spread his rather thick lips in a smile, and jerked his head in the direction of the back door, with a deep, intimate look into alvina's eyes, as if to say his friend was lovesick. "shall i go through?" said alvina. geoffrey laid his large hand on her shoulder for a moment, looked into her eyes, and nodded. he was a broad-shouldered fellow, with a rather flat, handsome face, well-coloured, and with the look of the alpine ox about him, slow, eternal, even a little mysterious. alvina was startled by the deep, mysterious look in his dark-fringed ox-eyes. the odd arch of his eyebrows made him suddenly seem not quite human to her. she smiled to him again, startled. but he only inclined his head, and with his heavy hand on her shoulder gently impelled her towards ciccio. when she came out at the back she smiled straight into ciccio's face, with her sudden, luminous smile. his hand on the mandoline trembled into silence. he sat looking at her with an instant re-establishment of knowledge. and yet she shrank from the long, inscrutable gaze of his black-set, tawny eyes. she resented him a little. and yet she went forward to him and stood so that her dress touched him. and still he gazed up at her, with the heavy, unspeaking look, that seemed to bear her down: he seemed like some creature that was watching her for his purposes. she looked aside at the black garden, which had a wiry goose-berry bush. "you will come with me to woodhouse?" she said. he did not answer till she turned to him again. then, as she met his eyes, "to woodhouse?" he said, watching her, to fix her. "yes," she said, a little pale at the lips. and she saw his eternal smile of triumph slowly growing round his mouth. she wanted to cover his mouth with her hand. she preferred his tawny eyes with their black brows and lashes. his eyes watched her as a cat watches a bird, but without the white gleam of ferocity. in his eyes was a deep, deep sun-warmth, something fathomless, deepening black and abysmal, but somehow sweet to her. "will you?" she repeated. but his eyes had already begun to glimmer their consent. he turned aside his face, as if unwilling to give a straight answer. "yes," he said. "play something to me," she cried. he lifted his face to her, and shook his head slightly. "yes do," she said, looking down on him. and he bent his head to the mandoline, and suddenly began to sing a neapolitan song, in a faint, compressed head-voice, looking up at her again as his lips moved, looking straight into her face with a curious mocking caress as the muted _voix blanche_ came through his lips at her, amid the louder quavering of the mandoline. the sound penetrated her like a thread of fire, hurting, but delicious, the high thread of his voice. she could see the adam's apple move in his throat, his brows tilted as he looked along his lashes at her all the time. here was the strange sphinx singing again, and herself between its paws! she seemed almost to melt into his power. madame intervened to save her. "what, serenade before breakfast! you have strong stomachs, i say. eggs and ham are more the question, hein? come, you smell them, don't you?" a flicker of contempt and derision went over ciccio's face as he broke off and looked aside. "i prefer the serenade," said alvina. "i've had ham and eggs before." "you do, hein? well--always, you won't. and now you must eat the ham and eggs, however. yes? isn't it so?" ciccio rose to his feet, and looked at alvina: as he would have looked at gigi, had gigi been there. his eyes said unspeakable things about madame. alvina flashed a laugh, suddenly. and a good-humoured, half-mocking smile came over his face too. they turned to follow madame into the house. and as alvina went before him, she felt his fingers stroke the nape of her neck, and pass in a soft touch right down her back. she started as if some unseen creature had stroked her with its paw, and she glanced swiftly round, to see the face of ciccio mischievous behind her shoulder. "now i think," said madame, "that today we all take the same train. we go by the great central as far as the junction, together. then you, allaye, go on to knarborough, and we leave you until tomorrow. and now there is not much time." "i am going to woodhouse," said ciccio in french. "you also! by the train, or the bicycle?" "train," said ciccio. "waste so much money?" ciccio raised his shoulders slightly. when breakfast was over, and alvina had gone to her room, geoffrey went out into the back yard, where the bicycles stood. "cic'," he said. "i should like to go with thee to woodhouse. come on bicycle with me." ciccio shook his head. "i'm going in train with _her_," he said. geoffrey darkened with his heavy anger. "i would like to see how it is, there, _chez elle_," he said. "ask _her_," said ciccio. geoffrey watched him suddenly. "thou forsakest me," he said. "i would like to see it, there." "ask _her_," repeated ciccio. "then come on bicycle." "you're content to leave me," muttered geoffrey. ciccio touched his friend on his broad cheek, and smiled at him with affection. "i don't leave thee, gigi. i asked thy advice. you said, go. but come. go and ask her, and then come. come on bicycle, eh? ask her! go on! go and ask her." alvina was surprised to hear a tap at her door, and gigi's voice, in his strong foreign accent: "mees houghton, i carry your bag." she opened her door in surprise. she was all ready. "there it is," she said, smiling at him. but he confronted her like a powerful ox, full of dangerous force. her smile had reassured him. "na, allaye," he said, "tell me something." "what?" laughed alvina. "can i come to woodhouse?" "when?" "today. can i come on bicycle, to tea, eh? at your house with you and ciccio? eh?" he was smiling with a thick, doubtful, half sullen smile. "do!" said alvina. he looked at her with his large, dark-blue eyes. "really, eh?" he said, holding out his large hand. she shook hands with him warmly. "yes, really!" she said. "i wish you would." "good," he said, a broad smile on his thick mouth. and all the time he watched her curiously, from his large eyes. "ciccio--a good chap, eh?" he said. "is he?" laughed alvina. "ha-a--!" gigi shook his head solemnly. "the best!" he made such solemn eyes, alvina laughed. he laughed too, and picked up her bag as if it were a bubble. "na cic'--" he said, as he saw ciccio in the street. "sommes d'accord." "ben!" said ciccio, holding out his hand for the bag. "donne." "ne-ne," said gigi, shrugging. alvina found herself on the new and busy station that sunday morning, one of the little theatrical company. it was an odd experience. they were so obviously a theatrical company--people apart from the world. madame was darting her black eyes here and there, behind her spotted veil, and standing with the ostensible self-possession of her profession. max was circling round with large strides, round a big black box on which the red words natcha-kee-tawara showed mystic, and round the small bunch of stage fittings at the end of the platform. louis was waiting to get the tickets, gigi and ciccio were bringing up the bicycles. they were a whole train of departure in themselves, busy, bustling, cheerful--and curiously apart, vagrants. alvina strolled away towards the half-open bookstall. geoffrey was standing monumental between her and the company. she returned to him. "what time shall we expect you?" she said. he smiled at her in his broad, friendly fashion. "expect me to be there? why--" he rolled his eyes and proceeded to calculate. "at four o'clock." "just about the time when we get there," she said. he looked at her sagely, and nodded. they were a good-humoured company in the railway carriage. the men smoked cigarettes and tapped off the ash on the heels of their boots, madame watched every traveller with professional curiosity. max scrutinized the newspaper, lloyds, and pointed out items to louis, who read them over max's shoulder, ciccio suddenly smacked geoffrey on the thigh, and looked laughing into his face. so till they arrived at the junction. and then there was a kissing and a taking of farewells, as if the company were separating for ever. louis darted into the refreshment bar and returned with little pies and oranges, which he deposited in the carriage, madame presented alvina with a packet of chocolate. and it was "good-bye, good-bye, allaye! good-bye, ciccio! bon voyage. have a good time, both." so alvina sped on in the fast train to knarborough with ciccio. "i _do_ like them all," she said. he opened his mouth slightly and lifted his head up and down. she saw in the movement how affectionate he was, and in his own way, how emotional. he loved them all. she put her hand to his. he gave her hand one sudden squeeze, of physical understanding, then left it as if nothing had happened. there were other people in the carriage with them. she could not help feeling how sudden and lovely that moment's grasp of his hand was: so warm, so whole. and thus they watched the sunday morning landscape slip by, as they ran into knarborough. they went out to a little restaurant to eat. it was one o'clock. "isn't it strange, that we are travelling together like this?" she said, as she sat opposite him. he smiled, looking into her eyes. "you think it's strange?" he said, showing his teeth slightly. "don't you?" she cried. he gave a slight, laconic laugh. "and i can hardly bear it that i love you so much," she said, quavering, across the potatoes. he glanced furtively round, to see if any one was listening, if any one might hear. he would have hated it. but no one was near. beneath the tiny table, he took her two knees between his knees, and pressed them with a slow, immensely powerful pressure. helplessly she put her hand across the table to him. he covered it for one moment with his hand, then ignored it. but her knees were still between the powerful, living vice of his knees. "eat!" he said to her, smiling, motioning to her plate. and he relaxed her. they decided to go out to woodhouse on the tram-car, a long hour's ride. sitting on the top of the covered car, in the atmosphere of strong tobacco smoke, he seemed self-conscious, withdrawn into his own cover, so obviously a dark-skinned foreigner. and alvina, as she sat beside him, was reminded of the woman with the negro husband, down in lumley. she understood the woman's reserve. she herself felt, in the same way, something of an outcast, because of the man at her side. an outcast! and glad to be an outcast. she clung to ciccio's dark, despised foreign nature. she loved it, she worshipped it, she defied all the other world. dark, he sat beside her, drawn in to himself, overcast by his presumed inferiority among these northern industrial people. and she was with him, on his side, outside the pale of her own people. there were already acquaintances on the tram. she nodded in answer to their salutation, but so obviously from a distance, that they kept turning round to eye her and ciccio. but they left her alone. the breach between her and them was established for ever--and it was her will which established it. so up and down the weary hills of the hilly, industrial countryside, till at last they drew near to woodhouse. they passed the ruins of throttle-ha'penny, and alvina glanced at it indifferent. they ran along the knarborough road. a fair number of woodhouse young people were strolling along the pavements in their sunday clothes. she knew them all. she knew lizzie bates's fox furs, and fanny clough's lilac costume, and mrs. smitham's winged hat. she knew them all. and almost inevitably the old woodhouse feeling began to steal over her, she was glad they could not see her, she was a little ashamed of ciccio. she wished, for the moment, ciccio were not there. and as the time came to get down, she looked anxiously back and forth to see at which halt she had better descend--where fewer people would notice her. but then she threw her scruples to the wind, and descended into the staring, sunday afternoon street, attended by ciccio, who carried her bag. she knew she was a marked figure. they slipped round to manchester house. miss pinnegar expected alvina, but by the train, which came later. so she had to be knocked up, for she was lying down. she opened the door looking a little patched in her cheeks, because of her curious colouring, and a little forlorn, and a little dumpy, and a little irritable. "i didn't know there'd be two of you," was her greeting. "didn't you," said alvina, kissing her. "ciccio came to carry my bag." "oh," said miss pinnegar. "how do you do?" and she thrust out her hand to him. he shook it loosely. "i had your wire," said miss pinnegar. "you said the train. mrs. rollings is coming in at four again--" "oh all right--" said alvina. the house was silent and afternoon-like. ciccio took off his coat and sat down in mr. houghton's chair. alvina told him to smoke. he kept silent and reserved. miss pinnegar, a poor, patch-cheeked, rather round-backed figure with grey-brown fringe, stood as if she did not quite know what to say or do. she followed alvina upstairs to her room. "i can't think why you bring _him_ here," snapped miss pinnegar. "i don't know what you're thinking about. the whole place is talking already." "i don't care," said alvina. "i like him." "oh--for shame!" cried miss pinnegar, lifting her hand with miss frost's helpless, involuntary movement. "what do you think of yourself? and your father a month dead." "it doesn't matter. father _is_ dead. and i'm sure the dead don't mind." "i never _knew_ such things as you say." "why? i mean them." miss pinnegar stood blank and helpless. "you're not asking him to stay the night," she blurted. "yes. and i'm going back with him to madame tomorrow. you know i'm part of the company now, as pianist." "and are you going to marry him?" "i don't know." "how _can_ you say you don't know! why, it's awful. you make me feel i shall go out of my mind." "but i _don't_ know," said alvina. "it's incredible! simply incredible! i believe you're out of your senses. i used to think sometimes there was something wrong with your mother. and that's what it is with you. you're not quite right in your mind. you need to be looked after." "do i, miss pinnegar! ah, well, don't you trouble to look after me, will you?" "no one will if i don't." "i hope no one will." there was a pause. "i'm ashamed to live another day in woodhouse," said miss pinnegar. "_i'm_ leaving it for ever," said alvina. "i should think so," said miss pinnegar. suddenly she sank into a chair, and burst into tears, wailing: "your poor father! your poor father!" "i'm sure the dead are all right. why must you pity him?" "you're a lost girl!" cried miss pinnegar. "am i really?" laughed alvina. it sounded funny. "yes, you're a lost girl," sobbed miss pinnegar, on a final note of despair. "i like being lost," said alvina. miss pinnegar wept herself into silence. she looked huddled and forlorn. alvina went to her and laid her hand on her shoulder. "don't fret, miss pinnegar," she said. "don't be silly. i love to be with ciccio and madame. perhaps in the end i shall marry him. but if i don't--" her hand suddenly gripped miss pinnegar's heavy arm till it hurt--"i wouldn't lose a minute of him, no, not for anything would i." poor miss pinnegar dwindled, convinced. "you make it hard for _me_, in woodhouse," she said, hopeless. "never mind," said alvina, kissing her. "woodhouse isn't heaven and earth." "it's been my home for forty years." "it's been mine for thirty. that's why i'm glad to leave it." there was a pause. "i've been thinking," said miss pinnegar, "about opening a little business in tamworth. you know the watsons are there." "i believe you'd be happy," said alvina. miss pinnegar pulled herself together. she had energy and courage still. "i don't want to stay here, anyhow," she said. "woodhouse has nothing for me any more." "of course it hasn't," said alvina. "i think you'd be happier away from it." "yes--probably i should--now!" none the less, poor miss pinnegar was grey-haired, she was almost a dumpy, odd old woman. they went downstairs. miss pinnegar put on the kettle. "would you like to see the house?" said alvina to ciccio. he nodded. and she took him from room to room. his eyes looked quickly and curiously over everything, noticing things, but without criticism. "this was my mother's little sitting-room," she said. "she sat here for years, in this chair." "always here?" he said, looking into alvina's face. "yes. she was ill with her heart. this is another photograph of her. i'm not like her." "who is _that_?" he asked, pointing to a photograph of the handsome, white-haired miss frost. "that was miss frost, my governess. she lived here till she died. i loved her--she meant everything to me." "she also dead--?" "yes, five years ago." they went to the drawing-room. he laid his hand on the keys of the piano, sounding a chord. "play," she said. he shook his head, smiling slightly. but he wished her to play. she sat and played one of kishwégin's pieces. he listened, faintly smiling. "fine piano--eh?" he said, looking into her face. "i like the tone," she said. "is it yours?" "the piano? yes. i suppose everything is mine--in name at least. i don't know how father's affairs are really." he looked at her, and again his eye wandered over the room. he saw a little coloured portrait of a child with a fleece of brownish-gold hair and surprised eyes, in a pale-blue stiff frock with a broad dark-blue sash. "you?" he said. "do you recognize me?" she said. "aren't i comical?" she took him upstairs--first to the monumental bedroom. "this was mother's room," she said. "now it is mine." he looked at her, then at the things in the room, then out of the window, then at her again. she flushed, and hurried to show him his room, and the bath-room. then she went downstairs. he kept glancing up at the height of the ceilings, the size of the rooms, taking in the size and proportion of the house, and the quality of the fittings. "it is a big house," he said. "yours?" "mine in name," said alvina. "father left all to me--and his debts as well, you see." "much debts?" "oh yes! i don't quite know how much. but perhaps more debts than there is property. i shall go and see the lawyer in the morning. perhaps there will be nothing at all left for me, when everything is paid." she had stopped on the stairs, telling him this, turning round to him, who was on the steps above. he looked down on her, calculating. then he smiled sourly. "bad job, eh, if it is all gone--!" he said. "i don't mind, really, if i can live," she said. he spread his hands, deprecating, not understanding. then he glanced up the stairs and along the corridor again, and downstairs into the hall. "a fine big house. grand if it was yours," he said. "i wish it were," she said rather pathetically, "if you like it so much." he shrugged his shoulders. "hé!" he said. "how not like it!" "i don't like it," she said. "i think it's a gloomy miserable hole. i hate it. i've lived here all my life and seen everything bad happen here. i hate it." "why?" he said, with a curious, sarcastic intonation. "it's a bad job it isn't yours, for certain," he said, as they entered the living-room, where miss pinnegar sat cutting bread and butter. "what?" said miss pinnegar sharply. "the house," said alvina. "oh well, we don't know. we'll hope for the best," replied miss pinnegar, arranging the bread and butter on the plate. then, rather tart, she added: "it is a bad job. and a good many things are a bad job, besides that. if miss houghton had what she _ought_ to have, things would be very different, i assure you." "oh yes," said ciccio, to whom this address was directed. "very different indeed. if all the money hadn't been--lost--in the way it has, miss houghton wouldn't be playing the piano, for one thing, in a cinematograph show." "no, perhaps not," said ciccio. "certainly not. it's not the right thing for her to be doing, _at all_!" "you think not?" said ciccio. "do you imagine it is?" said miss pinnegar, turning point blank on him as he sat by the fire. he looked curiously at miss pinnegar, grinning slightly. "hé!" he said. "how do i know!" "i should have thought it was obvious," said miss pinnegar. "hé!" he ejaculated, not fully understanding. "but of course those that are used to nothing better can't see anything but what they're used to," she said, rising and shaking the crumbs from her black silk apron, into the fire. he watched her. miss pinnegar went away into the scullery. alvina was laying a fire in the drawing-room. she came with a dustpan to take some coal from the fire of the living-room. "what do you want?" said ciccio, rising. and he took the shovel from her hand. "big, hot fires, aren't they?" he said, as he lifted the burning coals from the glowing mass of the grate. "enough," said alvina. "enough! we'll put it in the drawing-room." he carried the shovel of flaming, smoking coals to the other room, and threw them in the grate on the sticks, watching alvina put on more pieces of coal. "fine, a fire! quick work, eh? a beautiful thing, a fire! you know what they say in my place: you can live without food, but you can't live without fire." "but i thought it was always hot in naples," said alvina. "no, it isn't. and my village, you know, when i was small boy, that was in the mountains, an hour quick train from naples. cold in the winter, hot in the summer--" "as cold as england?" said alvina. "hé--and colder. the wolves come down. you could hear them crying in the night, in the frost--" "how terrifying--!" said alvina. "and they will kill the dogs! always they kill the dogs. you know, they hate dogs, wolves do." he made a queer noise, to show how wolves hate dogs. alvina understood, and laughed. "so should i, if i was a wolf," she said. "yes--eh?" his eyes gleamed on her for a moment. "ah but, the poor dogs! you find them bitten--carried away among the trees or the stones, hard to find them, poor things, the next day." "how frightened they must be--!" said alvina. "frightened--hu!" he made sudden gesticulations and ejaculations, which added volumes to his few words. "and did you like it, your village?" she said. he put his head on one side in deprecation. "no," he said, "because, you see--hé, there is nothing to do--no money--work--work--work--no life--you see nothing. when i was a small boy my father, he died, and my mother comes with me to naples. then i go with the little boats on the sea--fishing, carrying people--" he flourished his hand as if to make her understand all the things that must be wordless. he smiled at her--but there was a faint, poignant sadness and remoteness in him, a beauty of old fatality, and ultimate indifference to fate. "and were you very poor?" "poor?--why yes! nothing. rags--no shoes--bread, little fish from the sea--shell-fish--" his hands flickered, his eyes rested on her with a profound look of knowledge. and it seemed, in spite of all, one state was very much the same to him as another, poverty was as much life as affluence. only he had a sort of jealous idea that it was humiliating to be poor, and so, for vanity's sake, he would have possessions. the countless generations of civilization behind him had left him an instinct of the world's meaninglessness. only his little modern education made money and independence an _idée fixe_. old instinct told him the world was nothing. but modern education, so shallow, was much more efficacious than instinct. it drove him to make a show of himself to the world. alvina watching him, as if hypnotized, saw his old beauty, formed through civilization after civilization; and at the same time she saw his modern vulgarianism, and decadence. "and when you go back, you will go back to your old village?" she said. he made a gesture with his head and shoulders, evasive, non-committal. "i don't know, you see," he said. "what is the name of it?" "pescocalascio." he said the word subduedly, unwillingly. "tell me again," said alvina. "pescocalascio." she repeated it. "and tell me how you spell it," she said. he fumbled in his pocket for a pencil and a piece of paper. she rose and brought him an old sketch-book. he wrote, slowly, but with the beautiful italian hand, the name of his village. "and write your name," she said. "marasca francesco," he wrote. "and write the name of your father and mother," she said. he looked at her enquiringly. "i want to see them," she said. "marasca giovanni," he wrote, and under that "califano maria." she looked at the four names, in the graceful italian script. and one after the other she read them out. he corrected her, smiling gravely. when she said them properly, he nodded. "yes," he said. "that's it. you say it well." at that moment miss pinnegar came in to say mrs. rollings had seen another of the young men riding down the street. "that's gigi! he doesn't know how to come here," said ciccio, quickly taking his hat and going out to find his friend. geoffrey arrived, his broad face hot and perspiring. "couldn't you find it?" said alvina. "i find the house, but i couldn't find no door," said geoffrey. they all laughed, and sat down to tea. geoffrey and ciccio talked to each other in french, and kept each other in countenance. fortunately for them, madame had seen to their table-manners. but still they were far too free and easy to suit miss pinnegar. "do you know," said ciccio in french to geoffrey, "what a fine house this is?" "no," said geoffrey, rolling his large eyes round the room, and speaking with his cheek stuffed out with food. "is it?" "ah--if it was _hers_, you know--" and so, after tea, ciccio said to alvina: "shall you let geoffrey see the house?" the tour commenced again. geoffrey, with his thick legs planted apart, gazed round the rooms, and made his comments in french to ciccio. when they climbed the stairs, he fingered the big, smooth mahogany bannister-rail. in the bedroom he stared almost dismayed at the colossal bed and cupboard. in the bath-room he turned on the old-fashioned, silver taps. "here is my room--" said ciccio in french. "assez éloigné!" replied gigi. ciccio also glanced along the corridor. "yes," he said. "but an open course--" "look, my boy--if you could marry _this_--" meaning the house. "ha, she doesn't know if it hers any more! perhaps the debts cover every bit of it." "don't say so! na, that's a pity, that's a pity! la pauvre fille--pauvre demoiselle!" lamented geoffrey. "isn't it a pity! what dost say?" "a thousand pities! a thousand pities! look, my boy, love needs no havings, but marriage does. love is for all, even the grasshoppers. but marriage means a kitchen. that's how it is. la pauvre demoiselle; c'est malheur pour elle." "that's true," said ciccio. "et aussi pour moi. for me as well." "for thee as well, cher! perhaps--" said geoffrey, laying his arm on ciccio's shoulder, and giving him a sudden hug. they smiled to each other. "who knows!" said ciccio. "who knows, truly, my cic'." as they went downstairs to rejoin alvina, whom they heard playing on the piano in the drawing-room, geoffrey peeped once more into the big bedroom. "tu n'es jamais monté si haut, mon beau. pour moi, ça serait difficile de m'élever. j'aurais bien peur, moi. tu te trouves aussi un peu ébahi, hein? n'est-ce pas?" "y'a place pour trois," said ciccio. "non, je crêverais, là haut. pas pour moi!" and they went laughing downstairs. miss pinnegar was sitting with alvina, determined not to go to chapel this evening. she sat, rather hulked, reading a novel. alvina flirted with the two men, played the piano to them, and suggested a game of cards. "oh, alvina, you will never bring out the cards tonight!" expostulated poor miss pinnegar. "but, miss pinnegar, it can't possibly hurt anybody." "you know what i think--and what your father thought--and your mother and miss frost--" "you see i think it's only prejudice," said alvina. "oh very well!" said miss pinnegar angrily. and closing her book, she rose and went to the other room. alvina brought out the cards, and a little box of pence which remained from endeavour harvests. at that moment there was a knock. it was mr. may. miss pinnegar brought him in, in triumph. "oh!" he said. "company! i heard you'd come, miss houghton, so i _hastened_ to pay my compliments. i didn't know you had _company_. how do you do, francesco! how do you do, geoffrey. comment allez-vous, alors?" "bien!" said geoffrey. "you are going to take a hand?" "cards on sunday evening! dear me, what a revolution! of course, i'm not _bigoted_. if miss houghton asks me--" miss pinnegar looked solemnly at alvina. "yes, do take a hand, mr. may," said alvina. "thank you, i will then, if i may. especially as i see those tempting piles of pennies and ha'pennies. who is bank, may i ask? is miss pinnegar going to play too?" but miss pinnegar had turned her poor, bowed back, and departed. "i'm afraid she's offended," said alvina. "but why? we don't put _her_ soul in danger, do we now? i'm a good catholic, you know, i _can't_ do with these provincial little creeds. who deals? do you, miss houghton? but i'm afraid we shall have a rather _dry_ game? what? isn't that your opinion?" the other men laughed. "if miss houghton would just _allow_ me to run round and bring something in. yes? may i? that would be _so_ much more cheerful. what is your choice, gentlemen?" "beer," said ciccio, and geoffrey nodded. "beer! oh really! extraor'nary! i always take a little whiskey myself. what kind of beer? ale?--or bitter? i'm afraid i'd better bring bottles. now how can i secrete them? you haven't a small travelling case, miss houghton? then i shall look as if i'd just been taking a _journey_. which i have--to the sun and back: and if _that_ isn't far enough, even for miss pinnegar and john wesley, why, i'm sorry." alvina produced the travelling case. "excellent!" he said. "excellent! it will hold half-a-dozen beautifully. now--" he fell into a whisper--"hadn't i better sneak out at the front door, and so escape the clutches of the watch-dog?" out he went, on tip-toe, the other two men grinning at him. fortunately there were glasses, the best old glasses, in the side cupboard in the drawing room. but unfortunately, when mr. may returned, a corkscrew was in request. so alvina stole to the kitchen. miss pinnegar sat dumped by the fire, with her spectacles and her book. she watched like a lynx as alvina returned. and she saw the tell-tale corkscrew. so she dumped a little deeper in her chair. "there was a sound of revelry by night!" for mr. may, after a long depression, was in high feather. they shouted, positively shouted over their cards, they roared with excitement, expostulation, and laughter. miss pinnegar sat through it all. but at one point she could bear it no longer. the drawing-room door opened, and the dumpy, hulked, faded woman in a black serge dress stood like a rather squat avenging angel in the doorway. "what would your _father_ say to this?" she said sternly. the company suspended their laughter and their cards, and looked around. miss pinnegar wilted and felt strange under so many eyes. "father!" said alvina. "but why father?" "you lost girl!" said miss pinnegar, backing out and closing the door. mr. may laughed so much that he knocked his whiskey over. "there," he cried, helpless, "look what she's cost me!" and he went off into another paroxysm, swelling like a turkey. ciccio opened his mouth, laughing silently. "lost girl! lost girl! how lost, when you are at home?" said geoffrey, making large eyes and looking hither and thither as if _he_ had lost something. they all went off again in a muffled burst. "no but, really," said mr. may, "drinking and card-playing with strange men in the drawing-room on sunday evening, of _cauce_ it's scandalous. it's _terrible_! i don't know how ever you'll be saved, after such a sin. and in manchester house, too--!" he went off into another silent, turkey-scarlet burst of mirth, wriggling in his chair and squealing faintly: "oh, i love it, i love it! _you lost girl!_ why of _cauce_ she's lost! and miss pinnegar has only just found it out. who _wouldn't_ be lost? why even miss pinnegar would be lost if she could. of _cauce_ she would! quite natch'ral!" mr. may wiped his eyes, with his handkerchief which had unfortunately mopped up his whiskey. so they played on, till mr. may and geoffrey had won all the pennies, except twopence of ciccio's. alvina was in debt. "well i think it's been a most agreeable game," said mr. may. "most agreeable! don't you all?" the two other men smiled and nodded. "i'm only sorry to think miss houghton has _lost_ so steadily all evening. really quite remarkable. but _then_--you see--i comfort myself with the reflection 'lucky in cards, unlucky in love.' i'm certainly _hounded_ with misfortune in love. and i'm _sure_ miss houghton would rather be unlucky in cards than in love. what, isn't it so?" "of course," said alvina. "there, you see, _of cauce_! well, all we can do after that is to wish her success in love. isn't that so, gentlemen? i'm sure _we_ are all quite willing to do our best to contribute to it. isn't it so, gentlemen? aren't we all ready to do our best to contribute to miss houghton's happiness in love? well then, let us drink to it." he lifted his glass, and bowed to alvina. "with _every_ wish for your success in love, miss houghton, and your _devoted_ servant--" he bowed and drank. geoffrey made large eyes at her as he held up his glass. "_i_ know you'll come out all right in love, _i_ know," he said heavily. "and you, ciccio? aren't you drinking?" said mr. may. ciccio held up his glass, looked at alvina, made a little mouth at her, comical, and drank his beer. "well," said mr. may, "_beer_ must confirm it, since words won't." "what time is it?" said alvina. "we must have supper." it was past nine o'clock. alvina rose and went to the kitchen, the men trailing after her. miss pinnegar was not there. she was not anywhere. "has she gone to bed?" said mr. may. and he crept stealthily upstairs on tip-toe, a comical, flush-faced, tubby little man. he was familiar with the house. he returned prancing. "i heard her cough," he said. "there's a light under her door. she's gone to bed. now haven't i always said she was a good soul? i shall drink her health. miss pinnegar--" and he bowed stiffly in the direction of the stairs--"your health, and a _good night's rest_." after which, giggling gaily, he seated himself at the head of the table and began to carve the cold mutton. "and where are the natcha-kee-tawaras this week?" he asked. they told him. "oh? and you two are cycling back to the camp of kishwégin tonight? we mustn't prolong our cheerfulness _too_ far." "ciccio is staying to help me with my bag tomorrow," said alvina. "you know i've joined the tawaras permanently--as pianist." "no, i didn't know that! oh really! really! oh! well! i see! permanently! yes, i am surprised! yes! as pianist? and if i might ask, what is your share of the tribal income?" "that isn't settled yet," said alvina. "no! exactly! exactly! it _wouldn't_ be settled yet. and you say it is a permanent engagement? of _cauce_, at such a figure." "yes, it is a permanent engagement," said alvina. "really! what a blow you give me! you won't come back to the endeavour? what? not at all?" "no," said alvina. "i shall sell out of the endeavour." "really! you've decided, have you? oh! this is news to me. and is _this_ quite final, too?" "quite," said alvina. "i see! putting two and two together, if i may say so--" and he glanced from her to the young men--"i _see_. most decidedly, most one-sidedly, if i may use the vulgarism, i _see--e--e!_ oh! but what a blow you give me! what a blow you give me!" "why?" said alvina. "what's to become of the endeavour? and consequently, of poor me?" "can't you keep it going?--form a company?" "i'm afraid i can't. i've done my best. but i'm afraid, you know, you've landed me." "i'm so sorry," said alvina. "i hope not." "thank you for the _hope_" said mr. may sarcastically. "they say hope is sweet. _i_ begin to find it a little _bitter_!" poor man, he had already gone quite yellow in the face. ciccio and geoffrey watched him with dark-seeing eyes. "and when are you going to let this fatal decision take effect?" asked mr. may. "i'm going to see the lawyer tomorrow, and i'm going to tell him to sell everything and clear up as soon as possible," said alvina. "sell everything! this house, and all it contains?" "yes," said alvina. "everything." "really!" mr. may seemed smitten quite dumb. "i feel as if the world had suddenly come to an end," he said. "but hasn't your world often come to an end before?" said alvina. "well--i suppose, once or twice. but _never_ quite on top of me, you see, before--" there was a silence. "and have you told miss pinnegar?" said mr. may. "not finally. but she has decided to open a little business in tamworth, where she has relations." "has she! and are you _really_ going to _tour_ with these young people--?" he indicated ciccio and gigi. "and at _no_ salary!" his voice rose. "why! it's almost _white slave traffic_, on madame's part. upon my word!" "i don't think so," said alvina. "don't you see that's insulting." "_insulting!_ well, i don't know. i think it's the _truth_--" "not to be said to me, for all that," said alvina, quivering with anger. "oh!" perked mr. may, yellow with strange rage. "oh! i mustn't say what i think! oh!" "not if you think those things--" said alvina. "oh really! the difficulty is, you see, i'm afraid i _do_ think them--" alvina watched him with big, heavy eyes. "go away," she said. "go away! i won't be insulted by you." "no _indeed!_" cried mr. may, starting to his feet, his eyes almost bolting from his head. "no _indeed!_ i wouldn't _think_ of insulting you in the presence of these _two_ young gentlemen." ciccio rose slowly, and with a slow, repeated motion of the head, indicated the door. "allez!" he said. "_certainement!_" cried mr. may, flying at ciccio, verbally, like an enraged hen yellow at the gills. "_certainement!_ je m'en vais. cette compagnie n'est pas de ma choix." "allez!" said ciccio, more loudly. and mr. may strutted out of the room like a bird bursting with its own rage. ciccio stood with his hands on the table, listening. they heard mr. may slam the front door. "gone!" said geoffrey. ciccio smiled sneeringly. "voyez, un cochon de lait," said gigi amply and calmly. ciccio sat down in his chair. geoffrey poured out some beer for him, saying: "drink, my cic', the bubble has burst, prfff!" and gigi knocked in his own puffed cheek with his fist. "allaye, my dear, your health! we are the tawaras. we are allaye! we are pacohuila! we are walgatchka! allons! the milk-pig is stewed and eaten. voilà!" he drank, smiling broadly. "one by one," said geoffrey, who was a little drunk: "one by one we put them out of the field, they are _hors de combat_. who remains? pacohuila, walgatchka, allaye--" he smiled very broadly. alvina was sitting sunk in thought and torpor after her sudden anger. "allaye, what do you think about? you are the bride of tawara," said geoffrey. alvina looked at him, smiling rather wanly. "and who is tawara?" she asked. he raised his shoulders and spread his hands and swayed his head from side to side, for all the world like a comic mandarin. "there!" he cried. "the question! who is tawara? who? tell me! ciccio is he--and i am he--and max and louis--" he spread his hand to the distant members of the tribe. "i can't be the bride of all four of you," said alvina, laughing. "no--no! no--no! such a thing does not come into my mind. but you are the bride of tawara. you dwell in the tent of pacohuila. and comes the day, should it ever be so, there is no room for you in the tent of pacohuila, then the lodge of walgatchka the bear is open for you. open, yes, wide open--" he spread his arms from his ample chest, at the end of the table. "open, and when allaye enters, it is the lodge of allaye, walgatchka is the bear that serves allaye. by the law of the pale face, by the law of the yenghees, by the law of the fransayes, walgatchka shall be husband-bear to allaye, that day she lifts the door-curtain of his tent--" he rolled his eyes and looked around. alvina watched him. "but i might be afraid of a husband-bear," she said. geoffrey got on to his feet. "by the manitou," he said, "the head of the bear walgatchka is humble--" here geoffrey bowed his head--"his teeth are as soft as lilies--" here he opened his mouth and put his finger on his small close teeth--"his hands are as soft as bees that stroke a flower--" here he spread his hands and went and suddenly flopped on his knees beside alvina, showing his hands and his teeth still, and rolling his eyes. "allaye can have no fear at all of the bear walgatchka," he said, looking up at her comically. ciccio, who had been watching and slightly grinning, here rose to his feet and took geoffrey by the shoulder, pulling him up. "basta!" he said. "tu es saoul. you are drunk, my gigi. get up. how are you going to ride to mansfield, hein?--great beast." "ciccio," said geoffrey solemnly. "i love thee, i love thee as a brother, and also more. i love thee as a brother, my ciccio, as thou knowest. but--" and he puffed fiercely--"i am the slave of allaye, i am the tame bear of allaye." "get up," said ciccio, "get up! per bacco! she doesn't want a tame bear." he smiled down on his friend. geoffrey rose to his feet and flung his arms round ciccio. "cic'," he besought him. "cic'--i love thee as a brother. but let me be the tame bear of allaye, let me be the gentle bear of allaye." "all right," said ciccio. "thou art the tame bear of allaye." geoffrey strained ciccio to his breast. "thank you! thank you! salute me, my own friend." and ciccio kissed him on either cheek. whereupon geoffrey immediately flopped on his knees again before alvina, and presented her his broad, rich-coloured cheek. "salute your bear, allaye," he cried. "salute your slave, the tame bear walgatchka, who is a wild bear for all except allaye and his brother pacohuila the puma." geoffrey growled realistically as a wild bear as he kneeled before alvina, presenting his cheek. alvina looked at ciccio, who stood above, watching. then she lightly kissed him on the cheek, and said: "won't you go to bed and sleep?" geoffrey staggered to his feet, shaking his head. "no--no--" he said. "no--no! walgatchka must travel to the tent of kishwégin, to the camp of the tawaras." "not tonight, _mon brave_," said ciccio. "tonight we stay here, hein. why separate, hein?--frère?" geoffrey again clasped ciccio in his arms. "pacohuila and walgatchka are blood-brothers, two bodies, one blood. one blood, in two bodies; one stream, in two valleys: one lake, between two mountains." here geoffrey gazed with large, heavy eyes on ciccio. alvina brought a candle and lighted it. "you will manage in the one room?" she said. "i will give you another pillow." she led the way upstairs. geoffrey followed, heavily. then ciccio. on the landing alvina gave them the pillow and the candle, smiled, bade them good-night in a whisper, and went downstairs again. she cleared away the supper and carried away all glasses and bottles from the drawing-room. then she washed up, removing all traces of the feast. the cards she restored to their old mahogany box. manchester house looked itself again. she turned off the gas at the meter, and went upstairs to bed. from the far room she could hear the gentle, but profound vibrations of geoffrey's snoring. she was tired after her day: too tired to trouble about anything any more. but in the morning she was first downstairs. she heard miss pinnegar, and hurried. hastily she opened the windows and doors to drive away the smell of beer and smoke. she heard the men rumbling in the bath-room. and quickly she prepared breakfast and made a fire. mrs. rollings would not appear till later in the day. at a quarter to seven miss pinnegar came down, and went into the scullery to make her tea. "did both the men stay?" she asked. "yes, they both slept in the end room," said alvina. miss pinnegar said no more, but padded with her tea and her boiled egg into the living room. in the morning she was wordless. ciccio came down, in his shirt-sleeves as usual, but wearing a collar. he greeted miss pinnegar politely. "good-morning!" she said, and went on with her tea. geoffrey appeared. miss pinnegar glanced once at him, sullenly, and briefly answered his good-morning. then she went on with her egg, slow and persistent in her movements, mum. the men went out to attend to geoffrey's bicycle. the morning was slow and grey, obscure. as they pumped up the tires, they heard some one padding behind. miss pinnegar came and unbolted the yard door, but ignored their presence. then they saw her return and slowly mount the outer stair-ladder, which went up to the top floor. two minutes afterwards they were startled by the irruption of the work-girls. as for the work-girls, they gave quite loud, startled squeals, suddenly seeing the two men on their right hand, in the obscure morning. and they lingered on the stair-way to gaze in rapt curiosity, poking and whispering, until miss pinnegar appeared overhead, and sharply rang a bell which hung beside the entrance door of the work-rooms. after which excitements geoffrey and ciccio went in to breakfast, which alvina had prepared. "you have done it all, eh?" said ciccio, glancing round. "yes. i've made breakfast for years, now," said alvina. "not many more times here, eh?" he said, smiling significantly. "i hope not," said alvina. ciccio sat down almost like a husband--as if it were his right. geoffrey was very quiet this morning. he ate his breakfast, and rose to go. "i shall see you soon," he said, smiling sheepishly and bowing to alvina. ciccio accompanied him to the street. when ciccio returned, alvina was once more washing dishes. "what time shall we go?" he said. "we'll catch the one train. i must see the lawyer this morning." "and what shall you say to him?" "i shall tell him to sell everything--" "and marry me?" she started, and looked at him. "you don't want to marry, do you?" she said. "yes, i do." "wouldn't you rather wait, and see--" "what?" he said. "see if there is any money." he watched her steadily, and his brow darkened. "why?" he said. she began to tremble. "you'd like it better if there was money." a slow, sinister smile came on his mouth. his eyes never smiled, except to geoffrey, when a flood of warm, laughing light sometimes suffused them. "you think i should!" "yes. it's true, isn't it? you would!" he turned his eyes aside, and looked at her hands as she washed the forks. they trembled slightly. then he looked back at her eyes again, that were watching him large and wistful and a little accusing. his impudent laugh came on his face. "yes," he said, "it is always better if there is money." he put his hand on her, and she winced. "but i marry you for love, you know. you know what love is--" and he put his arms round her, and laughed down into her face. she strained away. "but you can have love without marriage," she said. "you know that." "all right! all right! give me love, eh? i want that." she struggled against him. "but not now," she said. she saw the light in his eyes fix determinedly, and he nodded. "now!" he said. "now!" his yellow-tawny eyes looked down into hers, alien and overbearing. "i can't," she struggled. "i can't now." he laughed in a sinister way: yet with a certain warmheartedness. "come to that big room--" he said. her face flew fixed into opposition. "i can't now, really," she said grimly. his eyes looked down at hers. her eyes looked back at him, hard and cold and determined. they remained motionless for some seconds. then, a stray wisp of her hair catching his attention, desire filled his heart, warm and full, obliterating his anger in the combat. for a moment he softened. he saw her hardness becoming more assertive, and he wavered in sudden dislike, and almost dropped her. then again the desire flushed his heart, his smile became reckless of her, and he picked her right up. "yes," he said. "now." for a second, she struggled frenziedly. but almost instantly she recognized how much stronger he was, and she was still, mute and motionless with anger. white, and mute, and motionless, she was taken to her room. and at the back of her mind all the time she wondered at his deliberate recklessness of her. recklessly, he had his will of her--but deliberately, and thoroughly, not rushing to the issue, but taking everything he wanted of her, progressively, and fully, leaving her stark, with nothing, nothing of herself--nothing. when she could lie still she turned away from him, still mute. and he lay with his arms over her, motionless. noises went on, in the street, overhead in the work-room. but theirs was complete silence. at last he rose and looked at her. "love is a fine thing, allaye," he said. she lay mute and unmoving. he approached, laid his hand on her breast, and kissed her. "love," he said, asserting, and laughing. but still she was completely mute and motionless. he threw bedclothes over her and went downstairs, whistling softly. she knew she would have to break her own trance of obstinacy. so she snuggled down into the bedclothes, shivering deliciously, for her skin had become chilled. she didn't care a bit, really, about her own downfall. she snuggled deliciously in the sheets, and admitted to herself that she loved him. in truth, she loved him--and she was laughing to herself. luxuriously, she resented having to get up and tackle her heap of broken garments. but she did it. she took other clothes, adjusted her hair, tied on her apron, and went downstairs once more. she could not find ciccio: he had gone out. a stray cat darted from the scullery, and broke a plate in her leap. alvina found her washing-up water cold. she put on more, and began to dry her dishes. ciccio returned shortly, and stood in the doorway looking at her. she turned to him, unexpectedly laughing. "what do you think of yourself?" she laughed. "well," he said, with a little nod, and a furtive look of triumph about him, evasive. he went past her and into the room. her inside burned with love for him: so elusive, so beautiful, in his silent passing out of her sight. she wiped her dishes happily. why was she so absurdly happy, she asked herself? and why did she still fight so hard against the sense of his dark, unseizable beauty? unseizable, for ever unseizable! that made her almost his slave. she fought against her own desire to fall at his feet. ridiculous to be so happy. she sang to herself as she went about her work downstairs. then she went upstairs, to do the bedrooms and pack her bag. at ten o'clock she was to go to the family lawyer. she lingered over her possessions: what to take, and what not to take. and so doing she wasted her time. it was already ten o'clock when she hurried downstairs. he was sitting quite still, waiting. he looked up at her. "now i must hurry," she said. "i don't think i shall be more than an hour." he put on his hat and went out with her. "i shall tell the lawyer i am engaged to you. shall i?" she asked. "yes," he said. "tell him what you like." he was indifferent. "because," said alvina gaily, "we can please ourselves what we do, whatever we say. i shall say we think of getting married in the summer, when we know each other better, and going to italy." "why shall you say all that?" said ciccio. "because i shall _have_ to give some account of myself, or they'll make me do something i don't want to do. you might come to the lawyer's with me, will you? he's an awfully nice old man. then he'd believe in you." but ciccio shook his head. "no," he said. "i shan't go. he doesn't want to see _me_." "well, if you don't want to. but i remember your name, francesco marasca, and i remember pescocalascio." ciccio heard in silence, as they walked the half-empty, monday-morning street of woodhouse. people kept nodding to alvina. some hurried inquisitively across to speak to her and look at ciccio. ciccio however stood aside and turned his back. "oh yes," alvina said. "i am staying with friends, here and there, for a few weeks. no, i don't know when i shall be back. good-bye!" "you're looking well, alvina," people said to her. "i think you're looking wonderful. a change does you good." "it does, doesn't it," said alvina brightly. and she was pleased she was looking well. "well, good-bye for a minute," she said, glancing smiling into his eyes and nodding to him, as she left him at the gate of the lawyer's house, by the ivy-covered wall. the lawyer was a little man, all grey. alvina had known him since she was a child: but rather as an official than an individual. she arrived all smiling in his room. he sat down and scrutinized her sharply, officially, before beginning. "well, miss houghton, and what news have you?" "i don't think i've any, mr. beeby. i came to you for news." "ah!" said the lawyer, and he fingered a paper-weight that covered a pile of papers. "i'm afraid there is nothing very pleasant, unfortunately. and nothing very unpleasant either, for that matter." he gave her a shrewd little smile. "is the will proved?" "not yet. but i expect it will be through in a few days' time." "and are all the claims in?" "yes. i _think_ so. i think so!" and again he laid his hand on the pile of papers under the paper-weight, and ran through the edges with the tips of his fingers. "all those?" said alvina. "yes," he said quietly. it sounded ominous. "many!" said alvina. "a fair amount! a fair amount! let me show you a statement." he rose and brought her a paper. she made out, with the lawyer's help, that the claims against her father's property exceeded the gross estimate of his property by some seven hundred pounds. "does it mean we owe seven hundred pounds?" she asked. "that is only on the _estimate_ of the property. it might, of course, realize much more, when sold--or it might realize less." "how awful!" said alvina, her courage sinking. "unfortunate! unfortunate! however, i don't think the realization of the property would amount to less than the estimate. i don't think so." "but even then," said alvina. "there is sure to be something owing--" she saw herself saddled with her father's debts. "i'm afraid so," said the lawyer. "and then what?" said alvina. "oh--the creditors will have to be satisfied with a little less than they claim, i suppose. not a very great deal, you see. i don't expect they will complain a great deal. in fact, some of them will be less badly off than they feared. no, on that score we need not trouble further. useless if we do, anyhow. but now, about yourself. would you like me to try to compound with the creditors, so that you could have some sort of provision? they are mostly people who know you, know your condition: and i might try--" "try what?" said alvina. "to make some sort of compound. perhaps you might retain a lease of miss pinnegar's work-rooms. perhaps even something might be done about the cinematograph. what would you like--?" alvina sat still in her chair, looking through the window at the ivy sprays, and the leaf buds on the lilac. she felt she could not, she could not cut off every resource. in her own heart she had confidently expected a few hundred pounds: even a thousand or more. and that would make her _something_ of a catch, to people who had nothing. but now!--nothing!--nothing at the back of her but her hundred pounds. when that was gone--! in her dilemma she looked at the lawyer. "you didn't expect it would be quite so bad?" he said. "i think i didn't," she said. "no. well--it might have been worse." again he waited. and again she looked at him vacantly. "what do you think?" he said. for answer, she only looked at him with wide eyes. "perhaps you would rather decide later." "no," she said. "no. it's no use deciding later." the lawyer watched her with curious eyes, his hand beat a little impatiently. "i will do my best," he said, "to get what i can for you." "oh well!" she said. "better let everything go. i don't _want_ to hang on. don't bother about me at all. i shall go away, anyhow." "you will go away?" said the lawyer, and he studied his finger-nails. "yes. i shan't stay here." "oh! and may i ask if you have any definite idea, where you will go?" "i've got an engagement as pianist, with a travelling theatrical company." "oh indeed!" said the lawyer, scrutinizing her sharply. she stared away vacantly out of the window. he took to the attentive study of his finger-nails once more. "and at a sufficient salary?" "quite sufficient, thank you," said alvina. "oh! well! well now!--" he fidgetted a little. "you see, we are all old neighbours and connected with your father for many years. we--that is the persons interested, and myself--would not like to think that you were driven out of woodhouse--er--er--destitute. if--er--we could come to some composition--make some arrangement that would be agreeable to you, and would, in some measure, secure you a means of livelihood--" he watched alvina with sharp blue eyes. alvina looked back at him, still vacantly. "no--thanks awfully!" she said. "but don't bother. i'm going away." "with the travelling theatrical company?" "yes." the lawyer studied his finger-nails intensely. "well," he said, feeling with a finger-tip an imaginary roughness of one nail-edge. "well, in that case--in that case--supposing you have made an irrevocable decision--" he looked up at her sharply. she nodded slowly, like a porcelain mandarin. "in that case," he said, "we must proceed with the valuation and the preparation for the sale." "yes," she said faintly. "you realize," he said, "that everything in manchester house, except your private personal property, and that of miss pinnegar, belongs to the claimants, your father's creditors, and may not be removed from the house." "yes," she said. "and it will be necessary to make an account of everything in the house. so if you and miss pinnegar will put your possessions strictly apart--but i shall see miss pinnegar during the course of the day. would you ask her to call about seven--i think she is free then--" alvina sat trembling. "i shall pack my things today," she said. "of course," said the lawyer, "any little things to which you may be attached the claimants would no doubt wish you to regard as your own. for anything of greater value--your piano, for example--i should have to make a personal request--" "oh, i don't want anything--" said alvina. "no? well! you will see. you will be here a few days?" "no," said alvina. "i'm going away today." "today! is that also irrevocable?" "yes. i must go this afternoon." "on account of your engagement? may i ask where your company is performing this week? far away?" "mansfield!" "oh! well then, in case i particularly wished to see you, you could come over?" "if necessary," said alvina. "but i don't want to come to woodhouse unless it _is_ necessary. can't we write?" "yes--certainly! certainly!--most things! certainly! and now--" he went into certain technical matters, and alvina signed some documents. at last she was free to go. she had been almost an hour in the room. "well, good-morning, miss houghton. you will hear from me, and i from you. i wish you a pleasant experience in your new occupation. you are not leaving woodhouse for ever." "good-bye!" she said. and she hurried to the road. try as she might, she felt as if she had had a blow which knocked her down. she felt she had had a blow. at the lawyer's gate she stood a minute. there, across a little hollow, rose the cemetery hill. there were her graves: her mother's, miss frost's, her father's. looking, she made out the white cross at miss frost's grave, the grey stone at her parents'. then she turned slowly, under the church wall, back to manchester house. she felt humiliated. she felt she did not want to see anybody at all. she did not want to see miss pinnegar, nor the natcha-kee-tawaras: and least of all, ciccio. she felt strange in woodhouse, almost as if the ground had risen from under her feet and hit her over the mouth. the fact that manchester house and its very furniture was under seal to be sold on behalf of her father's creditors made her feel as if all her woodhouse life had suddenly gone smash. she loathed the thought of manchester house. she loathed staying another minute in it. and yet she did not want to go to the natcha-kee-tawaras either. the church clock above her clanged eleven. she ought to take the twelve-forty train to mansfield. yet instead of going home she turned off down the alley towards the fields and the brook. how many times had she gone that road! how many times had she seen miss frost bravely striding home that way, from her music-pupils. how many years had she noticed a particular wild cherry-tree come into blossom, a particular bit of black-thorn scatter its whiteness in among the pleached twigs of a hawthorn hedge. how often, how many springs had miss frost come home with a bit of this black-thorn in her hand! alvina did _not_ want to go to mansfield that afternoon. she felt insulted. she knew she would be much cheaper in madame's eyes. she knew her own position with the troupe would be humiliating. it would be openly a little humiliating. but it would be much more maddeningly humiliating to stay in woodhouse and experience the full flavour of woodhouse's calculated benevolence. she hardly knew which was worse: the cool look of insolent half-contempt, half-satisfaction with which madame would receive the news of her financial downfall, or the officious patronage which she would meet from the woodhouse magnates. she knew exactly how madame's black eyes would shine, how her mouth would curl with a sneering, slightly triumphant smile, as she heard the news. and she could hear the bullying tone in which henry wagstaff would dictate the woodhouse benevolence to her. she wanted to go away from them all--from them all--for ever. even from ciccio. for she felt he insulted her too. subtly, they all did it. they had regard for her possibilities as an heiress. five hundred, even two hundred pounds would have made all the difference. useless to deny it. even to ciccio. ciccio would have had a lifelong respect for her, if she had come with even so paltry a sum as two hundred pounds. now she had nothing, he would coolly withhold this respect. she felt he might jeer at her. and she could not get away from this feeling. mercifully she had the bit of ready money. and she had a few trinkets which might be sold. nothing else. mercifully, for the mere moment, she was independent. whatever else she did, she must go back and pack. she must pack her two boxes, and leave them ready. for she felt that once she had left, she could never come back to woodhouse again. if england had cliffs all round--why, when there was nowhere else to go and no getting beyond, she could walk over one of the cliffs. meanwhile, she had her short run before her. she banked hard on her independence. so she turned back to the town. she would not be able to take the twelve-forty train, for it was already mid-day. but she was glad. she wanted some time to herself. she would send ciccio on. slowly she climbed the familiar hill--slowly--and rather bitterly. she felt her native place insulted her: and she felt the natchas insulted her. in the midst of the insult she remained isolated upon herself, and she wished to be alone. she found ciccio waiting at the end of the yard: eternally waiting, it seemed. he was impatient. "you've been a long time," he said. "yes," she answered. "we shall have to make haste to catch the train." "i can't go by this train. i shall have to come on later. you can just eat a mouthful of lunch, and go now." they went indoors. miss pinnegar had not yet come down. mrs. rollings was busily peeling potatoes. "mr. marasca is going by the train, he'll have to have a little cold meat," said alvina. "would you mind putting it ready while i go upstairs?" "sharpses and fullbankses sent them bills," said mrs. rollings. alvina opened them, and turned pale. it was thirty pounds, the total funeral expenses. she had completely forgotten them. "and mr. atterwell wants to know what you'd like put on th' headstone for your father--if you'd write it down." "all right." mrs. rollings popped on the potatoes for miss pinnegar's dinner, and spread the cloth for ciccio. when he was eating, miss pinnegar came in. she inquired for alvina--and went upstairs. "have you had your dinner?" she said. for there was alvina sitting writing a letter. "i'm going by a later train," said alvina. "both of you?" "no. he's going now." miss pinnegar came downstairs again, and went through to the scullery. when alvina came down, she returned to the living room. "give this letter to madame," alvina said to ciccio. "i shall be at the hall by seven tonight. i shall go straight there." "why can't you come now?" said ciccio. "i can't possibly," said alvina. "the lawyer has just told me father's debts come to much more than everything is worth. nothing is ours--not even the plate you're eating from. everything is under seal to be sold to pay off what is owing. so i've got to get my own clothes and boots together, or they'll be sold with the rest. mr. beeby wants you to go round at seven this evening, miss pinnegar--before i forget." "really!" gasped miss pinnegar. "really! the house and the furniture and everything got to be sold up? then we're on the streets! i can't believe it." "so he told me," said alvina. "but how positively awful," said miss pinnegar, sinking motionless into a chair. "it's not more than i expected," said alvina. "i'm putting my things into my two trunks, and i shall just ask mrs. slaney to store them for me. then i've the bag i shall travel with." "really!" gasped miss pinnegar. "i can't believe it! and when have we got to get out?" "oh, i don't think there's a desperate hurry. they'll take an inventory of all the things, and we can live on here till they're actually ready for the sale." "and when will that be?" "i don't know. a week or two." "and is the cinematograph to be sold the same?" "yes--everything! the piano--even mother's portrait--" "it's impossible to believe it," said miss pinnegar. "it's impossible. he can never have left things so bad." "ciccio," said alvina. "you'll really have to go if you are to catch the train. you'll give madame my letter, won't you? i should hate you to miss the train. i know she can't bear me already, for all the fuss and upset i cause." ciccio rose slowly, wiping his mouth. "you'll be there at seven o'clock?" he said. "at the theatre," she replied. and without more ado, he left. mrs. rollings came in. "you've heard?" said miss pinnegar dramatically. "i heard somethink," said mrs. rollings. "sold up! everything to be sold up. every stick and rag! i never thought i should live to see the day," said miss pinnegar. "you might almost have expected it," said mrs. rollings. "but you're all right, yourself, miss pinnegar. your money isn't with his, is it?" "no," said miss pinnegar. "what little i have put by is safe. but it's not enough to live on. it's not enough to keep me, even supposing i only live another ten years. if i only spend a pound a week, it costs fifty-two pounds a year. and for ten years, look at it, it's five hundred and twenty pounds. and you couldn't say less. and i haven't half that amount. i never had more than a wage, you know. why, miss frost earned a good deal more than i do. and _she_ didn't leave much more than fifty. where's the money to come from--?" "but if you've enough to start a little business--" said alvina. "yes, it's what i shall _have_ to do. it's what i shall have to do. and then what about you? what about you?" "oh, don't bother about me," said alvina. "yes, it's all very well, don't bother. but when you come to my age, you know you've _got_ to bother, and bother a great deal, if you're not going to find yourself in a position you'd be sorry for. you _have_ to bother. and _you'll_ have to bother before you've done." "sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," said alvina. "ha, sufficient for a good many days, it seems to me." miss pinnegar was in a real temper. to alvina this seemed an odd way of taking it. the three women sat down to an uncomfortable dinner of cold meat and hot potatoes and warmed-up pudding. "but whatever you do," pronounced miss pinnegar; "whatever you do, and however you strive, in this life, you're knocked down in the end. you're always knocked down." "it doesn't matter," said alvina, "if it's only in the end. it doesn't matter if you've had your life." "you've never had your life, till you're dead," said miss pinnegar. "and if you work and strive, you've a right to the fruits of your work." "it doesn't matter," said alvina laconically, "so long as you've enjoyed working and striving." but miss pinnegar was too angry to be philosophic. alvina knew it was useless to be either angry or otherwise emotional. none the less, she also felt as if she had been knocked down. and she almost envied poor miss pinnegar the prospect of a little, day-by-day haberdashery shop in tamworth. her own problem seemed so much more menacing. "answer or die," said the sphinx of fate. miss pinnegar could answer her own fate according to its question. she could say "haberdashery shop," and her sphinx would recognize this answer as true to nature, and would be satisfied. but every individual has his own, or her own fate, and her own sphinx. alvina's sphinx was an old, deep thoroughbred, she would take no mongrel answers. and her thoroughbred teeth were long and sharp. to alvina, the last of the fantastic but pure-bred race of houghton, the problem of her fate was terribly abstruse. the only thing to do was not to solve it: to stray on, and answer fate with whatever came into one's head. no good striving with fate. trust to a lucky shot, or take the consequences. "miss pinnegar," said alvina. "have we any money in hand?" "there is about twenty pounds in the bank. it's all shown in my books," said miss pinnegar. "we couldn't take it, could we?" "every penny shows in the books." alvina pondered again. "are there more bills to come in?" she asked. "i mean my bills. do i owe anything?" "i don't think you do," said miss pinnegar. "i'm going to keep the insurance money, any way. they can say what they like. i've got it, and i'm going to keep it." "well," said miss pinnegar, "it's not my business. but there's sharps and fullbanks to pay." "i'll pay those," said alvina. "you tell atterwell what to put on father's stone. how much does it cost?" "five shillings a letter, you remember." "well, we'll just put the name and the date. how much will that be? james houghton. born th january--" "you'll have to put 'also of,'" said miss pinnegar. "also of--" said alvina. "one--two--three--four--five--six--. six letters--thirty shillings. seems an awful lot for _also of_--" "but you can't leave it out," said miss pinnegar. "you can't economize over that." "i begrudge it," said alvina. chapter xi honourable engagement for days, after joining the natcha-kee-tawaras, alvina was very quiet, subdued, and rather remote, sensible of her humiliating position as a hanger-on. they none of them took much notice of her. they drifted on, rather disjointedly. the cordiality, the _joie de vivre_ did not revive. madame was a little irritable, and very exacting, and inclined to be spiteful. ciccio went his way with geoffrey. in the second week, madame found out that a man had been surreptitiously inquiring about them at their lodgings, from the landlady and the landlady's blowsy daughter. it must have been a detective--some shoddy detective. madame waited. then she sent max over to mansfield, on some fictitious errand. yes, the lousy-looking dogs of detectives had been there too, making the most minute enquiries as to the behaviour of the natcha-kee-tawaras, what they did, how their sleeping was arranged, how madame addressed the men, what attitude the men took towards alvina. madame waited again. and again, when they moved to doncaster, the same two mongrel-looking fellows were lurking in the street, and plying the inmates of their lodging-house with questions. all the natchas caught sight of the men. and madame cleverly wormed out of the righteous and respectable landlady what the men had asked. once more it was about the sleeping accommodation--whether the landlady heard anything in the night--whether she noticed anything in the bedrooms, in the beds. no doubt about it, the natcha-kee-tawaras were under suspicion. they were being followed, and watched. what for? madame made a shrewd guess. "they want to say we are immoral foreigners," she said. "but what have our personal morals got to do with them?" said max angrily. "yes--but the english! they are so pure," said madame. "you know," said louis, "somebody must have put them up to it--" "perhaps," said madame, "somebody on account of allaye." alvina went white. "yes," said geoffrey. "white slave traffic! mr. may said it." madame slowly nodded. "mr. may!" she said. "mr. may! it is he. he knows all about morals--and immorals. yes, i know. yes--yes--yes! he suspects all our immoral doings, _mes braves_." "but there aren't any, except mine," cried alvina, pale to the lips. "you! you! there you are!" madame smiled archly, and rather mockingly. "what are we to do?" said max, pale on the cheekbones. "curse them! curse them!" louis was muttering, in his rolling accent. "wait," said madame. "wait. they will not do anything to us. you are only dirty foreigners, _mes braves_. at the most they will ask us only to leave their pure country." "we don't interfere with none of them," cried max. "curse them," muttered louis. "never mind, _mon cher_. you are in a pure country. let us wait." "if you think it's me," said alvina, "i can go away." "oh, my dear, you are only the excuse," said madame, smiling indulgently at her. "let us wait, and see." she took it smilingly. but her cheeks were white as paper, and her eyes black as drops of ink, with anger. "wait and see!" she chanted ironically. "wait and see! if we must leave the dear country--then _adieu!_" and she gravely bowed to an imaginary england. "i feel it's my fault. i feel i ought to go away," cried alvina, who was terribly distressed, seeing madame's glitter and pallor, and the black brows of the men. never had ciccio's brow looked so ominously black. and alvina felt it was all her fault. never had she experienced such a horrible feeling: as if something repulsive were creeping on her from behind. every minute of these weeks was a horror to her: the sense of the low-down dogs of detectives hanging round, sliding behind them, trying to get hold of some clear proof of immorality on their part. and then--the unknown vengeance of the authorities. all the repulsive secrecy, and all the absolute power of the police authorities. the sense of a great malevolent power which had them all the time in its grip, and was watching, feeling, waiting to strike the morbid blow: the sense of the utter helplessness of individuals who were not even accused, only watched and enmeshed! the feeling that they, the natcha-kee-tawaras, herself included, must be monsters of hideous vice, to have provoked all this: and yet the sane knowledge that they, none of them, _were_ monsters of vice; this was quite killing. the sight of a policeman would send up alvina's heart in a flame of fear, agony; yet she knew she had nothing legally to be afraid of. every knock at the door was horrible. she simply could not understand it. yet there it was: they were watched, followed. of that there was no question. and all she could imagine was that the troupe was secretly accused of white slave traffic by somebody in woodhouse. probably mr. may had gone the round of the benevolent magnates of woodhouse, concerning himself with her virtue, and currying favour with his concern. of this she became convinced, that it was concern for her virtue which had started the whole business: and that the first instigator was mr. may, who had got round some vulgar magistrate or county councillor. madame did not consider alvina's view very seriously. she thought it was some personal malevolence against the tawaras themselves, probably put up by some other professionals, with whom madame was not popular. be that as it may, for some weeks they went about in the shadow of this repulsive finger which was following after them, to touch them and destroy them with the black smear of shame. the men were silent and inclined to be sulky. they seemed to hold together. they seemed to be united into a strong, four-square silence and tension. they kept to themselves--and alvina kept to herself--and madame kept to herself. so they went about. and slowly the cloud melted. it never broke. alvina felt that the very force of the sullen, silent fearlessness and fury in the tawaras had prevented its bursting. once there had been a weakening, a cringing, they would all have been lost. but their hearts hardened with black, indomitable anger. and the cloud melted, it passed away. there was no sign. early summer was now at hand. alvina no longer felt at home with the natchas. while the trouble was hanging over, they seemed to ignore her altogether. the men hardly spoke to her. they hardly spoke to madame, for that matter. they kept within the four-square enclosure of themselves. but alvina felt herself particularly excluded, left out. and when the trouble of the detectives began to pass off, and the men became more cheerful again, wanted her to jest and be familiar with them, she responded verbally, but in her heart there was no response. madame had been quite generous with her. she allowed her to pay for her room, and the expense of travelling. but she had her food with the rest. wherever she was, madame bought the food for the party, and cooked it herself. and alvina came in with the rest: she paid no board. she waited, however, for madame to suggest a small salary--or at least, that the troupe should pay her living expenses. but madame did not make such a suggestion. so alvina knew that she was not very badly wanted. and she guarded her money, and watched for some other opportunity. it became her habit to go every morning to the public library of the town in which she found herself, to look through the advertisements: advertisements for maternity nurses, for nursery governesses, pianists, travelling companions, even ladies' maids. for some weeks she found nothing, though she wrote several letters. one morning ciccio, who had begun to hang round her again, accompanied her as she set out to the library. but her heart was closed against him. "why are you going to the library?" he asked her. it was in lancaster. "to look at the papers and magazines." "ha-a! to find a job, eh?" his cuteness startled her for a moment. "if i found one i should take it," she said. "hé! i know that," he said. it so happened that that very morning she saw on the notice-board of the library an announcement that the borough council wished to engage the services of an experienced maternity nurse, applications to be made to the medical board. alvina wrote down the directions. ciccio watched her. "what is a maternity nurse?" he said. "an _accoucheuse_!" she said. "the nurse who attends when babies are born." "do you know how to do that?" he said, incredulous, and jeering slightly. "i was trained to do it," she said. he said no more, but walked by her side as she returned to the lodgings. as they drew near the lodgings, he said: "you don't want to stop with us any more?" "i can't," she said. he made a slight, mocking gesture. "'i can't,'" he repeated. "why do you always say you can't?" "because i can't," she said. "pff--!" he went, with a whistling sound of contempt. but she went indoors to her room. fortunately, when she had finally cleared her things from manchester house, she had brought with her her nurse's certificate, and recommendations from doctors. she wrote out her application, took the tram to the town hall and dropped it in the letterbox there. then she wired home to her doctor for another reference. after which she went to the library and got out a book on her subject. if summoned, she would have to go before the medical board on monday. she had a week. she read and pondered hard, recalling all her previous experience and knowledge. she wondered if she ought to appear before the board in uniform. her nurse's dresses were packed in her trunk at mrs. slaney's, in woodhouse. it was now may. the whole business at woodhouse was finished. manchester house and all the furniture was sold to some boot-and-shoe people: at least the boot-and-shoe people had the house. they had given four thousand pounds for it--which was above the lawyer's estimate. on the other hand, the theatre was sold for almost nothing. it all worked out that some thirty-three pounds, which the creditors made up to fifty pounds, remained for alvina. she insisted on miss pinnegar's having half of this. and so that was all over. miss pinnegar was already in tamworth, and her little shop would be opened next week. she wrote happily and excitedly about it. sometimes fate acts swiftly and without a hitch. on thursday alvina received her notice that she was to appear before the board on the following monday. and yet she could not bring herself to speak of it to madame till the saturday evening. when they were all at supper, she said: "madame, i applied for a post of maternity nurse, to the borough of lancaster." madame raised her eyebrows. ciccio had said nothing. "oh really! you never told me." "i thought it would be no use if it all came to nothing. they want me to go and see them on monday, and then they will decide--" "really! do they! on monday? and then if you get this work you will stay here? yes?" "yes, of course." "of course! of course! yes! h'm! and if not?" the two women looked at each other. "what?" said alvina. "if you _don't_ get it--! you are not _sure_?" "no," said alvina. "i am not a bit sure." "well then--! now! and if you don't get it--?" "what shall i do, you mean?" "yes, what shall you do?" "i don't know." "how! you don't know! shall you come back to us, then?" "i will if you like--" "if i like! if _i_ like! come, it is not a question of if _i_ like. it is what do you want to do yourself." "i feel you don't want me very badly," said alvina. "why? why do you feel? who makes you? which of us makes you feel so? tell me." "nobody in particular. but i feel it." "oh we-ell! if nobody makes you, and yet you feel it, it must be in yourself, don't you see? eh? isn't it so?" "perhaps it is," admitted alvina. "we-ell then! we-ell--" so madame gave her her congé. "but if you like to come back--if you _laike_--then--" madame shrugged her shoulders--"you must come, i suppose." "thank you," said alvina. the young men were watching. they seemed indifferent. ciccio turned aside, with his faint, stupid smile. in the morning madame gave alvina all her belongings, from the little safe she called her bank. "there is the money--so--and so--and so--that is correct. please count it once more!--" alvina counted it and kept it clutched in her hand. "and there are your rings, and your chain, and your locket--see--all--everything--! but not the brooch. where is the brooch? here! shall i give it back, hein?" "i gave it to you," said alvina, offended. she looked into madame's black eyes. madame dropped her eyes. "yes, you gave it. but i thought, you see, as you have now not much mo-oney, perhaps you would like to take it again--" "no, thank you," said alvina, and she went away, leaving madame with the red brooch in her plump hand. "thank goodness i've given her something valuable," thought alvina to herself, as she went trembling to her room. she had packed her bag. she had to find new rooms. she bade good-bye to the natcha-kee-tawaras. her face was cold and distant, but she smiled slightly as she bade them good-bye. "and perhaps," said madame, "per-haps you will come to wigan tomorrow afternoon--or evening? yes?" "thank you," said alvina. she went out and found a little hotel, where she took her room for the night, explaining the cause of her visit to lancaster. her heart was hard and burning. a deep, burning, silent anger against everything possessed her, and a profound indifference to mankind. and therefore, the next day, everything went as if by magic. she had decided that at the least sign of indifference from the medical board people she would walk away, take her bag, and go to windermere. she had never been to the lakes. and windermere was not far off. she would not endure one single hint of contumely from any one else. she would go straight to windermere, to see the big lake. why not do as she wished! she could be quite happy by herself among the lakes. and she would be absolutely free, absolutely free. she rather looked forward to leaving the town hall, hurrying to take her bag and off to the station and freedom. hadn't she still got about a hundred pounds? why bother for one moment? to be quite alone in the whole world--and quite, quite free, with her hundred pounds--the prospect attracted her sincerely. and therefore, everything went charmingly at the town hall. the medical board were charming to her--charming. there was no hesitation at all. from the first moment she was engaged. and she was given a pleasant room in a hospital in a garden, and the matron was charming to her, and the doctors most courteous. when could she undertake to commence her duties? when did they want her? the very _moment_ she could come. she could begin tomorrow--but she had no uniform. oh, the matron would lend her uniform and aprons, till her box arrived. so there she was--by afternoon installed in her pleasant little room looking on the garden, and dressed in a nurse's uniform. it was all sudden like magic. she had wired to madame, she had wired for her box. she was another person. needless to say, she was glad. needless to say that, in the morning, when she had thoroughly bathed, and dressed in clean clothes, and put on the white dress, the white apron, and the white cap, she felt another person. so clean, she felt, so thankful! her skin seemed caressed and live with cleanliness and whiteness, luminous she felt. it was so different from being with the natchas. in the garden the snowballs, guelder-roses, swayed softly among green foliage, there was pink may-blossom, and single scarlet may-blossom, and underneath the young green of the trees, irises rearing purple and moth-white. a young gardener was working--and a convalescent slowly trailed a few paces. having ten minutes still, alvina sat down and wrote to ciccio: "i am glad i have got this post as nurse here. every one is most kind, and i feel at home already. i feel quite happy here. i shall think of my days with the natcha-kee-tawaras, and of you, who were such a stranger to me. good-bye.--a. h." this she addressed and posted. no doubt madame would find occasion to read it. but let her. alvina now settled down to her new work. there was of course a great deal to do, for she had work both in the hospital and out in the town, though chiefly out in the town. she went rapidly from case to case, as she was summoned. and she was summoned at all hours. so that it was tiring work, which left her no time to herself, except just in snatches. she had no serious acquaintance with anybody, she was too busy. the matron and sisters and doctors and patients were all part of her day's work, and she regarded them as such. the men she chiefly ignored: she felt much more friendly with the matron. she had many a cup of tea and many a chat in the matron's room, in the quiet, sunny afternoons when the work was not pressing. alvina took her quiet moments when she could: for she never knew when she would be rung up by one or other of the doctors in the town. and so, from the matron, she learned to crochet. it was work she had never taken to. but now she had her ball of cotton and her hook, and she worked away as she chatted. she was in good health, and she was getting fatter again. with the natcha-kee-tawaras, she had improved a good deal, her colour and her strength had returned. but undoubtedly the nursing life, arduous as it was, suited her best. she became a handsome, reposeful woman, jolly with the other nurses, really happy with her friend the matron, who was well-bred and wise, and never over-intimate. the doctor with whom alvina had most to do was a dr. mitchell, a scotchman. he had a large practice among the poor, and was an energetic man. he was about fifty-four years old, tall, largely-built, with a good figure, but with extraordinarily large feet and hands. his face was red and clean-shaven, his eyes blue, his teeth very good. he laughed and talked rather mouthingly. alvina, who knew what the nurses told her, knew that he had come as a poor boy and bottle-washer to dr. robertson, a fellow-scotchman, and that he had made his way up gradually till he became a doctor himself, and had an independent practice. now he was quite rich--and a bachelor. but the nurses did not set their bonnets at him very much, because he was rather mouthy and overbearing. in the houses of the poor he was a great autocrat. "what is that stuff you've got there!" he inquired largely, seeing a bottle of somebody's soothing syrup by a poor woman's bedside. "take it and throw it down the sink, and the next time you want a soothing syrup put a little boot-blacking in hot water. it'll do you just as much good." imagine the slow, pompous, large-mouthed way in which the red-faced, handsomely-built man pronounced these words, and you realize why the poor set such store by him. he was eagle-eyed. wherever he went, there was a scuffle directly his foot was heard on the stairs. and he knew they were hiding something. he sniffed the air: he glanced round with a sharp eye: and during the course of his visit picked up a blue mug which was pushed behind the looking-glass. he peered inside--and smelled it. "stout?" he said, in a tone of indignant inquiry: god-almighty would presumably take on just such a tone, finding the core of an apple flung away among the dead-nettle of paradise: "stout! have you been drinking stout?" this as he gazed down on the wan mother in the bed. "they gave me a drop, doctor. i felt that low." the doctor marched out of the room, still holding the mug in his hand. the sick woman watched him with haunted eyes. the attendant women threw up their hands and looked at one another. was he going for ever? there came a sudden smash. the doctor had flung the blue mug downstairs. he returned with a solemn stride. "there!" he said. "and the next person that gives you stout will be thrown down along with the mug." "oh doctor, the bit o' comfort!" wailed the sick woman. "it ud never do me no harm." "harm! harm! with a stomach as weak as yours! harm! do you know better than i do? what have i come here for? to be told by _you_ what will do you harm and what won't? it appears to me you need no doctor here, you know everything already--" "oh no, doctor. it's not like that. but when you feel as if you'd sink through the bed, an' you don't know what to do with yourself--" "take a little beef-tea, or a little rice pudding. take _nourishment_, don't take that muck. do you hear--" charging upon the attendant women, who shrank against the wall--"she's to have nothing alcoholic at all, and don't let me catch you giving it her." "they say there's nobbut fower per cent. i' stout," retorted the daring female. "fower per cent.," mimicked the doctor brutally. "why, what does an ignorant creature like _you_ know about fower per cent." the woman muttered a little under her breath. "what? speak out. let me hear what you've got to say, my woman. i've no doubt it's something for my benefit--" but the affronted woman rushed out of the room, and burst into tears on the landing. after which dr. mitchell, mollified, largely told the patient how she was to behave, concluding: "nourishment! nourishment is what you want. nonsense, don't tell me you can't take it. push it down if it won't go down by itself--" "oh doctor--" "don't say _oh doctor_ to me. do as i tell you. that's _your_ business." after which he marched out, and the rattle of his motor car was shortly heard. alvina got used to scenes like these. she wondered why the people stood it. but soon she realized that they loved it--particularly the women. "oh, nurse, stop till dr. mitchell's been. i'm scared to death of him, for fear he's going to shout at me." "why does everybody put up with him?" asked innocent alvina. "oh, he's good-hearted, nurse, he _does_ feel for you." and everywhere it was the same: "oh, he's got a heart, you know. he's rough, but he's got a heart. i'd rather have him than your smarmy slormin sort. oh, you feel safe with dr. mitchell, i don't care what you say." but to alvina this peculiar form of blustering, bullying heart which had all the women scurrying like chickens was not particularly attractive. the men did not like dr. mitchell, and would not have him if possible. yet since he was club doctor and panel doctor, they had to submit. the first thing he said to a sick or injured labourer, invariably, was: "and keep off the beer." "oh ay!" "keep off the beer, or i shan't set foot in this house again." "tha's got a red enough face on thee, tha nedna shout." "my face is red with exposure to all weathers, attending ignorant people like you. i never touch alcohol in any form." "no, an' i dunna. i drink a drop o' beer, if that's what you ca' touchin' alcohol. an' i'm none th' wuss for it, tha sees." "you've heard what i've told you." "ah, i have." "and if you go on with the beer, you may go on with curing yourself. _i_ shan't attend you. you know i mean what i say, mrs. larrick"--this to the wife. "i do, doctor. and i know it's true what you say. an' i'm at him night an' day about it--" "oh well, if he will hear no reason, he must suffer for it. he mustn't think _i'm_ going to be running after him, if he disobeys my orders." and the doctor stalked off, and the woman began to complain. none the less the women had their complaints against dr. mitchell. if ever alvina entered a clean house on a wet day, she was sure to hear the housewife chuntering. "oh my lawk, come in nurse! what a day! doctor's not been yet. and he's bound to come now i've just cleaned up, trapesin' wi' his gret feet. he's got the biggest understandin's of any man i' lancaster. my husband says they're the best pair o' pasties i' th' kingdom. an' he does make such a mess, for he never stops to wipe his feet on th' mat, marches straight up your clean stairs--" "why don't you tell him to wipe his feet?" said alvina. "oh my word! fancy me telling him! he'd jump down my throat with both feet afore i'd opened my mouth. he's not to be spoken to, he isn't. he's my-lord, he is. you mustn't look, or you're done for." alvina laughed. she knew they all liked him for browbeating them, and having a heart over and above. sometimes he was given a good hit--though nearly always by a man. it happened he was in a workman's house when the man was at dinner. "canna yer gi'e a man summat better nor this 'ere pap, missis?" said the hairy husband, turning up his nose at the rice pudding. "oh go on," cried the wife. "i hadna time for owt else." dr. mitchell was just stooping his handsome figure in the doorway. "rice pudding!" he exclaimed largely. "you couldn't have anything more wholesome and nourishing. i have a rice pudding every day of my life--every day of my life, i do." the man was eating his pudding and pearling his big moustache copiously with it. he did not answer. "do you doctor!" cried the woman. "and never no different." "never," said the doctor. "fancy that! you're that fond of them?" "i find they agree with me. they are light and digestible. and my stomach is as weak as a baby's." the labourer wiped his big moustache on his sleeve. "mine _isna_, tha sees," he said, "so pap's no use. 's watter ter me. i want ter feel as i've had summat: a bit o' suetty dumplin' an' a pint o' hale, summat ter fill th' hole up. an' tha'd be th' same if tha did my work." "if i did your work," sneered the doctor. "why i do ten times the work that any one of you does. it's just the work that has ruined my digestion, the never getting a quiet meal, and never a whole night's rest. when do you think _i_ can sit at table and digest my dinner? i have to be off looking after people like you--" "eh, tha can ta'e th' titty-bottle wi' thee," said the labourer. but dr. mitchell was furious for weeks over this. it put him in a black rage to have his great manliness insulted. alvina was quietly amused. the doctor began by being rather lordly and condescending with her. but luckily she felt she knew her work at least as well as he knew it. she smiled and let him condescend. certainly she neither feared nor even admired him. to tell the truth, she rather disliked him: the great, red-faced bachelor of fifty-three, with his bald spot and his stomach as weak as a baby's, and his mouthing imperiousness and his good heart which was as selfish as it could be. nothing can be more cocksuredly selfish than a good heart which believes in its own beneficence. he was a little too much the teetotaller on the one hand to be so largely manly on the other. alvina preferred the labourers with their awful long moustaches that got full of food. and he was a little too loud-mouthedly lordly to be in human good taste. as a matter of fact, he was conscious of the fact that he had risen to be a gentleman. now if a man is conscious of being a _gentleman_, he is bound to be a little less than a _man_. but if he is gnawed with anxiety lest he may _not_ be a gentleman, he is only pitiable. there is a third case, however. if a man must loftily, by his manner, assert that he is _now_ a gentleman, he shows himself a clown. for alvina, poor dr. mitchell fell into this third category, of clowns. she tolerated him good-humouredly, as women so often tolerate ninnies and _poseurs_. she smiled to herself when she saw his large and important presence on the board. she smiled when she saw him at a sale, buying the grandest pieces of antique furniture. she smiled when he talked of going up to scotland, for grouse shooting, or of snatching an hour on sunday morning, for golf. and she talked him over, with quiet, delicate malice, with the matron. he was no favourite at the hospital. gradually dr. mitchell's manner changed towards her. from his imperious condescension he took to a tone of uneasy equality. this did not suit him. dr. mitchell had no equals: he had only the vast stratum of inferiors, towards whom he exercised his quite profitable beneficence--it brought him in about two thousand a year: and then his superiors, people who had been born with money. it was the tradesmen and professionals who had started at the bottom and clambered to the motor-car footing, who distressed him. and therefore, whilst he treated alvina on this uneasy tradesman footing, he felt himself in a false position. she kept her attitude of quiet amusement, and little by little he sank. from being a lofty creature soaring over her head, he was now like a big fish poking its nose above water and making eyes at her. he treated her with rather presuming deference. "you look tired this morning," he barked at her one hot day. "i think it's thunder," she said. "thunder! work, you mean," and he gave a slight smile. "i'm going to drive you back." "oh no, thanks, don't trouble! i've got to call on the way." "where have you got to call?" she told him. "very well. that takes you no more than five minutes. i'll wait for you. now take your cloak." she was surprised. yet, like other women, she submitted. as they drove he saw a man with a barrow of cucumbers. he stopped the car and leaned towards the man. "take that barrow-load of poison and _bury_ it!" he shouted, in his strong voice. the busy street hesitated. "what's that, mister?" replied the mystified hawker. dr. mitchell pointed to the green pile of cucumbers. "take that barrow-load of poison, and bury it," he called, "before you do anybody any more harm with it." "what barrow-load of poison's that?" asked the hawker, approaching. a crowd began to gather. "what barrow-load of poison is that!" repeated the doctor. "why your barrow-load of cucumbers." "oh," said the man, scrutinizing his cucumbers carefully. to be sure, some were a little yellow at the end. "how's that? cumbers is right enough: fresh from market this morning." "fresh or not fresh," said the doctor, mouthing his words distinctly, "you might as well put poison into your stomach, as those things. cucumbers are the worst thing you can eat." "oh!" said the man, stuttering. "that's 'appen for them as doesn't like them. i niver knowed a cumber do _me_ no harm, an' i eat 'em like a happle." whereupon the hawker took a "cumber" from his barrow, bit off the end, and chewed it till the sap squirted. "what's wrong with that?" he said, holding up the bitten cucumber. "i'm not talking about what's wrong with that," said the doctor. "my business is what's wrong with the stomach it goes into. i'm a doctor. and i know that those things cause me half my work. they cause half the internal troubles people suffer from in summertime." "oh ay! that's no loss to you, is it? me an' you's partners. more cumbers i sell, more graft for you, 'cordin' to that. what's wrong then. _cum-bers! fine fresh cum-berrrs! all fresh and juisty, all cheap and tasty--!_" yelled the man. "i am a doctor not only to cure illness, but to prevent it where i can. and cucumbers are poison to everybody." "_cum-bers! cum-bers! fresh cumbers!_" yelled the man, dr. mitchell started his car. "when will they learn intelligence?" he said to alvina, smiling and showing his white, even teeth. "i don't care, you know, myself," she said. "i should always let people do what they wanted--" "even if you knew it would do them harm?" he queried, smiling with amiable condescension. "yes, why not! it's their own affair. and they'll do themselves harm one way or another." "and you wouldn't try to prevent it?" "you might as well try to stop the sea with your fingers." "you think so?" smiled the doctor. "i see, you are a pessimist. you are a pessimist with regard to human nature." "am i?" smiled alvina, thinking the rose would smell as sweet. it seemed to please the doctor to find that alvina was a pessimist with regard to human nature. it seemed to give her an air of distinction. in his eyes, she _seemed_ distinguished. he was in a fair way to dote on her. she, of course, when he began to admire her, liked him much better, and even saw graceful, boyish attractions in him. there was really something childish about him. and this something childish, since it looked up to her as if she were the saving grace, naturally flattered her and made her feel gentler towards him. he got in the habit of picking her up in his car, when he could. and he would tap at the matron's door, smiling and showing all his beautiful teeth, just about tea-time. "may i come in?" his voice sounded almost flirty. "certainly." "i see you're having tea! very nice, a cup of tea at this hour!" "have one too, doctor." "i will with pleasure." and he sat down wreathed with smiles. alvina rose to get a cup. "i didn't intend to disturb you, nurse," he said. "men are always intruders," he smiled to the matron. "sometimes," said the matron, "women are charmed to be intruded upon." "oh really!" his eyes sparkled. "perhaps _you_ wouldn't say so, nurse?" he said, turning to alvina. alvina was just reaching at the cupboard. very charming she looked, in her fresh dress and cap and soft brown hair, very attractive her figure, with its full, soft loins. she turned round to him. "oh yes," she said. "i quite agree with the matron." "oh, you do!" he did not quite know how to take it. "but you mind being disturbed at your tea, i am sure." "no," said alvina. "we are so used to being disturbed." "rather weak, doctor?" said the matron, pouring the tea. "very weak, please." the doctor was a little laboured in his gallantry, but unmistakably gallant. when he was gone, the matron looked demure, and alvina confused. each waited for the other to speak. "don't you think dr. mitchell is quite coming out?" said alvina. "quite! _quite_ the ladies' man! i wonder who it is can be _bringing_ him out. a very praiseworthy work, i am sure." she looked wickedly at alvina. "no, don't look at me," laughed alvina, "_i_ know nothing about it." "do you think it may be _me_!" said the matron, mischievous. "i'm sure of it, matron! he begins to show some taste at last." "there now!" said the matron. "i shall put my cap straight." and she went to the mirror, fluffing her hair and settling her cap. "there!" she said, bobbing a little curtsey to alvina. they both laughed, and went off to work. but there was no mistake, dr. mitchell was beginning to expand. with alvina he quite unbent, and seemed even to sun himself when she was near, to attract her attention. he smiled and smirked and became oddly self-conscious: rather uncomfortable. he liked to hang over her chair, and he made a great event of offering her a cigarette whenever they met, although he himself never smoked. he had a gold cigarette case. one day he asked her in to see his garden. he had a pleasant old square house with a big walled garden. he showed her his flowers and his wall-fruit, and asked her to eat his strawberries. he bade her admire his asparagus. and then he gave her tea in the drawing-room, with strawberries and cream and cakes, of all of which he ate nothing. but he smiled expansively all the time. he was a made man: and now he was really letting himself go, luxuriating in everything; above all, in alvina, who poured tea gracefully from the old georgian tea-pot, and smiled so pleasantly above the queen anne tea-cups. and she, wicked that she was, admired every detail of his drawing-room. it was a pleasant room indeed, with roses outside the french door, and a lawn in sunshine beyond, with bright red flowers in beds. but indoors, it was insistently antique. alvina admired the jacobean sideboard and the jacobean arm-chairs and the hepplewhite wall-chairs and the sheraton settee and the chippendale stands and the axminster carpet and the bronze clock with shakespeare and ariosto reclining on it--yes, she even admired shakespeare on the clock--and the ormolu cabinet and the bead-work foot-stools and the dreadful sèvres dish with a cherub in it and--but why enumerate. she admired _everything_! and dr. mitchell's heart expanded in his bosom till he felt it would burst, unless he either fell at her feet or did something extraordinary. he had never even imagined what it was to be so expanded: what a delicious feeling. he could have kissed her feet in an ecstasy of wild expansion. but habit, so far, prevented his doing more than beam. another day he said to her, when they were talking of age: "you are as young as you feel. why, when i was twenty i felt i had all the cares and responsibility of the world on my shoulders. and now i am middle-aged more or less, i feel as light as if i were just beginning life." he beamed down at her. "perhaps you _are_ only just beginning your _own_ life," she said. "you have lived for your work till now." "it may be that," he said. "it may be that up till now i have lived for others, for my patients. and now perhaps i may be allowed to live a little more for myself." he beamed with real luxury, saw the real luxury of life begin. "why shouldn't you?" said alvina. "oh yes, i intend to," he said, with confidence. he really, by degrees, made up his mind to marry now, and to retire in part from his work. that is, he would hire another assistant, and give himself a fair amount of leisure. he was inordinately proud of his house. and now he looked forward to the treat of his life: hanging round the woman he had made his wife, following her about, feeling proud of her and his house, talking to her from morning till night, really finding himself in her. when he had to go his rounds she would go with him in the car: he made up his mind she would be willing to accompany him. he would teach her to drive, and they would sit side by side, she driving him and waiting for him. and he would run out of the houses of his patients, and find her sitting there, and he would get in beside her and feel so snug and so sure and so happy as she drove him off to the next case, he informing her about his work. and if ever she did not go out with him, she would be there on the doorstep waiting for him the moment she heard the car. and they would have long, cosy evenings together in the drawing-room, as he luxuriated in her very presence. she would sit on his knees and they would be snug for hours, before they went warmly and deliciously to bed. and in the morning he need not rush off. he would loiter about with her, they would loiter down the garden looking at every new flower and every new fruit, she would wear fresh flowery dresses and no cap on her hair, he would never be able to tear himself away from her. every morning it would be unbearable to have to tear himself away from her, and every hour he would be rushing back to her. they would be simply everything to one another. and how he would enjoy it! ah! he pondered as to whether he would have children. a child would take her away from him. that was his first thought. but then--! ah well, he would have to leave it till the time. love's young dream is never so delicious as at the virgin age of fifty-three. but he was quite cautious. he made no definite advances till he had put a plain question. it was august bank holiday, that for ever black day of the declaration of war, when his question was put. for this year of our story is the fatal year . there was quite a stir in the town over the declaration of war. but most people felt that the news was only intended to give an extra thrill to the all-important event of bank holiday. half the world had gone to blackpool or southport, the other half had gone to the lakes or into the country. lancaster was busy with a sort of fête, notwithstanding. and as the weather was decent, everybody was in a real holiday mood. so that dr. mitchell, who had contrived to pick up alvina at the hospital, contrived to bring her to his house at half-past three, for tea. "what do you think of this new war?" said alvina. "oh, it will be over in six weeks," said the doctor easily. and there they left it. only, with a fleeting thought, alvina wondered if it would affect the natcha-kee-tawaras. she had never heard any more of them. "where would you have liked to go today?" said the doctor, turning to smile at her as he drove the car. "i think to windermere--into the lakes," she said. "we might make a tour of the lakes before long," he said. she was not thinking, so she took no particular notice of the speech. "how nice!" she said vaguely. "we could go in the car, and take them as we chose," said the doctor. "yes," she said, wondering at him now. when they had had tea, quietly and gallantly tête-à-tête in his drawing-room, he asked her if she would like to see the other rooms of the house. she thanked him, and he showed her the substantial oak dining-room, and the little room with medical works and a revolving chair, which he called his study: then the kitchen and the pantry, the housekeeper looking askance; then upstairs to his bedroom, which was very fine with old mahogany tall-boys and silver candle-sticks on the dressing-table, and brushes with green ivory backs, and a hygienic white bed and straw mats: then the visitors' bedroom corresponding, with its old satin-wood furniture and cream-coloured chairs with large, pale-blue cushions, and a pale carpet with reddish wreaths. very nice, lovely, awfully nice, i do like that, isn't that beautiful, i've never seen anything like that! came the gratifying fireworks of admiration from alvina. and he smiled and gloated. but in her mind she was thinking of manchester house, and how dark and horrible it was, how she hated it, but how it had impressed ciccio and geoffrey, how they would have loved to feel themselves masters of it, and how done in the eye they were. she smiled to herself rather grimly. for this afternoon she was feeling unaccountably uneasy and wistful, yearning into the distance again: a trick she thought she had happily lost. the doctor dragged her up even to the slanting attics. he was a big man, and he always wore navy blue suits, well-tailored and immaculate. unconsciously she felt that big men in good navy-blue suits, especially if they had reddish faces and rather big feet and if their hair was wearing thin, were a special type all to themselves, solid and rather namby-pamby and tiresome. "what very nice attics! i think the many angles which the roof makes, the different slants, you know, are so attractive. oh, and the fascinating little window!" she crouched in the hollow of the small dormer window. "fascinating! see the town and the hills! i know i should want this room for my own." "then have it," he said. "have it for _one_ of your own." she crept out of the window recess and looked up at him. he was leaning forward to her, smiling, self-conscious, tentative, and eager. she thought it best to laugh it off. "i was only talking like a child, from the imagination," she said. "i quite understand that," he replied deliberately. "but i am speaking what i _mean_--" she did not answer, but looked at him reproachfully. he was smiling and smirking broadly at her. "won't you marry me, and come and have this garret for your own?" he spoke as if he were offering her a chocolate. he smiled with curious uncertainty. "i don't know," she said vaguely. his smile broadened. "well now," he said, "make up your mind. i'm not good at _talking_ about love, you know. but i think i'm pretty good at _feeling_ it, you know. i want you to come here and be happy: with me." he added the two last words as a sort of sly post-scriptum, and as if to commit himself finally. "but i've never thought about it," she said, rapidly cogitating. "i know you haven't. but think about it now--" he began to be hugely pleased with himself. "think about it now. and tell me if you could put up with _me_, as well as the garret." he beamed and put his head a little on one side--rather like mr. may, for one second. but he was much more dangerous than mr. may. he was overbearing, and had the devil's own temper if he was thwarted. this she knew. he was a big man in a navy blue suit, with very white teeth. again she thought she had better laugh it off. "it's you i _am_ thinking about," she laughed, flirting still. "it's you i _am_ wondering about." "well," he said, rather pleased with himself, "you wonder about me till you've made up your mind--" "i will--" she said, seizing the opportunity. "i'll wonder about you till i've made up my mind--shall i?" "yes," he said. "that's what i wish you to do. and the next time i ask you, you'll let me know. that's it, isn't it?" he smiled indulgently down on her: thought her face young and charming, charming. "yes," she said. "but don't ask me too soon, will you?" "how, too soon--?" he smiled delightedly. "you'll give me time to wonder about you, won't you? you won't ask me again this month, will you?" "this month?" his eyes beamed with pleasure. he enjoyed the procrastination as much as she did. "but the month's only just begun! however! yes, you shall have your way. i won't ask you again this month." "and i'll promise to wonder about you all the month," she laughed. "that's a bargain," he said. they went downstairs, and alvina returned to her duties. she was very much excited, very much excited indeed. a big, well-to-do man in a navy blue suit, of handsome appearance, aged fifty-three, with white teeth and a delicate stomach: it _was_ exciting. a sure position, a very nice home and lovely things in it, once they were dragged about a bit. and of course he'd adore her. that went without saying. she was as fussy as if some one had given her a lovely new pair of boots. she was really fussy and pleased with herself: and _quite_ decided she'd take it all on. that was how it put itself to her: she would take it all on. of course there was the man himself to consider. but he was quite presentable. there was nothing at all against it: nothing at all. if he had pressed her during the first half of the month of august, he would almost certainly have got her. but he only beamed in anticipation. meanwhile the stir and restlessness of the war had begun, and was making itself felt even in lancaster. and the excitement and the unease began to wear through alvina's rather glamorous fussiness. some of her old fretfulness came back on her. her spirit, which had been as if asleep these months, now woke rather irritably, and chafed against its collar. who was this elderly man, that she should marry him? who was he, that she should be kissed by him. actually kissed and fondled by him! repulsive. she avoided him like the plague. fancy reposing against his broad, navy blue waistcoat! she started as if she had been stung. fancy seeing his red, smiling face just above hers, coming down to embrace her! she pushed it away with her open hand. and she ran away, to avoid the thought. and yet! and yet! she would be so comfortable, she would be so well-off for the rest of her life. the hateful problem of material circumstance would be solved for ever. and she knew well how hateful material circumstances can make life. therefore, she could not decide in a hurry. but she bore poor dr. mitchell a deep grudge, that he could not grant her all the advantages of his offer, and excuse her the acceptance of him himself. she dared not decide in a hurry. and this very fear, like a yoke on her, made her resent the man who drove her to decision. sometimes she rebelled. sometimes she laughed unpleasantly in the man's face: though she dared not go _too_ far: for she was a little afraid of him and his rabid temper, also. in her moments of sullen rebellion she thought of natcha-kee-tawara. she thought of them deeply. she wondered where they were, what they were doing, how the war had affected them. poor geoffrey was a frenchman--he would have to go to france to fight. max and louis were swiss, it would not affect them: nor ciccio, who was italian. she wondered if the troupe was in england: if they would continue together when geoffrey was gone. she wondered if they thought of her. she felt they did. she felt they did not forget her. she felt there was a connection. in fact, during the latter part of august she wondered a good deal more about the natchas than about dr. mitchell. but wondering about the natchas would not help her. she felt, if she knew where they were, she would fly to them. but then she knew she wouldn't. when she was at the station she saw crowds and bustle. people were seeing their young men off. beer was flowing: sailors on the train were tipsy: women were holding young men by the lapel of the coat. and when the train drew away, the young men waving, the women cried aloud and sobbed after them. a chill ran down alvina's spine. this was another matter, apart from her dr. mitchell. it made him feel very unreal, trivial. she did not know what she was going to do. she realized she must do something--take some part in the wild dislocation of life. she knew that she would put off dr. mitchell again. she talked the matter over with the matron. the matron advised her to procrastinate. why not volunteer for war-service? true, she was a maternity nurse, and this was hardly the qualification needed for the nursing of soldiers. but still, she _was_ a nurse. alvina felt this was the thing to do. everywhere was a stir and a seethe of excitement. men were active, women were needed too. she put down her name on the list of volunteers for active service. this was on the last day of august. on the first of september dr. mitchell was round at the hospital early, when alvina was just beginning her morning duties there. he went into the matron's room, and asked for nurse houghton. the matron left them together. the doctor was excited. he smiled broadly, but with a tension of nervous excitement. alvina was troubled. her heart beat fast. "now!" said dr. mitchell. "what have you to say to me?" she looked up at him with confused eyes. he smiled excitedly and meaningful at her, and came a little nearer. "today is the day when you answer, isn't it?" he said. "now then, let me hear what you have to say." but she only watched him with large, troubled eyes, and did not speak. he came still nearer to her. "well then," he said, "i am to take it that silence gives consent." and he laughed nervously, with nervous anticipation, as he tried to put his arm round her. but she stepped suddenly back. "no, not yet," she said. "why?" he asked. "i haven't given my answer," she said. "give it then," he said, testily. "i've volunteered for active service," she stammered. "i felt i ought to do something." "why?" he asked. he could put a nasty intonation into that monosyllable. "i should have thought you would answer _me_ first." she did not answer, but watched him. she did not like him. "i only signed yesterday," she said. "why didn't you leave it till tomorrow? it would have looked better." he was angry. but he saw a half-frightened, half-guilty look on her face, and during the weeks of anticipation he had worked himself up. "but put that aside," he smiled again, a little dangerously. "you have still to answer my question. having volunteered for war service doesn't prevent your being engaged to me, does it?" alvina watched him with large eyes. and again he came very near to her, so that his blue-serge waistcoat seemed, to impinge on her, and his purplish red face was above her. "i'd rather not be engaged, under the circumstances," she said. "why?" came the nasty monosyllable. "what have the circumstances got to do with it?" "everything is so uncertain," she said. "i'd rather wait." "wait! haven't you waited long enough? there's nothing at all to prevent your getting engaged to me now. nothing whatsoever! come now. i'm old enough not to be played with. and i'm much too much in love with you to let you go on indefinitely like this. come now!" he smiled imminent, and held out his large hand for her hand. "let me put the ring on your finger. it will be the proudest day of my life when i make you my wife. give me your hand--" alvina was wavering. for one thing, mere curiosity made her want to see the ring. she half lifted her hand. and but for the knowledge that he would kiss her, she would have given it. but he would kiss her--and against that she obstinately set her will. she put her hand behind her back, and looked obstinately into his eyes. "don't play a game with me," he said dangerously. but she only continued to look mockingly and obstinately into his eyes. "come," he said, beckoning for her to give her hand. with a barely perceptible shake of the head, she refused, staring at him all the time. his ungovernable temper got the better of him. he saw red, and without knowing, seized her by the shoulder, swung her back, and thrust her, pressed her against the wall as if he would push her through it. his face was blind with anger, like a hot, red sun. suddenly, almost instantaneously, he came to himself again and drew back his hands, shaking his right hand as if some rat had bitten it. "i'm sorry!" he shouted, beside himself. "i'm sorry. i didn't mean it. i'm sorry." he dithered before her. she recovered her equilibrium, and, pale to the lips, looked at him with sombre eyes. "i'm sorry!" he continued loudly, in his strange frenzy like a small boy. "don't remember! don't remember! don't think i did it." his face was a kind of blank, and unconsciously he wrung the hand that had gripped her, as if it pained him. she watched him, and wondered why on earth all this frenzy. she was left rather cold, she did not at all feel the strong feelings he seemed to expect of her. there was nothing so very unnatural, after all, in being bumped up suddenly against the wall. certainly her shoulder hurt where he had gripped it. but there were plenty of worse hurts in the world. she watched him with wide, distant eyes. and he fell on his knees before her, as she backed against the bookcase, and he caught hold of the edge of her dress-bottom, drawing it to him. which made her rather abashed, and much more uncomfortable. "forgive me!" he said. "don't remember! forgive me! love me! love me! forgive me and love me! forgive me and love me!" as alvina was looking down dismayed on the great, red-faced, elderly man, who in his crying-out showed his white teeth like a child, and as she was gently trying to draw her skirt from his clutch, the door opened, and there stood the matron, in her big frilled cap. alvina glanced at her, flushed crimson and looked down to the man. she touched his face with her hand. "never mind," she said. "it's nothing. don't think about it." he caught her hand and clung to it. "love me! love me! love me!" he cried. the matron softly closed the door again, withdrawing. "love me! love me!" alvina was absolutely dumbfounded by this scene. she had no idea men did such things. it did not touch her, it dumbfounded her. the doctor, clinging to her hand, struggled to his feet and flung his arms round her, clasping her wildly to him. "you love me! you love me, don't you?" he said, vibrating and beside himself as he pressed her to his breast and hid his face against her hair. at such a moment, what was the good of saying she didn't? but she didn't. pity for his shame, however, kept her silent, motionless and silent in his arms, smothered against the blue-serge waistcoat of his broad breast. he was beginning to come to himself. he became silent. but he still strained her fast, he had no idea of letting her go. "you will take my ring, won't you?" he said at last, still in the strange, lamentable voice. "you will take my ring." "yes," she said coldly. anything for a quiet emergence from this scene. he fumbled feverishly in his pocket with one hand, holding her still fast by the other arm. and with one hand he managed to extract the ring from its case, letting the case roll away on the floor. it was a diamond solitaire. "which finger? which finger is it?" he asked, beginning to smile rather weakly. she extricated her hand, and held out her engagement finger. upon it was the mourning-ring miss frost had always worn. the doctor slipped the diamond solitaire above the mourning ring, and folded alvina to his breast again. "now," he said, almost in his normal voice. "now i know you love me." the pleased self-satisfaction in his voice made her angry. she managed to extricate herself. "you will come along with me now?" he said. "i can't," she answered. "i must get back to my work here." "nurse allen can do that." "i'd rather not." "where are you going today?" she told him her cases. "well, you will come and have tea with me. i shall expect you to have tea with me every day." but alvina was straightening her crushed cap before the mirror, and did not answer. "we can see as much as we like of each other now we're engaged," he said, smiling with satisfaction. "i wonder where the matron is," said alvina, suddenly going into the cool white corridor. he followed her. and they met the matron just coming out of the ward. "matron!" said dr. mitchell, with a return of his old mouthing importance. "you may congratulate nurse houghton and me on our engagement--" he smiled largely. "i may congratulate _you_, you mean," said the matron. "yes, of course. and both of us, since we are now one," he replied. "not quite, yet," said the matron gravely. and at length she managed to get rid of him. at once she went to look for alvina, who had gone to her duties. "well, i _suppose_ it is all right," said the matron gravely. "no it isn't," said alvina. "i shall _never_ marry him." "ah, never is a long while! did he hear me come in?" "no, i'm sure he didn't." "thank goodness for that." "yes indeed! it was perfectly horrible. following me round on his knees and shouting for me to love him! perfectly horrible!" "well," said the matron. "you never know what men will do till you've known them. and then you need be surprised at nothing, _nothing_. i'm surprised at nothing they do--" "i must say," said alvina, "i was surprised. very unpleasantly." "but you accepted him--" "anything to quieten him--like a hysterical child." "yes, but i'm not sure you haven't taken a very risky way of quietening him, giving him what he wanted--" "i think," said alvina, "i can look after myself. i may be moved any day now." "well--!" said the matron. "he may prevent your getting moved, you know. he's on the board. and if he says you are indispensable--" this was a new idea for alvina to cogitate. she had counted on a speedy escape. she put his ring in her apron pocket, and there she forgot it until he pounced on her in the afternoon, in the house of one of her patients. he waited for her, to take her off. "where is your ring?" he said. and she realized that it lay in the pocket of a soiled, discarded apron--perhaps lost for ever. "i shan't wear it on duty," she said. "you know that." she had to go to tea with him. she avoided his love-making, by telling him any sort of spooniness revolted her. and he was too much an old bachelor to take easily to a fondling habit--before marriage, at least. so he mercifully left her alone: he was on the whole devoutly thankful she wanted to be left alone. but he wanted her to be there. that was his greatest craving. he wanted her to be always there. and so he craved for marriage: to possess her entirely, and to have her always there with him, so that he was never alone. alone and apart from all the world: but by her side, always by her side. "now when shall we fix the marriage?" he said. "it is no good putting it back. we both know what we are doing. and now the engagement is announced--" he looked at her anxiously. she could see the hysterical little boy under the great, authoritative man. "oh, not till after christmas!" she said. "after christmas!" he started as if he had been bitten. "nonsense! it's nonsense to wait so long. next month, at the latest." "oh no," she said. "i don't think so soon." "why not? the sooner the better. you had better send in your resignation at once, so that you're free." "oh but is there any need? i may be transferred for war service." "that's not likely. you're our only maternity nurse--" and so the days went by. she had tea with him practically every afternoon, and she got used to him. they discussed the furnishing--she could not help suggesting a few alterations, a few arrangements according to _her_ idea. and he drew up a plan of a wedding tour in scotland. yet she was quite certain she would not marry him. the matron laughed at her certainty. "you will drift into it," she said. "he is tying you down by too many little threads." "ah, well, you'll see!" said alvina. "yes," said the matron. "i _shall_ see." and it was true that alvina's will was indeterminate, at this time. she was _resolved_ not to marry. but her will, like a spring that is hitched somehow, did not fly direct against the doctor. she had sent in her resignation, as he suggested. but not that she might be free to marry him, but that she might be at liberty to flee him. so she told herself. yet she worked into his hands. one day she sat with the doctor in the car near the station--it was towards the end of september--held up by a squad of soldiers in khaki, who were marching off with their band wildly playing, to embark on the special troop train that was coming down from the north. the town was in great excitement. war-fever was spreading everywhere. men were rushing to enlist--and being constantly rejected, for it was still the days of regular standards. as the crowds surged on the pavement, as the soldiers tramped to the station, as the traffic waited, there came a certain flow in the opposite direction. the : train had come in. people were struggling along with luggage, children were running with spades and buckets, cabs were crawling along with families: it was the seaside people coming home. alvina watched the two crowds mingle. and as she watched she saw two men, one carrying a mandoline case and a suit-case which she knew. it was ciccio. she did not know the other man; some theatrical individual. the two men halted almost near the car, to watch the band go by. alvina saw ciccio quite near to her. she would have liked to squirt water down his brown, handsome, oblivious neck. she felt she hated him. he stood there, watching the music, his lips curling in his faintly-derisive italian manner, as he talked to the other man. his eyelashes were as long and dark as ever, his eyes had still the attractive look of being set in with a smutty finger. he had got the same brownish suit on, which she disliked, the same black hat set slightly, jauntily over one eye. he looked common: and yet with that peculiar southern aloofness which gave him a certain beauty and distinction in her eyes. she felt she hated him, rather. she felt she had been let down by him. the band had passed. a child ran against the wheel of the standing car. alvina suddenly reached forward and made a loud, screeching flourish on the hooter. every one looked round, including the laden, tramping soldiers. "we can't move yet," said dr. mitchell. but alvina was looking at ciccio at that moment. he had turned with the rest, looking inquiringly at the car. and his quick eyes, the whites of which showed so white against his duskiness, the yellow pupils so non-human, met hers with a quick flash of recognition. his mouth began to curl in a smile of greeting. but she stared at him without moving a muscle, just blankly stared, abstracting every scrap of feeling, even of animosity or coldness, out of her gaze. she saw the smile die on his lips, his eyes glance sideways, and again sideways, with that curious animal shyness which characterized him. it was as if he did not want to see her looking at him, and ran from side to side like a caged weasel, avoiding her blank, glaucous look. she turned pleasantly to dr. mitchell. "what did you say?" she asked sweetly. chapter xii allaye also is engaged alvina found it pleasant to be respected as she was respected in lancaster. it is not only the prophet who hath honour _save_ in his own country: it is every one with individuality. in this northern town alvina found that her individuality really told. already she belonged to the revered caste of medicine-men. and into the bargain she was a personality, a person. well and good. she was not going to cheapen herself. she felt that even in the eyes of the natives--the well-to-do part, at least--she lost a _little_ of her distinction when she was engaged to dr. mitchell. the engagement had been announced in _the times_, _the morning post_, _the manchester guardian_, and the local _news_. no fear about its being known. and it cast a slight slur of vulgar familiarity over her. in woodhouse, she knew, it elevated her in the common esteem tremendously. but she was no longer in woodhouse. she was in lancaster. and in lancaster her engagement pigeonholed her. apart from dr. mitchell she had a magic potentiality. connected with him, she was a known and labelled quantity. this she gathered from her contact with the local gentry. the matron was a woman of family, who somehow managed, in her big, white, frilled cap, to be distinguished like an abbess of old. the really toney women of the place came to take tea in her room, and these little teas in the hospital were like a little elegant female conspiracy. there was a slight flavour of art and literature about. the matron had known walter pater, in the somewhat remote past. alvina was admitted to these teas with the few women who formed the toney intellectual élite of this northern town. there was a certain freemasonry in the matron's room. the matron, a lady-doctor, a clergyman's daughter, and the wives of two industrial magnates of the place, these five, and then alvina, formed the little group. they did not meet a great deal outside the hospital. but they always met with that curious female freemasonry which can form a law unto itself even among most conventional women. they talked as they would never talk before men, or before feminine outsiders. they threw aside the whole vestment of convention. they discussed plainly the things they thought about--even the most secret--and they were quite calm about the things they did--even the most impossible. alvina felt that her transgression was a very mild affair, and that her engagement was really _infra dig_. "and are you going to marry him?" asked mrs. tuke, with a long, cool look. "i can't _imagine_ myself--" said alvina. "oh, but so many things happen outside one's imagination. that's where your body has you. i can't _imagine_ that i'm going to have a child--" she lowered her eyelids wearily and sardonically over her large eyes. mrs. tuke was the wife of the son of a local manufacturer. she was about twenty-eight years old, pale, with great dark-grey eyes and an arched nose and black hair, very like a head on one of the lovely syracusan coins. the odd look of a smile which wasn't a smile, at the corners of the mouth, the arched nose, and the slowness of the big, full, classic eyes gave her the dangerous greek look of the syracusan women of the past: the dangerous, heavily-civilized women of old sicily: those who laughed about the latomia. "but do you think you can have a child without wanting it _at all_?" asked alvina. "oh, but there isn't _one bit_ of me wants it, not _one bit_. my _flesh_ doesn't want it. and my mind doesn't--yet there it is!" she spread her fine hands with a flicker of inevitability. "something must want it," said alvina. "oh!" said mrs. tuke. "the universe is one big machine, and we're just part of it." she flicked out her grey silk handkerchief, and dabbed her nose, watching with big, black-grey eyes the fresh face of alvina. "there's not _one bit_ of me concerned in having this child," she persisted to alvina. "my flesh isn't concerned, and my mind isn't. and _yet_!--_le voilà!_--i'm just _planté_. i can't _imagine_ why i married tommy. and yet--i did--!" she shook her head as if it was all just beyond her, and the pseudo-smile at the corners of her ageless mouth deepened. alvina was to nurse mrs. tuke. the baby was expected at the end of august. but already the middle of september was here, and the baby had not arrived. the tukes were not very rich--the young ones, that is. tommy wanted to compose music, so he lived on what his father gave him. his father gave him a little house outside the town, a house furnished with expensive bits of old furniture, in a way that the townspeople thought insane. but there you are--effie would insist on dabbing a rare bit of yellow brocade on the wall, instead of a picture, and in painting apple-green shelves in the recesses of the whitewashed wall of the dining-room. then she enamelled the hall-furniture yellow, and decorated it with curious green and lavender lines and flowers, and had unearthly cushions and sardinian pottery with unspeakable peaked griffins. what were you to make of such a woman! alvina slept in her house these days, instead of at the hospital. for effie was a very bad sleeper. she would sit up in bed, the two glossy black plaits hanging beside her white, arch face, wrapping loosely round her her dressing-gown of a sort of plumbago-coloured, dark-grey silk lined with fine silk of metallic blue, and there, ivory and jet-black and grey like black-lead, she would sit in the white bedclothes flicking her handkerchief and revealing a flicker of kingfisher-blue silk and white silk night dress, complaining of her neuritis nerve and her own impossible condition, and begging alvina to stay with her another half-hour, and suddenly studying the big, blood-red stone on her finger as if she was reading something in it. "i believe i shall be like the woman in the _cent nouvelles_ and carry my child for five years. do you know that story? she said that eating a parsley leaf on which bits of snow were sticking started the child in her. it might just as well--" alvina would laugh and get tired. there was about her a kind of half bitter sanity and nonchalance which the nervous woman liked. one night as they were sitting thus in the bedroom, at nearly eleven o'clock, they started and listened. dogs in the distance had also started to yelp. a mandoline was wailing its vibration in the night outside, rapidly, delicately quivering. alvina went pale. she knew it was ciccio. she had seen him lurking in the streets of the town, but had never spoken to him. "what's this?" cried mrs. tuke, cocking her head on one side. "music! a mandoline! how extraordinary! do you think it's a serenade?--" and she lifted her brows archly. "i should think it is," said alvina. "how extraordinary! what a moment to choose to serenade the lady! _isn't_ it like life--! i _must_ look at it--" she got out of bed with some difficulty, wrapped her dressing-gown round her, pushed her feet into slippers, and went to the window. she opened the sash. it was a lovely moonlight night of september. below lay the little front garden, with its short drive and its iron gates that closed on the high-road. from the shadow of the high-road came the noise of the mandoline. "hello, tommy!" called mrs. tuke to her husband, whom she saw on the drive below her. "how's your musical ear--?" "all right. doesn't it disturb you?" came the man's voice from the moonlight below. "not a bit. i like it. i'm waiting for the voice. '_o richard, o mon roi!_'--" but the music had stopped. "there!" cried mrs. tuke. "you've frightened him off! and we're dying to be serenaded, aren't we, nurse?" she turned to alvina. "do give me my fur, will you? thanks so much. won't you open the other window and look out there--?" alvina went to the second window. she stood looking out. "do play again!" mrs. tuke called into the night. "do sing something." and with her white arm she reached for a glory rose that hung in the moonlight from the wall, and with a flash of her white arm she flung it toward the garden wall--ineffectually, of course. "won't you play again?" she called into the night, to the unseen. "tommy, go indoors, the bird won't sing when you're about." "it's an italian by the sound of him. nothing i hate more than emotional italian music. perfectly nauseating." "never mind, dear. i know it sounds as if all their insides were coming out of their mouth. but we want to be serenaded, don't we, nurse?--" alvina stood at her window, but did not answer. "ah-h?" came the odd query from mrs. tuke. "don't you like it?" "yes," said alvina. "very much." "and aren't you dying for the song?" "quite." "there!" cried mrs. tuke, into the moonlight. "una canzone bella-bella--molto bella--" she pronounced her syllables one by one, calling into the night. it sounded comical. there came a rude laugh from the drive below. "go indoors, tommy! he won't sing if you're there. nothing will sing if you're there," called the young woman. they heard a footstep on the gravel, and then the slam of the hall door. "now!" cried mrs. tuke. they waited. and sure enough, came the fine tinkle of the mandoline, and after a few moments, the song. it was one of the well-known neapolitan songs, and ciccio sang it as it should be sung. mrs. tuke went across to alvina. "doesn't he put his _bowels_ into it--?" she said, laying her hand on her own full figure, and rolling her eyes mockingly. "i'm _sure_ it's more effective than senna-pods." then she returned to her own window, huddled her furs over her breast, and rested her white elbows in the moonlight. "torn' a surrientu fammi campar--" the song suddenly ended, in a clamorous, animal sort of yearning. mrs. tuke was quite still, resting her chin on her fingers. alvina also was still. then mrs. tuke slowly reached for the rose-buds on the old wall. "molto bella!" she cried, half ironically. "molto bella! je vous envoie une rose--" and she threw the roses out on to the drive. a man's figure was seen hovering outside the gate, on the high-road. "entrez!" called mrs. tuke. "entrez! prenez votre rose. come in and take your rose." the man's voice called something from the distance. "what?" cried mrs. tuke. "je ne peux pas entrer." "vous ne pouvez pas entrer? pourquoi alors! la porte n'est pas fermée à clef. entrez donc!" "non. on n'entre pas--" called the well-known voice of ciccio. "quoi faire, alors! alvina, take him the rose to the gate, will you? yes do! their singing is horrible, i think. i can't go down to him. but do take him the roses, and see what he looks like. yes do!" mrs. tuke's eyes were arched and excited. alvina looked at her slowly. alvina also was smiling to herself. she went slowly down the stairs and out of the front door. from a bush at the side she pulled two sweet-smelling roses. then in the drive she picked up effie's flowers. ciccio was standing outside the gate. "allaye!" he said, in a soft, yearning voice. "mrs. tuke sent you these roses," said alvina, putting the flowers through the bars of the gate. "allaye!" he said, caressing her hand, kissing it with a soft, passionate, yearning mouth. alvina shivered. quickly he opened the gate and drew her through. he drew her into the shadow of the wall, and put his arms round her, lifting her from her feet with passionate yearning. "allaye!" he said. "i love you, allaye, my beautiful, allaye. i love you, allaye!" he held her fast to his breast and began to walk away with her. his throbbing, muscular power seemed completely to envelop her. he was just walking away with her down the road, clinging fast to her, enveloping her. "nurse! nurse! i can't see you! nurse!--" came the long call of mrs. tuke through the night. dogs began to bark. "put me down," murmured alvina. "put me down, ciccio." "come with me to italy. come with me to italy, allaye. i can't go to italy by myself, allaye. come with me, be married to me--allaye, allaye--" his voice was a strange, hoarse whisper just above her face, he still held her in his throbbing, heavy embrace. "yes--yes!" she whispered. "yes--yes! but put me down, ciccio. put me down." "come to italy with me, allaye. come with me," he still reiterated, in a voice hoarse with pain and yearning. "nurse! nurse! wherever are you? nurse! i want you," sang the uneasy, querulous voice of mrs. tuke. "do put me down!" murmured alvina, stirring in his arms. he slowly relaxed his clasp, and she slid down like rain to earth. but still he clung to her. "come with me, allaye! come with me to italy!" he said. she saw his face, beautiful, non-human in the moonlight, and she shuddered slightly. "yes!" she said. "i will come. but let me go now. where is your mandoline?" he turned round and looked up the road. "nurse! you absolutely _must_ come. i can't bear it," cried the strange voice of mrs. tuke. alvina slipped from the man, who was a little bewildered, and through the gate into the drive. "you must come!" came the voice in pain from the upper window. alvina ran upstairs. she found mrs. tuke crouched in a chair, with a drawn, horrified, terrified face. as her pains suddenly gripped her, she uttered an exclamation, and pressed her clenched fists hard on her face. "the pains have begun," said alvina, hurrying to her. "oh, it's horrible! it's horrible! i don't want it!" cried the woman in travail. alvina comforted her and reassured her as best she could. and from outside, once more, came the despairing howl of the neapolitan song, animal and inhuman on the night. "e tu dic' io part', addio! t'alluntare di sta core, nel paese del amore tien' o cor' di non turnar' --ma nun me lasciar'--" it was almost unendurable. but suddenly mrs. tuke became quite still, and sat with her fists clenched on her knees, her two jet-black plaits dropping on either side of her ivory face, her big eyes fixed staring into space. at the line-- ma nun me lasciar'-- she began to murmur softly to herself--"yes, it's dreadful! it's horrible! i can't understand it. what does it mean, that noise? it's as bad as these pains. what does it mean? what does he say? i can understand a little italian--" she paused. and again came the sudden complaint: ma nun me lasciar'-- "ma nun me lasciar'--!" she murmured, repeating the music. "that means--don't leave me! don't leave me! but why? why shouldn't one human being go away from another? what does it mean? that _awful_ noise! isn't love the most horrible thing! i think it's horrible. it just does one in, and turns one into a sort of howling animal. i'm howling with one sort of pain, he's howling with another. two hellish animals howling through the night! i'm not myself, he's not himself. oh, i think it's horrible. what does he look like, nurse? is he beautiful? is he a great hefty brute?" she looked with big, slow, enigmatic eyes at alvina. "he's a man i knew before," said alvina. mrs. tuke's face woke from its half-trance. "really! oh! a man you knew before! where?" "it's a long story," said alvina. "in a travelling music-hall troupe." "in a travelling music-hall troupe! how extraordinary! why, how did you come across such an individual--?" alvina explained as briefly as possible. mrs. tuke watched her. "really!" she said. "you've done all those things!" and she scrutinized alvina's face. "you've had some effect on him, that's evident," she said. then she shuddered, and dabbed her nose with her handkerchief. "oh, the flesh is a _beastly_ thing!" she cried. "to make a man howl outside there like that, because you're here. and to make me howl because i've got a child inside me. it's unbearable! what does he look like, really?" "i don't know," said alvina. "not extraordinary. rather a hefty brute--" mrs. tuke glanced at her, to detect the irony. "i should like to see him," she said. "do you think i might?" "i don't know," said alvina, non-committal. "do you think he might come up? ask him. do let me see him." "do you really want to?" said alvina. "of course--" mrs. tuke watched alvina with big, dark, slow eyes. then she dragged herself to her feet. alvina helped her into bed. "do ask him to come up for a minute," effie said. "we'll give him a glass of tommy's famous port. do let me see him. yes do!" she stretched out her long white arm to alvina, with sudden imploring. alvina laughed, and turned doubtfully away. the night was silent outside. but she found ciccio leaning against a gate-pillar. he started up. "allaye!" he said. "will you come in for a moment? i can't leave mrs. tuke." ciccio obediently followed alvina into the house and up the stairs, without a word. he was ushered into the bedroom. he drew back when he saw effie in the bed, sitting with her long plaits and her dark eyes, and the subtle-seeming smile at the corners of her mouth. "do come in!" she said. "i want to thank you for the music. nurse says it was for her, but i enjoyed it also. would you tell me the words? i think it's a wonderful song." ciccio hung back against the door, his head dropped, and the shy, suspicious, faintly malicious smile on his face. "have a glass of port, do!" said effie. "nurse, give us all one. i should like one too. and a biscuit." again she stretched out her long white arm from the sudden blue lining of her wrap, suddenly, as if taken with the desire. ciccio shifted on his feet, watching alvina pour out the port. he swallowed his in one swallow, and put aside his glass. "have some more!" said effie, watching over the top of her glass. he smiled faintly, stupidly, and shook his head. "won't you? now tell me the words of the song--" he looked at her from out of the dusky hollows of his brow, and did not answer. the faint, stupid half-smile, half-sneer was on his lips. "won't you tell them me? i understood one line--" ciccio smiled more pronouncedly as he watched her, but did not speak. "i understood one line," said effie, making big eyes at him. "_ma non me lasciare_--_don't leave me!_ there, isn't that it?" he smiled, stirred on his feet, and nodded. "don't leave me! there, i knew it was that. why don't you want nurse to leave you? do you want her to be with you _every minute_?" he smiled a little contemptuously, awkwardly, and turned aside his face, glancing at alvina. effie's watchful eyes caught the glance. it was swift, and full of the terrible yearning which so horrified her. at the same moment a spasm crossed her face, her expression went blank. "shall we go down?" said alvina to ciccio. he turned immediately, with his cap in his hand, and followed. in the hall he pricked up his ears as he took the mandoline from the chest. he could hear the stifled cries and exclamations from mrs. tuke. at the same moment the door of the study opened, and the musician, a burly fellow with troubled hair, came out. "is that mrs. tuke?" he snapped anxiously. "yes. the pains have begun," said alvina. "oh god! and have you left her!" he was quite irascible. "only for a minute," said alvina. but with a _pf_! of angry indignation, he was climbing the stairs. "she is going to have a child," said alvina to ciccio. "i shall have to go back to her." and she held out her hand. he did not take her hand, but looked down into her face with the same slightly distorted look of overwhelming yearning, yearning heavy and unbearable, in which he was carried towards her as on a flood. "allaye!" he said, with a faint lift of the lip that showed his teeth, like a pained animal: a curious sort of smile. he could not go away. "i shall have to go back to her," she said. "shall you come with me to italy, allaye?" "yes. where is madame?" "gone! gigi--all gone." "gone where?" "gone back to france--called up." "and madame and louis and max?" "switzerland." he stood helplessly looking at her. "well, i must go," she said. he watched her with his yellow eyes, from under his long black lashes, like some chained animal, haunted by doom. she turned and left him standing. she found mrs. tuke wildly clutching the edge of the sheets, and crying: "no, tommy dear. i'm awfully fond of you, you know i am. but go away. oh god, go away. and put a space between us. put a space between us!" she almost shrieked. he pushed up his hair. he had been working on a big choral work which he was composing, and by this time he was almost demented. "can't you stand my presence!" he shouted, and dashed downstairs. "nurse!" cried effie. "it's _no use_ trying to get a grip on life. you're just at the mercy of _forces_," she shrieked angrily. "why not?" said alvina. "there are good life-forces. even the will of god is a life-force." "you don't understand! i want to be _myself_. and i'm _not_ myself. i'm just torn to pieces by _forces_. it's horrible--" "well, it's not my fault. i didn't make the universe," said alvina. "if you have to be torn to pieces by forces, well, you have. other forces will put you together again." "i don't want them to. i want to be myself. i don't want to be nailed together like a chair, with a hammer. i want to be myself." "you won't be nailed together like a chair. you should have faith in life." "but i hate life. it's nothing but a mass of forces. _i_ am intelligent. life isn't intelligent. look at it at this moment. do you call this intelligent? oh--oh! it's horrible! oh--!" she was wild and sweating with her pains. tommy flounced out downstairs, beside himself. he was heard talking to some one in the moonlight outside. to ciccio. he had already telephoned wildly for the doctor. but the doctor had replied that nurse would ring him up. the moment mrs. tuke recovered her breath she began again. "i hate life, and faith, and such things. faith is only fear. and life is a mass of unintelligent forces to which intelligent beings are submitted. prostituted. oh--oh!!--prostituted--" "perhaps life itself is something bigger than intelligence," said alvina. "bigger than intelligence!" shrieked effie. "_nothing_ is bigger than intelligence. your man is a hefty brute. his yellow eyes _aren't_ intelligent. they're _animal_--" "no," said alvina. "something else. i wish he didn't attract me--" "there! because you're not content to be at the mercy of _forces_!" cried effie. "i'm not. i'm not. i want to be myself. and so forces tear me to pieces! tear me to pie--eee--oh-h-h! no!--" downstairs tommy had walked ciccio back into the house again, and the two men were drinking port in the study, discussing italy, for which tommy had a great sentimental affection, though he hated all italian music after the younger scarlatti. they drank port all through the night, tommy being strictly forbidden to interfere upstairs, or even to fetch the doctor. they drank three and a half bottles of port, and were discovered in the morning by alvina fast asleep in the study, with the electric light still burning. tommy slept with his fair and ruffled head hanging over the edge of the couch like some great loose fruit, ciccio was on the floor, face downwards, his face in his folded arms. alvina had a great difficulty in waking the inert ciccio. in the end, she had to leave him and rouse tommy first: who in rousing fell off the sofa with a crash which woke him disagreeably. so that he turned on alvina in a fury, and asked her what the hell she thought she was doing. in answer to which alvina held up a finger warningly, and tommy, suddenly remembering, fell back as if he had been struck. "she is sleeping now," said alvina. "is it a boy or a girl?" he cried. "it isn't born yet," she said. "oh god, it's an accursed fugue!" cried the bemused tommy. after which they proceeded to wake ciccio, who was like the dead doll in petrushka, all loose and floppy. when he was awake, however, he smiled at alvina, and said: "allaye!" the dark, waking smile upset her badly. chapter xiii the wedded wife the upshot of it all was that alvina ran away to scarborough without telling anybody. it was in the first week in october. she asked for a week-end, to make some arrangements for her marriage. the marriage was presumably with dr. mitchell--though she had given him no definite word. however, her month's notice was up, so she was legally free. and therefore she packed a rather large bag with all her ordinary things, and set off in her everyday dress, leaving the nursing paraphernalia behind. she knew scarborough quite well: and quite quickly found rooms which she had occupied before, in a boarding-house where she had stayed with miss frost long ago. having recovered from her journey, she went out on to the cliffs on the north side. it was evening, and the sea was before her. what was she to do? she had run away from both men--from ciccio as well as from mitchell. she had spent the last fortnight more or less avoiding the pair of them. now she had a moment to herself. she was even free from mrs. tuke, who in her own way was more exacting than the men. mrs. tuke had a baby daughter, and was getting well. ciccio was living with the tukes. tommy had taken a fancy to him, and had half engaged him as a sort of personal attendant: the sort of thing tommy would do, not having paid his butcher's bills. so alvina sat on the cliffs in a mood of exasperation. she was sick of being badgered about. she didn't really want to marry anybody. why should she? she was thankful beyond measure to be by herself. how sick she was of other people and their importunities! what was she to do? she decided to offer herself again, in a little while, for war service--in a new town this time. meanwhile she wanted to be by herself. she made excursions, she walked on the moors, in the brief but lovely days of early october. for three days it was all so sweet and lovely--perfect liberty, pure, almost paradisal. the fourth day it rained: simply rained all day long, and was cold, dismal, disheartening beyond words. there she sat, stranded in the dismalness, and knew no way out. she went to bed at nine o'clock, having decided in a jerk to go to london and find work in the war-hospitals at once: not to leave off until she had found it. but in the night she dreamed that alexander, her first fiancé, was with her on the quay of some harbour, and was reproaching her bitterly, even reviling her, for having come too late, so that they had missed their ship. they were there to catch the boat--and she, for dilatoriness, was an hour late, and she could see the broad stern of the steamer not far off. just an hour late. she showed alexander her watch--exactly ten o'clock, instead of nine. and he was more angry than ever, because her watch was slow. he pointed to the harbour clock--it was ten minutes past ten. when she woke up she was thinking of alexander. it was such a long time since she had thought of him. she wondered if he had a right to be angry with her. the day was still grey, with sweepy rain-clouds on the sea--gruesome, objectionable. it was a prolongation of yesterday. well, despair was no good, and being miserable was no good either. she got no satisfaction out of either mood. the only thing to do was to act: seize hold of life and wring its neck. she took the time-table that hung in the hall: the time-table, that magic carpet of today. when in doubt, _move_. this was the maxim. move. where to? another click of a resolution. she would wire to ciccio and meet him--where? york--leeds--halifax--? she looked up the places in the time-table, and decided on leeds. she wrote out a telegram, that she would be at leeds that evening. would he get it in time? chance it. she hurried off and sent the telegram. then she took a little luggage, told the people of her house she would be back next day, and set off. she did not like whirling in the direction of lancaster. but no matter. she waited a long time for the train from the north to come in. the first person she saw was tommy. he waved to her and jumped from the moving train. "i say!" he said. "so glad to see you! ciccio is with me. effie insisted on my coming to see you." there was ciccio climbing down with the bag. a sort of servant! this was too much for her. "so you came with your valet?" she said, as ciccio stood with the bag. "not a bit," said tommy, laying his hand on the other man's shoulder. "we're the best of friends. i don't carry bags because my heart is rather groggy. i say, nurse, excuse me, but i like you better in uniform. black doesn't suit you. you don't _mind_--" "yes, i do. but i've only got black clothes, except uniforms." "well look here now--! you're not going on anywhere tonight, are you?" "it is too late." "well now, let's turn into the hotel and have a talk. i'm acting under effie's orders, as you may gather--" at the hotel tommy gave her a letter from his wife: to the tune of--don't marry this italian, you'll put yourself in a wretched hole, and one wants to avoid getting into holes. _i know_--concluded effie, on a sinister note. tommy sang another tune. ciccio was a lovely chap, a rare chap, a treat. he, tommy, could quite understand any woman's wanting to marry him--didn't agree a bit with effie. but marriage, you know, was so final. and then with this war on: you never knew how things might turn out: a foreigner and all that. and then--you won't mind what i say--? we won't talk about class and that rot. if the man's good enough, he's good enough by himself. but is he your intellectual equal, nurse? after all, it's a big point. you don't want to marry a man you can't talk to. ciccio's a treat to be with, because he's so natural. but it isn't a _mental_ treat-- alvina thought of mrs. tuke, who complained that tommy talked music and pseudo-philosophy _by the hour_ when he was wound up. she saw effie's long, outstretched arm of repudiation and weariness. "of course!"--another of mrs. tuke's exclamations. "why not _be_ atavistic if you _can_ be, and follow at a man's heel just because he's a man. be like barbarous women, a slave." during all this, ciccio stayed out of the room, as bidden. it was not till alvina sat before her mirror that he opened her door softly, and entered. "i come in," he said, and he closed the door. alvina remained with her hair-brush suspended, watching him. he came to her, smiling softly, to take her in his arms. but she put the chair between them. "why did you bring mr. tuke?" she said. he lifted his shoulders. "i haven't brought him," he said, watching her. "why did you show him the telegram?" "it was mrs. tuke took it." "why did you give it her?" "it was she who gave it me, in her room. she kept it in her room till i came and took it." "all right," said alvina. "go back to the tukes." and she began again to brush her hair. ciccio watched her with narrowing eyes. "what you mean?" he said. "i shan't go, allaye. you come with me." "ha!" she sniffed scornfully. "i shall go where i like." but slowly he shook his head. "you'll come, allaye," he said. "you come with me, with ciccio." she shuddered at the soft, plaintive entreaty. "how can i go with you? how can i depend on you at all?" again he shook his head. his eyes had a curious yellow fire, beseeching, plaintive, with a demon quality of yearning compulsion. "yes, you come with me, allaye. you come with me, to italy. you don't go to that other man. he is too old, not healthy. you come with me to italy. why do you send a telegram?" alvina sat down and covered her face, trembling. "i can't! i can't! i can't!" she moaned. "i can't do it." "yes, you come with me. i have money. you come with me, to my place in the mountains, to my uncle's house. fine house, you like it. come with me, allaye." she could not look at him. "why do you want me?" she said. "why i want you?" he gave a curious laugh, almost of ridicule. "i don't know that. you ask me another, eh?" she was silent, sitting looking downwards. "i can't, i think," she said abstractedly, looking up at him. he smiled, a fine, subtle smile, like a demon's, but inexpressibly gentle. he made her shiver as if she was mesmerized. and he was reaching forward to her as a snake reaches, nor could she recoil. "you come, allaye," he said softly, with his foreign intonation. "you come. you come to italy with me. yes?" he put his hand on her, and she started as if she had been struck. but his hands, with the soft, powerful clasp, only closed her faster. "yes?" he said. "yes? all right, eh? all right!"--he had a strange mesmeric power over her, as if he possessed the sensual secrets, and she was to be subjected. "i can't," she moaned, trying to struggle. but she was powerless. dark and insidious he was: he had no regard for her. how could a man's movements be so soft and gentle, and yet so inhumanly regardless! he had no regard for her. why didn't she revolt? why couldn't she? she was as if bewitched. she couldn't fight against her bewitchment. why? because he seemed to her beautiful, so beautiful. and this left her numb, submissive. why must she see him beautiful? why was she will-less? she felt herself like one of the old sacred prostitutes: a sacred prostitute. in the morning, very early, they left for scarborough, leaving a letter for the sleeping tommy. in scarborough they went to the registrar's office: they could be married in a fortnight's time. and so the fortnight passed, and she was under his spell. only she knew it. she felt extinguished. ciccio talked to her: but only ordinary things. there was no wonderful intimacy of speech, such as she had always imagined, and always craved for. no. he loved her--but it was in a dark, mesmeric way, which did not let her be herself. his love did not stimulate her or excite her. it extinguished her. she had to be the quiescent, obscure woman: she felt as if she were veiled. her thoughts were dim, in the dim back regions of consciousness--yet, somewhere, she almost exulted. atavism! mrs. tuke's word would play in her mind. was it atavism, this sinking into extinction under the spell of ciccio? was it atavism, this strange, sleep-like submission to his being? perhaps it was. perhaps it was. but it was also heavy and sweet and rich. somewhere, she was content. somewhere even she was vastly proud of the dark veiled eternal loneliness she felt, under his shadow. and so it had to be. she shuddered when she touched him, because he was so beautiful, and she was so submitted. she quivered when he moved as if she were his shadow. yet her mind remained distantly clear. she would criticize him, find fault with him, the things he did. but _ultimately_ she could find no fault with him. she had lost the power. she didn't care. she had lost the power to care about his faults. strange, sweet, poisonous indifference! she was drugged. and she knew it. would she ever wake out of her dark, warm coma? she shuddered, and hoped not. mrs. tuke would say atavism. atavism! the word recurred curiously. but under all her questionings she felt well; a nonchalance deep as sleep, a passivity and indifference so dark and sweet she felt it must be evil. evil! she was evil. and yet she had no power to be otherwise. they were legally married. and she was glad. she was relieved by knowing she could not escape. she was mrs. marasca. what was the good of trying to be miss houghton any longer? marasca, the bitter cherry. some dark poison fruit she had eaten. how glad she was she had eaten it! how beautiful he was! and no one saw it but herself. for her it was so potent it made her tremble when she noticed him. his beauty, his dark shadow. ciccio really was much handsomer since his marriage. he seemed to emerge. before, he had seemed to make himself invisible in the streets, in england, altogether. but now something unfolded in him, he was a potent, glamorous presence, people turned to watch him. there was a certain dark, leopard-like pride in the air about him, something that the english people watched. he wanted to go to italy. and now it was _his_ will which counted. alvina, as his wife, must submit. he took her to london the day after the marriage. he wanted to get away to italy. he did not like being in england, a foreigner, amid the beginnings of the spy craze. in london they stayed at his cousin's house. his cousin kept a restaurant in battersea, and was a flourishing london italian, a real london product with all the good english virtues of cleanliness and honesty added to an italian shrewdness. his name was giuseppe califano, and he was pale, and he had four children of whom he was very proud. he received alvina with an affable respect, as if she were an asset in the family, but as if he were a little uneasy and disapproving. she had _come down_, in marrying ciccio. she had lost caste. he rather seemed to exult over her degradation. for he was a northernized italian, he had accepted english standards. his children were english brats. he almost patronized alvina. but then a long, slow look from her remote blue eyes brought him up sharp, and he envied ciccio suddenly, he was almost in love with her himself. she disturbed him. she disturbed him in his new english aplomb of a london _restaurateur_, and she disturbed in him the old italian dark soul, to which he was renegade. he tried treating her as an english lady. but the slow, remote look in her eyes made this fall flat. he had to be italian. and he was jealous of ciccio. in ciccio's face was a lurking smile, and round his fine nose there seemed a subtle, semi-defiant triumph. after all, he had triumphed over his well-to-do, anglicized cousin. with a stealthy, leopard-like pride ciccio went through the streets of london in those wild early days of war. he was the one victor, arching stealthily over the vanquished north. alvina saw nothing of all these complexities. for the time being, she was all dark and potent. things were curious to her. it was curious to be in battersea, in this english-italian household, where the children spoke english more readily than italian. it was strange to be high over the restaurant, to see the trees of the park, to hear the clang of trams. it was strange to walk out and come to the river. it was strange to feel the seethe of war and dread in the air. but she did not question. she seemed steeped in the passional influence of the man, as in some narcotic. she even forgot mrs. tuke's atavism. vague and unquestioning she went through the days, she accompanied ciccio into town, she went with him to make purchases, or she sat by his side in the music hall, or she stayed in her room and sewed, or she sat at meals with the califanos, a vague brightness on her face. and mrs. califano was very nice to her, very gentle, though with a suspicion of malicious triumph, mockery, beneath her gentleness. still, she was nice and womanly, hovering as she was between her english emancipation and her italian subordination. she half pitied alvina, and was more than half jealous of her. alvina was aware of nothing--only of the presence of ciccio. it was his physical presence which cast a spell over her. she lived within his aura. and she submitted to him as if he had extended his dark nature over her. she knew nothing about him. she lived mindlessly within his presence, quivering within his influence, as if his blood beat in her. she _knew_ she was subjected. one tiny corner of her knew, and watched. he was very happy, and his face had a real beauty. his eyes glowed with lustrous secrecy, like the eyes of some victorious, happy wild creature seen remote under a bush. and he was very good to her. his tenderness made her quiver into a swoon of complete self-forgetfulness, as if the flood-gates of her depths opened. the depth of his warm, mindless, enveloping love was immeasurable. she felt she could sink forever into his warm, pulsating embrace. afterwards, later on, when she was inclined to criticize him, she would remember the moment when she saw his face at the italian consulate in london. there were many people at the consulate, clamouring for passports--a wild and ill-regulated crowd. they had waited their turn and got inside--ciccio was not good at pushing his way. and inside a courteous tall old man with a white beard had lifted the flap for alvina to go inside the office and sit down to fill in the form. she thanked the old man, who bowed as if he had a reputation to keep up. ciccio followed, and it was he who had to sit down and fill up the form, because she did not understand the italian questions. she stood at his side, watching the excited, laughing, noisy, east-end italians at the desk. the whole place had a certain free-and-easy confusion, a human, unofficial, muddling liveliness which was not quite like england, even though it was in the middle of london. "what was your mother's name?" ciccio was asking her. she turned to him. he sat with the pen perched flourishingly at the end of his fingers, suspended in the serious and artistic business of filling in a form. and his face had a dark luminousness, like a dark transparence which was shut and has now expanded. she quivered, as if it was more than she could bear. for his face was open like a flower right to the depths of his soul, a dark, lovely translucency, vulnerable to the deep quick of his soul. the lovely, rich darkness of his southern nature, so different from her own, exposing itself now in its passional vulnerability, made her go white with a kind of fear. for an instant, her face seemed drawn and old as she looked down at him, answering his questions. then her eyes became sightless with tears, she stooped as if to look at his writing, and quickly kissed his fingers that held the pen, there in the midst of the crowded, vulgar consulate. he stayed suspended, again looking up at her with the bright, unfolded eyes of a wild creature which plays and is not seen. a faint smile, very beautiful to her, was on his face. what did he see when he looked at her? she did not know, she did not know. and she would never know. for an instant, she swore inside herself that god himself should not take her away from this man. she would commit herself to him through every eternity. and then the vagueness came over her again, she turned aside, photographically seeing the crowd in the consulate, but really unconscious. his movement as he rose seemed to move her in her sleep, she turned to him at once. it was early in november before they could leave for italy, and her dim, lustrous state lasted all the time. she found herself at charing cross in the early morning, in all the bustle of catching the continental train. giuseppe was there, and gemma his wife, and two of the children, besides three other italian friends of ciccio. they all crowded up the platform. giuseppe had insisted that ciccio should take second-class tickets. they were very early. alvina and ciccio were installed in a second-class compartment, with all their packages, ciccio was pale, yellowish under his tawny skin, and nervous. he stood excitedly on the platform talking in italian--or rather, in his own dialect--whilst alvina sat quite still in her corner. sometimes one of the women or one of the children came to say a few words to her, or giuseppe hurried to her with illustrated papers. they treated her as if she were some sort of invalid or angel, now she was leaving. but most of their attention they gave to ciccio, talking at him rapidly all at once, whilst he answered, and glanced in this way and that, under his fine lashes, and smiled his old, nervous, meaningless smile. he was curiously upset. time came to shut the doors. the women and children kissed alvina, saying: "you'll be all right, eh? going to italy--!" and then profound and meaningful nods, which she could not interpret, but which were fraught surely with good-fellowship. then they all kissed ciccio. the men took him in their arms and kissed him on either cheek, the children lifted their faces in eager anticipation of the double kiss. strange, how eager they were for this embrace--how they all kept taking ciccio's hand, one after the other, whilst he smiled constrainedly and nervously. chapter xiv the journey across the train began to move. giuseppe ran alongside, holding ciccio's hand still; the women and children were crying and waving their handkerchiefs, the other men were shouting messages, making strange, eager gestures. and alvina sat quite still, wonderingly. and so the big, heavy train drew out, leaving the others small and dim on the platform. it was foggy, the river was a sea of yellow beneath the ponderous iron bridge. the morning was dim and dank. the train was very full. next to alvina sat a trim frenchwoman reading _l'aiglon_. there was a terrible encumbrance of packages and luggage everywhere. opposite her sat ciccio, his black overcoat open over his pale-grey suit, his black hat a little over his left eye. he glanced at her from time to time, smiling constrainedly. she remained very still. they ran through bromley and out into the open country. it was grey, with shivers of grey sunshine. on the downs there was thin snow. the air in the train was hot, heavy with the crowd and tense with excitement and uneasiness. the train seemed to rush ponderously, massively, across the weald. and so, through folkestone to the sea. there was sun in the sky now, and white clouds, in the sort of hollow sky-dome above the grey earth with its horizon walls of fog. the air was still. the sea heaved with a sucking noise inside the dock. alvina and ciccio sat aft on the second-class deck, their bags near them. he put a white muffler round himself, alvina hugged herself in her beaver scarf and muff. she looked tender and beautiful in her still vagueness, and ciccio, hovering about her, was beautiful too, his estrangement gave him a certain wistful nobility which for the moment put him beyond all class inferiority. the passengers glanced at them across the magic of estrangement. the sea was very still. the sun was fairly high in the open sky, where white cloud-tops showed against the pale, wintry blue. across the sea came a silver sun-track. and alvina and ciccio looked at the sun, which stood a little to the right of the ship's course. "the sun!" said ciccio, nodding towards the orb and smiling to her. "i love it," she said. he smiled again, silently. he was strangely moved: she did not know why. the wind was cold over the wintry sea, though the sun's beams were warm. they rose, walked round the cabins. other ships were at sea--destroyers and battleships, grey, low, and sinister on the water. then a tall bright schooner glimmered far down the channel. some brown fishing smacks kept together. all was very still in the wintry sunshine of the channel. so they turned to walk to the stern of the boat. and alvina's heart suddenly contracted. she caught ciccio's arm, as the boat rolled gently. for there behind, behind all the sunshine, was england. england, beyond the water, rising with ash-grey, corpse-grey cliffs, and streaks of snow on the downs above. england, like a long, ash-grey coffin slowly submerging. she watched it, fascinated and terrified. it seemed to repudiate the sunshine, to remain unilluminated, long and ash-grey and dead, with streaks of snow like cerements. that was england! her thoughts flew to woodhouse, the grey centre of it all. home! her heart died within her. never had she felt so utterly strange and far-off. ciccio at her side was as nothing, as spell-bound she watched, away off, behind all the sunshine and the sea, the grey, snow-streaked substance of england slowly receding and sinking, submerging. she felt she could not believe it. it was like looking at something else. what? it was like a long, ash-grey coffin, winter, slowly submerging in the sea. england? she turned again to the sun. but clouds and veils were already weaving in the sky. the cold was beginning to soak in, moreover. she sat very still for a long time, almost an eternity. and when she looked round again there was only a bank of mist behind, beyond the sea: a bank of mist, and a few grey, stalking ships. she must watch for the coast of france. and there it was already, looming up grey and amorphous, patched with snow. it had a grey, heaped, sordid look in the november light. she had imagined boulogne gay and brilliant. whereas it was more grey and dismal than england. but not that magical, mystic, phantom look. the ship slowly put about, and backed into the harbour. she watched the quay approach. ciccio was gathering up the luggage. then came the first cry one ever hears: "_porteur! porteur!_ want a _porteur_?" a porter in a blouse strung the luggage on his strap, and ciccio and alvina entered the crush for the exit and the passport inspection. there was a tense, eager, frightened crowd, and officials shouting directions in french and english. alvina found herself at last before a table where bearded men in uniforms were splashing open the big pink sheets of the english passports: she felt strange and uneasy, that her passport was unimpressive and italian. the official scrutinized her, and asked questions of ciccio. nobody asked her anything--she might have been ciccio's shadow. so they went through to the vast, crowded cavern of a customs house, where they found their porter waving to them in the mob. ciccio fought in the mob while the porter whisked off alvina to get seats in the big train. and at last she was planted once more in a seat, with ciccio's place reserved beside her. and there she sat, looking across the railway lines at the harbour, in the last burst of grey sunshine. men looked at her, officials stared at her, soldiers made remarks about her. and at last, after an eternity, ciccio came along the platform, the porter trotting behind. they sat and ate the food they had brought, and drank wine and tea. and after weary hours the train set off through snow-patched country to paris. everywhere was crowded, the train was stuffy without being warm. next to alvina sat a large, fat, youngish frenchman who overflowed over her in a hot fashion. darkness began to fall. the train was very late. there were strange and frightening delays. strange lights appeared in the sky, everybody seemed to be listening for strange noises. it was all such a whirl and confusion that alvina lost count, relapsed into a sort of stupidity. gleams, flashes, noises and then at last the frenzy of paris. it was night, a black city, and snow falling, and no train that night across to the gare de lyon. in a state of semi-stupefaction after all the questionings and examinings and blusterings, they were finally allowed to go straight across paris. but this meant another wild tussle with a paris taxi-driver, in the filtering snow. so they were deposited in the gare de lyon. and the first person who rushed upon them was geoffrey, in a rather grimy private's uniform. he had already seen some hard service, and had a wild, bewildered look. he kissed ciccio and burst into tears on his shoulder, there in the great turmoil of the entrance hall of the gare de lyon. people looked, but nobody seemed surprised. geoffrey sobbed, and the tears came silently down ciccio's cheeks. "i've waited for you since five o'clock, and i've got to go back now. ciccio! ciccio! i wanted so badly to see you. i shall never see thee again, brother, my brother!" cried gigi, and a sob shook him. "gigi! mon gigi. tu as done regu ma lettre?" "yesterday. o ciccio, ciccio, i shall die without thee!" "but no, gigi, frère. you won't die." "yes, ciccio, i shall. i know i shall." "i say _no_, brother," said ciccio. but a spasm suddenly took him, he pulled off his hat and put it over his face and sobbed into it. "adieu, ami! adieu!" cried gigi, clutching the other man's arm. ciccio took his hat from his tear-stained face and put it on his head. then the two men embraced. "_toujours à toi!_" said geoffrey, with a strange, solemn salute in front of ciccio and alvina. then he turned on his heel and marched rapidly out of the station, his soiled soldier's overcoat flapping in the wind at the door. ciccio watched him go. then he turned and looked with haunted eyes into the eyes of alvina. and then they hurried down the desolate platform in the darkness. many people, italians, largely, were camped waiting there, while bits of snow wavered down. ciccio bought food and hired cushions. the train backed in. there was a horrible fight for seats, men scrambling through windows. alvina got a place--but ciccio had to stay in the corridor. then the long night journey through france, slow and blind. the train was now so hot that the iron plate on the floor burnt alvina's feet. outside she saw glimpses of snow. a fat italian hotel-keeper put on a smoking cap, covered the light, and spread himself before alvina. in the next carriage a child was screaming. it screamed all the night--all the way from paris to chambéry it screamed. the train came to sudden halts, and stood still in the snow. the hotel-keeper snored. alvina became almost comatose, in the burning heat of the carriage. and again the train rumbled on. and again she saw glimpses of stations, glimpses of snow, through the chinks in the curtained windows. and again there was a jerk and a sudden halt, a drowsy mutter from the sleepers, somebody uncovering the light, and somebody covering it again, somebody looking out, somebody tramping down the corridor, the child screaming. the child belonged to two poor italians--milanese--a shred of a thin little man, and a rather loose woman. they had five tiny children, all boys: and the four who could stand on their feet all wore scarlet caps. the fifth was a baby. alvina had seen a french official yelling at the poor shred of a young father on the platform. when morning came, and the bleary people pulled the curtains, it was a clear dawn, and they were in the south of france. there was no sign of snow. the landscape was half southern, half alpine. white houses with brownish tiles stood among almond trees and cactus. it was beautiful, and alvina felt she had known it all before, in a happier life. the morning was graceful almost as spring. she went out in the corridor to talk to ciccio. he was on his feet with his back to the inner window, rolling slightly to the motion of the train. his face was pale, he had that sombre, haunted, unhappy look. alvina, thrilled by the southern country, was smiling excitedly. "this is my first morning abroad," she said. "yes," he answered. "i love it here," she said. "isn't this like italy?" he looked darkly out of the window, and shook his head. but the sombre look remained on his face. she watched him. and her heart sank as she had never known it sink before. "are you thinking of gigi?" she said. he looked at her, with a faint, unhappy, bitter smile, but he said nothing. he seemed far off from her. a wild unhappiness beat inside her breast. she went down the corridor, away from him, to avoid this new agony, which after all was not her agony. she listened to the chatter of french and italian in the corridor. she felt the excitement and terror of france, inside the railway carriage: and outside she saw white oxen slowly ploughing, beneath the lingering yellow poplars of the sub-alps, she saw peasants looking up, she saw a woman holding a baby to her breast, watching the train, she saw the excited, yeasty crowds at the station. and they passed a river, and a great lake. and it all seemed bigger, nobler than england. she felt vaster influences spreading around, the past was greater, more magnificent in these regions. for the first time the nostalgia of the vast roman and classic world took possession of her. and she found it splendid. for the first time she opened her eyes on a continent, the alpine core of a continent. and for the first time she realized what it was to escape from the smallish perfection of england, into the grander imperfection of a great continent. near chambéry they went down for breakfast to the restaurant car. and secretly, she was very happy. ciccio's distress made her uneasy. but underneath she was extraordinarily relieved and glad. ciccio did not trouble her very much. the sense of the bigness of the lands about her, the excitement of travelling with continental people, the pleasantness of her coffee and rolls and honey, the feeling that vast events were taking place--all this stimulated her. she had brushed, as it were, the fringe of the terror of the war and the invasion. fear was seething around her. and yet she was excited and glad. the vast world was in one of its convulsions, and she was moving amongst it. somewhere, she believed in the convulsion, the event elated her. the train began to climb up to modane. how wonderful the alps were!--what a bigness, an unbreakable power was in the mountains! up and up the train crept, and she looked at the rocky slopes, the glistening peaks of snow in the blue heaven, the hollow valleys with fir trees and low-roofed houses. there were quarries near the railway, and men working. there was a strange mountain town, dirty-looking. and still the train climbed up and up, in the hot morning sunshine, creeping slowly round the mountain loops, so that a little brown dog from one of the cottages ran alongside the train for a long way, barking at alvina, even running ahead of the creeping, snorting train, and barking at the people ahead. alvina, looking out, saw the two unfamiliar engines snorting out their smoke round the bend ahead. and the morning wore away to mid-day. ciccio became excited as they neared modane, the frontier station. his eye lit up again, he pulled himself together for the entrance into italy. slowly the train rolled in to the dismal station. and then a confusion indescribable, of porters and masses of luggage, the unspeakable crush and crowd at the customs barriers, the more intense crowd through the passport office, all like a madness. they were out on the platform again, they had secured their places. ciccio wanted to have luncheon in the station restaurant. they went through the passages. and there in the dirty station gang-ways and big corridors dozens of italians were lying on the ground, men, women, children, camping with their bundles and packages in heaps. they were either emigrants or refugees. alvina had never seen people herd about like cattle, dumb, brute cattle. it impressed her. she could not grasp that an italian labourer would lie down just where he was tired, in the street, on a station, in any corner, like a dog. in the afternoon they were slipping down the alps towards turin. and everywhere was snow--deep, white, wonderful snow, beautiful and fresh, glistening in the afternoon light all down the mountain slopes, on the railway track, almost seeming to touch the train. and twilight was falling. and at the stations people crowded in once more. it had been dark a long time when they reached turin. many people alighted from the train, many surged to get in. but ciccio and alvina had seats side by side. they were becoming tired now. but they were in italy. once more they went down for a meal. and then the train set off again in the night for alessandria and genoa, pisa and rome. it was night, the train ran better, there was a more easy sense in italy. ciccio talked a little with other travelling companions. and alvina settled her cushion, and slept more or less till genoa. after the long wait at genoa she dozed off again. she woke to see the sea in the moonlight beneath her--a lovely silvery sea, coming right to the carriage. the train seemed to be tripping on the edge of the mediterranean, round bays, and between dark rocks and under castles, a night-time fairy-land, for hours. she watched spell-bound: spell-bound by the magic of the world itself. and she thought to herself: "whatever life may be, and whatever horror men have made of it, the world is a lovely place, a magic place, something to marvel over. the world is an amazing place." this thought dozed her off again. yet she had a consciousness of tunnels and hills and of broad marshes pallid under a moon and a coming dawn. and in the dawn there was pisa. she watched the word hanging in the station in the dimness: "pisa." ciccio told her people were changing for florence. it all seemed wonderful to her--wonderful. she sat and watched the black station--then she heard the sound of the child's trumpet. and it did not occur to her to connect the train's moving on with the sound of the trumpet. but she saw the golden dawn, a golden sun coming out of level country. she loved it. she loved being in italy. she loved the lounging carelessness of the train, she liked having italian money, hearing the italians round her--though they were neither as beautiful nor as melodious as she expected. she loved watching the glowing antique landscape. she read and read again: "e pericoloso sporgersi," and "e vietato fumare," and the other little magical notices on the carriages. ciccio told her what they meant, and how to say them. and sympathetic italians opposite at once asked him if they were married and who and what his bride was, and they gazed at her with bright, approving eyes, though she felt terribly bedraggled and travel-worn. "you come from england? yes! nice contry!" said a man in a corner, leaning forward to make this display of his linguistic capacity. "not so nice as this," said alvina. "eh?" alvina repeated herself. "not so nice? oh? no! fog, eh!" the fat man whisked his fingers in the air, to indicate fog in the atmosphere. "but nice contry! very--_convenient_." he sat up in triumph, having achieved this word. and the conversation once more became a spatter of italian. the women were very interested. they looked at alvina, at every atom of her. and she divined that they were wondering if she was already with child. sure enough, they were asking ciccio in italian if she was "making him a baby." but he shook his head and did not know, just a bit constrained. so they ate slices of sausages and bread and fried rice-balls, with wonderfully greasy fingers, and they drank red wine in big throatfuls out of bottles, and they offered their fare to ciccio and alvina, and were charmed when she said to ciccio she _would_ have some bread and sausage. he picked the strips off the sausage for her with his fingers, and made her a sandwich with a roll. the women watched her bite it, and bright-eyed and pleased they said, nodding their heads-- "buono? buono?" and she, who knew this word, understood, and replied: "yes, good! buono!" nodding her head likewise. which caused immense satisfaction. the women showed the whole paper of sausage slices, and nodded and beamed and said: "se vuole ancora--!" and alvina bit her wide sandwich, and smiled, and said: "yes, awfully nice!" and the women looked at each other and said something, and ciccio interposed, shaking his head. but one woman ostentatiously wiped a bottle mouth with a clean handkerchief, and offered the bottle to alvina, saying: "vino buono. vecchio! vecchio!" nodding violently and indicating that she should drink. she looked at ciccio, and he looked back at her, doubtingly. "shall i drink some?" she said. "if you like," he replied, making an italian gesture of indifference. so she drank some of the wine, and it dribbled on to her chin. she was not good at managing a bottle. but she liked the feeling of warmth it gave her. she was very tired. "si piace? piace?" "do you like it," interpreted ciccio. "yes, very much. what is very much?" she asked of ciccio. "molto." "si, molto. of course, i knew molto, from, music," she added. the women made noises, and smiled and nodded, and so the train pulsed on till they came to rome. there was again, the wild scramble with luggage, a general leave taking, and then the masses of people on the station at rome. _roma! roma!_ what was it to alvina but a name, and a crowded, excited station, and ciccio running after the luggage, and the pair of them eating in a station restaurant? almost immediately after eating, they were in the train once more, with new fellow travellers, running south this time towards naples. in a daze of increasing weariness alvina watched the dreary, to her sordid-seeming campagna that skirts the railway, the broken aqueduct trailing in the near distance over the stricken plain. she saw a tram-car, far out from everywhere, running up to cross the railway. she saw it was going to frascati. and slowly the hills approached--they passed the vines of the foothills, the reeds, and were among the mountains. wonderful little towns perched fortified on rocks and peaks, mountains rose straight up off the level plain, like old topographical prints, rivers wandered in the wild, rocky places, it all seemed ancient and shaggy, savage still, under all its remote civilization, this region of the alban mountains south of rome. so the train clambered up and down, and went round corners. they had not far to go now. alvina was almost too tired to care what it would be like. they were going to ciccio's native village. they were to stay in the house of his uncle, his mother's brother. this uncle had been a model in london. he had built a house on the land left by ciccio's grandfather. he lived alone now, for his wife was dead and his children were abroad. giuseppe was his son: giuseppe of battersea, in whose house alvina had stayed. this much alvina knew. she knew that a portion of the land down at pescocalascio belonged to ciccio: a bit of half-savage, ancient earth that had been left to his mother by old francesco califano, her hard-grinding peasant father. this land remained integral in the property, and was worked by ciccio's two uncles, pancrazio and giovanni. pancrazio was the well-to-do uncle, who had been a model and had built a "villa." giovanni was not much good. that was how ciccio put it. they expected pancrazio to meet them at the station. ciccio collected his bundles and put his hat straight and peered out of the window into the steep mountains of the afternoon. there was a town in the opening between steep hills, a town on a flat plain that ran into the mountains like a gulf. the train drew up. they had arrived. alvina was so tired she could hardly climb down to the platform. it was about four o'clock. ciccio looked up and down for pancrazio, but could not see him. so he put his luggage into a pile on the platform, told alvina to stand by it, whilst he went off for the registered boxes. a porter came and asked her questions, of which she understood nothing. then at last came ciccio, shouldering one small trunk, whilst a porter followed, shouldering another. out they trotted, leaving alvina abandoned with the pile of hand luggage. she waited. the train drew out. ciccio and the porter came bustling back. they took her out through the little gate, to where, in the flat desert space behind the railway, stood two great drab motor-omnibuses, and a rank of open carriages. ciccio was handing up the handbags to the roof of one of the big post-omnibuses. when it was finished the man on the roof came down, and ciccio gave him and the station porter each sixpence. the station-porter immediately threw his coin on the ground with a gesture of indignant contempt, spread his arms wide and expostulated violently. ciccio expostulated back again, and they pecked at each other, verbally, like two birds. it ended by the rolling up of the burly, black moustached driver of the omnibus. whereupon ciccio quite amicably gave the porter two nickel twopences in addition to the sixpence, whereupon the porter quite lovingly wished him "buon' viaggio." so alvina was stowed into the body of the omnibus, with ciccio at her side. they were no sooner seated than a voice was heard, in beautifully-modulated english: "you are here! why how have i missed you?" it was pancrazio, a smallish, rather battered-looking, shabby italian of sixty or more, with a big moustache and reddish-rimmed eyes and a deeply-lined face. he was presented to alvina. "how have i missed you?" he said. "i was on the station when the train came, and i did not see you." but it was evident he had taken wine. he had no further opportunity to talk. the compartment was full of large, mountain-peasants with black hats and big cloaks and overcoats. they found pancrazio a seat at the far end, and there he sat, with his deeply-lined, impassive face and slightly glazed eyes. he had yellow-brown eyes like ciccio. but in the uncle the eyelids dropped in a curious, heavy way, the eyes looked dull like those of some old, rakish tom-cat, they were slightly rimmed with red. a curious person! and his english, though slow, was beautifully pronounced. he glanced at alvina with slow, impersonal glances, not at all a stare. and he sat for the most part impassive and abstract as a red indian. at the last moment a large black priest was crammed in, and the door shut behind him. every available seat was let down and occupied. the second great post-omnibus rolled away, and then the one for mola followed, rolling alvina and ciccio over the next stage of their journey. the sun was already slanting to the mountain tops, shadows were falling on the gulf of the plain. the omnibus charged at a great speed along a straight white road, which cut through the cultivated level straight towards the core of the mountain. by the road-side, peasant men in cloaks, peasant women in full-gathered dresses with white bodices or blouses having great full sleeves, tramped in the ridge of grass, driving cows or goats, or leading heavily-laden asses. the women had coloured kerchiefs on their heads, like the women alvina remembered at the sunday-school treats, who used to tell fortunes with green little love-birds. and they all tramped along towards the blue shadow of the closing-in mountains, leaving the peaks of the town behind on the left. at a branch-road the 'bus suddenly stopped, and there it sat calmly in the road beside an icy brook, in the falling twilight. great moth-white oxen waved past, drawing a long, low load of wood; the peasants left behind began to come up again, in picturesque groups. the icy brook tinkled, goats, pigs and cows wandered and shook their bells along the grassy borders of the road and the flat, unbroken fields, being driven slowly home. peasants jumped out of the omnibus on to the road, to chat--and a sharp air came in. high overhead, as the sun went down, was the curious icy radiance of snow mountains, and a pinkness, while shadow deepened in the valley. at last, after about half an hour, the youth who was conductor of the omnibus came running down the wild side-road, everybody clambered in, and away the vehicle charged, into the neck of the plain. with a growl and a rush it swooped up the first loop of the ascent. great precipices rose on the right, the ruddiness of sunset above them. the road wound and swirled, trying to get up the pass. the omnibus pegged slowly up, then charged round a corner, swirled into another loop, and pegged heavily once more. it seemed dark between the closing-in mountains. the rocks rose very high, the road looped and swerved from one side of the wide defile to the other, the vehicle pulsed and persisted. sometimes there was a house, sometimes a wood of oak-trees, sometimes the glimpse of a ravine, then the tall white glisten of snow above the earthly blackness. and still they went on and on, up the darkness. peering ahead, alvina thought she saw the hollow between the peaks, which was the top of the pass. and every time the omnibus took a new turn, she thought it was coming out on the top of this hollow between the heights. but no--the road coiled right away again. a wild little village came in sight. this was the destination. again no. only the tall, handsome mountain youth who had sat across from her, descended grumbling because the 'bus had brought him past his road, the driver having refused to pull up. everybody expostulated with him, and he dropped into the shadow. the big priest squeezed into his place. the 'bus wound on and on, and always towards that hollow sky-line between the high peaks. at last they ran up between buildings nipped between high rock-faces, and out into a little market-place, the crown of the pass. the luggage was got out and lifted down. alvina descended. there she was, in a wild centre of an old, unfinished little mountain town. the façade of a church rose from a small eminence. a white road ran to the right, where a great open valley showed faintly beyond and beneath. low, squalid sort of buildings stood around--with some high buildings. and there were bare little trees. the stars were in the sky, the air was icy. people stood darkly, excitedly about, women with an odd, shell-pattern head-dress of gofered linen, something like a parlour-maid's cap, came and stared hard. they were hard-faced mountain women. pancrazio was talking to ciccio in dialect. "i couldn't get a cart to come down," he said in english. "but i shall find one here. now what will you do? put the luggage in grazia's place while you wait?--" they went across the open place to a sort of shop called the post restaurant. it was a little hole with an earthen floor and a smell of cats. three crones were sitting over a low brass brazier, in which charcoal and ashes smouldered. men were drinking. ciccio ordered coffee with rum--and the hard-faced grazia, in her unfresh head-dress, dabbled the little dirty coffee-cups in dirty water, took the coffee-pot out of the ashes, poured in the old black boiling coffee three parts full, and slopped the cup over with rum. then she dashed in a spoonful of sugar, to add to the pool in the saucer, and her customers were served. however, ciccio drank up, so alvina did likewise, burning her lips smartly. ciccio paid and ducked his way out. "now what will you buy?" asked pancrazio. "buy?" said ciccio. "food," said pancrazio. "have you brought food?" "no," said ciccio. so they trailed up stony dark ways to a butcher, and got a big red slice of meat; to a baker, and got enormous flat loaves. sugar and coffee they bought. and pancrazio lamented in his elegant english that no butter was to be obtained. everywhere the hard-faced women came and stared into alvina's face, asking questions. and both ciccio and pancrazio answered rather coldly, with some _hauteur_. there was evidently not too much intimacy between the people of pescocalascio and these semi-townfolk of ossona. alvina felt as if she were in a strange, hostile country, in the darkness of the savage little mountain town. at last they were ready. they mounted into a two-wheeled cart, alvina and ciccio behind, pancrazio and the driver in front, the luggage promiscuous. the bigger things were left for the morrow. it was icy cold, with a flashing darkness. the moon would not rise till later. and so, without any light but that of the stars, the cart went spanking and rattling downhill, down the pale road which wound down the head of the valley to the gulf of darkness below. down in the darkness into the darkness they rattled, wildly, and without heed, the young driver making strange noises to his dim horse, cracking a whip and asking endless questions of pancrazio. alvina sat close to ciccio. he remained almost impassive. the wind was cold, the stars flashed. and they rattled down the rough, broad road under the rocks, down and down in the darkness. ciccio sat crouching forwards, staring ahead. alvina was aware of mountains, rocks, and stars. "i didn't know it was so _wild_!" she said. "it is not much," he said. there was a sad, plangent note in his voice. he put his hand upon her. "you don't like it?" he said. "i think it's lovely--wonderful," she said, dazed. he held her passionately. but she did not feel she needed protecting. it was all wonderful and amazing to her. she could not understand why he seemed upset and in a sort of despair. to her there was magnificence in the lustrous stars and the steepnesses, magic, rather terrible and grand. they came down to the level valley bed, and went rolling along. there was a house, and a lurid red fire burning outside against the wall, and dark figures about it. "what is that?" she said. "what are they doing?" "i don't know," said ciccio. "cosa fanno li--eh?" "ka--? fanno il buga'--" said the driver. "they are doing some washing," said pancrazio, explanatory. "washing!" said alvina. "boiling the clothes," said ciccio. on the cart rattled and bumped, in the cold night, down the high-way in the valley. alvina could make out the darkness of the slopes. overhead she saw the brilliance of orion. she felt she was quite, quite lost. she had gone out of the world, over the border, into some place of mystery. she was lost to woodhouse, to lancaster, to england--all lost. they passed through a darkness of woods, with a swift sound of cold water. and then suddenly the cart pulled up. some one came out of a lighted doorway in the darkness. "we must get down here--the cart doesn't go any further," said pancrazio. "are we there?" said alvina. "no, it is about a mile. but we must leave the cart." ciccio asked questions in italian. alvina climbed down. "good-evening! are you cold?" came a loud, raucous, american-italian female voice. it was another relation of ciccio's. alvina stared and looked at the handsome, sinister, raucous-voiced young woman who stood in the light of the doorway. "rather cold," she said. "come in, and warm yourself," said the young woman. "my sister's husband lives here," explained pancrazio. alvina went through the doorway into the room. it was a sort of inn. on the earthen floor glowed a great round pan of charcoal, which looked like a flat pool of fire. men in hats and cloaks sat at a table playing cards by the light of a small lamp, a man was pouring wine. the room seemed like a cave. "warm yourself," said the young woman, pointing to the flat disc of fire on the floor. she put a chair up to it, and alvina sat down. the men in the room stared, but went on noisily with their cards. ciccio came in with luggage. men got up and greeted him effusively, watching alvina between whiles as if she were some alien creature. words of american sounded among the italian dialect. there seemed to be a confab of some sort, aside. ciccio came and said to her: "they want to know if we will stay the night here." "i would rather go on home," she said. he averted his face at the word home. "you see," said pancrazio, "i think you might be more comfortable here, than in my poor house. you see i have no woman to care for it--" alvina glanced round the cave of a room, at the rough fellows in their black hats. she was thinking how she would be "more comfortable" here. "i would rather go on," she said. "then we will get the donkey," said pancrazio stoically. and alvina followed him out on to the high-road. from a shed issued a smallish, brigand-looking fellow carrying a lantern. he had his cloak over his nose and his hat over his eyes. his legs were bundled with white rag, crossed and crossed with hide straps, and he was shod in silent skin sandals. "this is my brother giovanni," said pancrazio. "he is not quite sensible." then he broke into a loud flood of dialect. giovanni touched his hat to alvina, and gave the lantern to pancrazio. then he disappeared, returning in a few moments with the ass. ciccio came out with the baggage, and by the light of the lantern the things were slung on either side of the ass, in a rather precarious heap. pancrazio tested the rope again. "there! go on, and i shall come in a minute." "ay-er-er!" cried giovanni at the ass, striking the flank of the beast. then he took the leading rope and led up on the dark high-way, stalking with his dingy white legs under his muffled cloak, leading the ass. alvina noticed the shuffle of his skin-sandalled feet, the quiet step of the ass. she walked with ciccio near the side of the road. he carried the lantern. the ass with its load plodded a few steps ahead. there were trees on the road-side, and a small channel of invisible but noisy water. big rocks jutted sometimes. it was freezing, the mountain high-road was congealed. high stars flashed overhead. "how strange it is!" said alvina to ciccio. "are you glad you have come home?" "it isn't my home," he replied, as if the word fretted him. "yes, i like to see it again. but it isn't the place for young people to live in. you will see how you like it." she wondered at his uneasiness. it was the same in pancrazio. the latter now came running to catch them up. "i think you will be tired," he said. "you ought to have stayed at my relation's house down there." "no, i am not tired," said alvina. "but i'm hungry." "well, we shall eat something when we come to my house." they plodded in the darkness of the valley high-road. pancrazio took the lantern and went to examine the load, hitching the ropes. a great flat loaf fell out, and rolled away, and smack came a little valise. pancrazio broke into a flood of dialect to giovanni, handing him the lantern. ciccio picked up the bread and put it under his arm. "break me a little piece," said alvina. and in the darkness they both chewed bread. after a while, pancrazio halted with the ass just ahead, and took the lantern from giovanni. "we must leave the road here," he said. and with the lantern he carefully, courteously showed alvina a small track descending in the side of the bank, between bushes. alvina ventured down the steep descent, pancrazio following showing a light. in the rear was giovanni, making noises at the ass. they all picked their way down into the great white-bouldered bed of a mountain river. it was a wide, strange bed of dry boulders, pallid under the stars. there was a sound of a rushing river, glacial-sounding. the place seemed wild and desolate. in the distance was a darkness of bushes, along the far shore. pancrazio swinging the lantern, they threaded their way through the uneven boulders till they came to the river itself--not very wide, but rushing fast. a long, slender, drooping plank crossed over. alvina crossed rather tremulous, followed by pancrazio with the light, and ciccio with the bread and the valise. they could hear the click of the ass and the ejaculations of giovanni. pancrazio went back over the stream with the light. alvina saw the dim ass come up, wander uneasily to the stream, plant his fore legs, and sniff the water, his nose right down. "er! err!" cried pancrazio, striking the beast on the flank. but it only lifted its nose and turned aside. it would not take the stream. pancrazio seized the leading rope angrily and turned upstream. "why were donkeys made! they are beasts without sense," his voice floated angrily across the chill darkness. ciccio laughed. he and alvina stood in the wide, stony river-bed, in the strong starlight, watching the dim figures of the ass and the men crawl upstream with the lantern. again the same performance, the white muzzle of the ass stooping down to sniff the water suspiciously, his hind-quarters tilted up with the load. again the angry yells and blows from pancrazio. and the ass seemed to be taking the water. but no! after a long deliberation he drew back. angry language sounded through the crystal air. the group with the lantern moved again upstream, becoming smaller. alvina and ciccio stood and watched. the lantern looked small up the distance. but there--a clocking, shouting, splashing sound. "he is going over," said ciccio. pancrazio came hurrying back to the plank with the lantern. "oh the stupid beast! i could kill him!" cried he. "isn't he used to the water?" said alvina. "yes, he is. but he won't go except where he thinks he will go. you might kill him before he should go." they picked their way across the river bed, to the wild scrub and bushes of the farther side. there they waited for the ass, which came up clicking over the boulders, led by the patient giovanni. and then they took a difficult, rocky track ascending between banks. alvina felt the uneven scramble a great effort. but she got up. again they waited for the ass. and then again they struck off to the right, under some trees. a house appeared dimly. "is that it?" said alvina. "no. it belongs to me. but that is not my house. a few steps further. now we are on my land." they were treading a rough sort of grass-land--and still climbing. it ended in a sudden little scramble between big stones, and suddenly they were on the threshold of a quite important-looking house: but it was all dark. "oh!" exclaimed pancrazio, "they have done nothing that i told them." he made queer noises of exasperation. "what?" said alvina. "neither made a fire nor anything. wait a minute--" the ass came up. ciccio, alvina, giovanni and the ass waited in the frosty starlight under the wild house. pancrazio disappeared round the back. ciccio talked to giovanni. he seemed uneasy, as if he felt depressed. pancrazio returned with the lantern, and opened the big door. alvina followed him into a stone-floored, wide passage, where stood farm implements, where a little of straw and beans lay in a corner, and whence rose bare wooden stairs. so much she saw in the glimpse of lantern-light, as pancrazio pulled the string and entered the kitchen: a dim-walled room with a vaulted roof and a great dark, open hearth, fireless: a bare room, with a little rough dark furniture: an unswept stone floor: iron-barred windows, rather small, in the deep-thickness of the wall, one-half shut with a drab shutter. it was rather like a room on the stage, gloomy, not meant to be lived in. "i will make a light," said pancrazio, taking a lamp from the mantel-piece, and proceeding to wind it up. ciccio stood behind alvina, silent. he had put down the bread and valise on a wooden chest. she turned to him. "it's a beautiful room," she said. which, with its high, vaulted roof, its dirty whitewash, its great black chimney, it really was. but ciccio did not understand. he smiled gloomily. the lamp was lighted. alvina looked round in wonder. "now i will make a fire. you, ciccio, will help giovanni with the donkey," said pancrazio, scuttling with the lantern. alvina looked at the room. there was a wooden settle in front of the hearth, stretching its back to the room. there was a little table under a square, recessed window, on whose sloping ledge were newspapers, scattered letters, nails and a hammer. on the table were dried beans and two maize cobs. in a corner were shelves, with two chipped enamel plates, and a small table underneath, on which stood a bucket of water with a dipper. then there was a wooden chest, two little chairs, and a litter of faggots, cane, vine-twigs, bare maize-hubs, oak-twigs filling the corner by the hearth. pancrazio came scrambling in with fresh faggots. "they have not done what i told them, the tiresome people!" he said. "i told them to make a fire and prepare the house. you will be uncomfortable in my poor home. i have no woman, nothing, everything is wrong--" he broke the pieces of cane and kindled them in the hearth. soon there was a good blaze. ciccio came in with the bags and the food. "i had better go upstairs and take my things off," said alvina. "i am so hungry." "you had better keep your coat on," said pancrazio. "the room is cold." which it was, ice-cold. she shuddered a little. she took off her hat and fur. "shall we fry some meat?" said pancrazio. he took a frying-pan, found lard in the wooden chest--it was the food-chest--and proceeded to fry pieces of meat in a frying-pan over the fire. alvina wanted to lay the table. but there was no cloth. "we will sit here, as i do, to eat," said pancrazio. he produced two enamel plates and one soup-plate, three penny iron forks and two old knives, and a little grey, coarse salt in a wooden bowl. these he placed on the seat of the settle in front of the fire. ciccio was silent. the settle was dark and greasy. alvina feared for her clothes. but she sat with her enamel plate and her impossible fork, a piece of meat and a chunk of bread, and ate. it was difficult--but the food was good, and the fire blazed. only there was a film of wood-smoke in the room, rather smarting. ciccio sat on the settle beside her, and ate in large mouthfuls. "i think it's fun," said alvina. he looked at her with dark, haunted, gloomy eyes. she wondered what was the matter with him. "don't you think it's fun?" she said, smiling. he smiled slowly. "you won't like it," he said. "why not?" she cried, in panic lest he prophesied truly. pancrazio scuttled in and out with the lantern. he brought wrinkled pears, and green, round grapes, and walnuts, on a white cloth, and presented them. "i think my pears are still good," he said. "you must eat them, and excuse my uncomfortable house." giovanni came in with a big bowl of soup and a bottle of milk. there was room only for three on the settle before the hearth. he pushed his chair among the litter of fire-kindling, and sat down. he had bright, bluish eyes, and a fattish face--was a man of about fifty, but had a simple, kindly, slightly imbecile face. all the men kept their hats on. the soup was from giovanni's cottage. it was for pancrazio and him. but there was only one spoon. so pancrazio ate a dozen spoonfuls, and handed the bowl to giovanni--who protested and tried to refuse--but accepted, and ate ten spoonfuls, then handed the bowl back to his brother, with the spoon. so they finished the bowl between them. then pancrazio found wine--a whitish wine, not very good, for which he apologized. and he invited alvina to coffee. which she accepted gladly. for though the fire was warm in front, behind was very cold. pancrazio stuck a long pointed stick down the handle of a saucepan, and gave this utensil to ciccio, to hold over the fire and scald the milk, whilst he put the tin coffee-pot in the ashes. he took a long iron tube or blow-pipe, which rested on two little feet at the far end. this he gave to giovanni to blow the fire. giovanni was a fire-worshipper. his eyes sparkled as he took the blowing tube. he put fresh faggots behind the fire--though pancrazio forbade him. he arranged the burning faggots. and then softly he blew a red-hot fire for the coffee. "basta! basta!" said ciccio. but giovanni blew on, his eyes sparkling, looking to alvina. he was making the fire beautiful for her. there was one cup, one enamelled mug, one little bowl. this was the coffee-service. pancrazio noisily ground the coffee. he seemed to do everything, old, stooping as he was. at last giovanni took his leave--the kettle which hung on the hook over the fire was boiling over. ciccio burnt his hand lifting it off. and at last, at last alvina could go to bed. pancrazio went first with the candle--then ciccio with the black kettle--then alvina. the men still had their hats on. their boots tramped noisily on the bare stairs. the bedroom was very cold. it was a fair-sized room with a concrete floor and white walls, and window-door opening on a little balcony. there were two high white beds on opposite sides of the room. the wash-stand was a little tripod thing. the air was very cold, freezing, the stone floor was dead cold to the feet. ciccio sat down on a chair and began to take off his boots. she went to the window. the moon had risen. there was a flood of light on dazzling white snow tops, glimmering and marvellous in the evanescent night. she went out for a moment on to the balcony. it was a wonder-world: the moon over the snow heights, the pallid valley-bed away below; the river hoarse, and round about her, scrubby, blue-dark foothills with twiggy trees. magical it all was--but so cold. "you had better shut the door," said ciccio. she came indoors. she was dead tired, and stunned with cold, and hopelessly dirty after that journey. ciccio had gone to bed without washing. "why does the bed rustle?" she asked him. it was stuffed with dry maize-leaves, the dry sheathes from the cobs--stuffed enormously high. he rustled like a snake among dead foliage. alvina washed her hands. there was nothing to do with the water but throw it out of the door. then she washed her face, thoroughly, in good hot water. what a blessed relief! she sighed as she dried herself. "it does one good!" she sighed. ciccio watched her as she quickly brushed her hair. she was almost stupefied with weariness and the cold, bruising air. blindly she crept into the high, rustling bed. but it was made high in the middle. and it was icy cold. it shocked her almost as if she had fallen into water. she shuddered, and became semi-conscious with fatigue. the blankets were heavy, heavy. she was dazed with excitement and wonder. she felt vaguely that ciccio was miserable, and wondered why. she woke with a start an hour or so later. the moon was in the room. she did not know where she was. and she was frightened. and she was cold. a real terror took hold of her. ciccio in his bed was quite still. everything seemed electric with horror. she felt she would die instantly, everything was so terrible around her. she could not move. she felt that everything around her was horrific, extinguishing her, putting her out. her very being was threatened. in another instant she would be transfixed. making a violent effort she sat up. the silence of ciccio in his bed was as horrible as the rest of the night. she had a horror of him also. what would she do, where should she flee? she was lost--lost--lost utterly. the knowledge sank into her like ice. then deliberately she got out of bed and went across to him. he was horrible and frightening, but he was warm. she felt his power and his warmth invade her and extinguish her. the mad and desperate passion that was in him sent her completely unconscious again, completely unconscious. chapter xv the place called califano there is no mistake about it, alvina was a lost girl. she was cut off from everything she belonged to. ovid isolated in thrace might well lament. the soul itself needs its own mysterious nourishment. this nourishment lacking, nothing is well. at pescocalascio it was the mysterious influence of the mountains and valleys themselves which seemed always to be annihilating the englishwoman: nay, not only her, but the very natives themselves. ciccio and pancrazio clung to her, essentially, as if she saved them also from extinction. it needed all her courage. truly, she had to support the souls of the two men. at first she did not realize. she was only stunned with the strangeness of it all: startled, half-enraptured with the terrific beauty of the place, half-horrified by its savage annihilation of her. but she was stunned. the days went by. it seems there are places which resist us, which have the power to overthrow our psychic being. it seems as if every country has its potent negative centres, localities which savagely and triumphantly refuse our living culture. and alvina had struck one of them, here on the edge of the abruzzi. she was not in the village of pescocalascio itself. that was a long hour's walk away. pancrazio's house was the chief of a tiny hamlet of three houses, called califano because the califanos had made it. there was the ancient, savage hole of a house, quite windowless, where pancrazio and ciccio's mother had been born: the family home. then there was pancrazio's villa. and then, a little below, another newish, modern house in a sort of wild meadow, inhabited by the peasants who worked the land. ten minutes' walk away was another cluster of seven or eight houses, where giovanni lived. but there was no shop, no post nearer than pescocalascio, an hour's heavy road up deep and rocky, wearying tracks. and yet, what could be more lovely than the sunny days: pure, hot, blue days among the mountain foothills: irregular, steep little hills half wild with twiggy brown oak-trees and marshes and broom heaths, half cultivated, in a wild, scattered fashion. lovely, in the lost hollows beyond a marsh, to see ciccio slowly ploughing with two great white oxen: lovely to go with pancrazio down to the wild scrub that bordered the river-bed, then over the white-bouldered, massive desert and across stream to the other scrubby savage shore, and so up to the high-road. pancrazio was very happy if alvina would accompany him. he liked it that she was not afraid. and her sense of the beauty of the place was an infinite relief to him. nothing could have been more marvellous than the winter twilight. sometimes alvina and pancrazio were late returning with the ass. and then gingerly the ass would step down the steep banks, already beginning to freeze when the sun went down. and again and again he would balk the stream, while a violet-blue dusk descended on the white, wide stream-bed, and the scrub and lower hills became dark, and in heaven, oh, almost unbearably lovely, the snow of the near mountains was burning rose, against the dark-blue heavens. how unspeakably lovely it was, no one could ever tell, the grand, pagan twilight of the valleys, savage, cold, with a sense of ancient gods who knew the right for human sacrifice. it stole away the soul of alvina. she felt transfigured in it, clairvoyant in another mystery of life. a savage hardness came in her heart. the gods who had demanded human sacrifice were quite right, immutably right. the fierce, savage gods who dipped their lips in blood, these were the true gods. the terror, the agony, the nostalgia of the heathen past was a constant torture to her mediumistic soul. she did not know what it was. but it was a kind of neuralgia in the very soul, never to be located in the human body, and yet physical. coming over the brow of a heathy, rocky hillock, and seeing ciccio beyond leaning deep over the plough, in his white shirt-sleeves following the slow, waving, moth-pale oxen across a small track of land turned up in the heathen hollow, her soul would go all faint, she would almost swoon with realization of the world that had gone before. and ciccio was so silent, there seemed so much dumb magic and anguish in him, as if he were for ever afraid of himself and the thing he was. he seemed, in his silence, to _concentrate_ upon her so terribly. she believed she would not live. sometimes she would go gathering acorns, large, fine acorns, a precious crop in that land where the fat pig was almost an object of veneration. silently she would crouch filling the pannier. and far off she would hear the sound of giovanni chopping wood, of ciccio calling to the oxen or pancrazio making noises to the ass, or the sound of a peasant's mattock. over all the constant speech of the passing river, and the real breathing presence of the upper snows. and a wild, terrible happiness would take hold of her, beyond despair, but very like despair. no one would ever find her. she had gone beyond the world into the pre-world, she had reopened on the old eternity. and then maria, the little elvish old wife of giovanni, would come up with the cows. one cow she held by a rope round its horns, and she hauled it from the patches of young corn into the rough grass, from the little plantation of trees in among the heath. maria wore the full-pleated white-sleeved dress of the peasants, and a red kerchief on her head. but her dress was dirty, and her face was dirty, and the big gold rings of her ears hung from ears which perhaps had never been washed. she was rather smoke-dried too, from perpetual wood-smoke. maria in her red kerchief hauling the white cow, and screaming at it, would come laughing towards alvina, who was rather afraid of cows. and then, screaming high in dialect, maria would talk to her. alvina smiled and tried to understand. impossible. it was not strictly a human speech. it was rather like the crying of half-articulate animals. it certainly was not italian. and yet alvina by dint of constant hearing began to pick up the coagulated phrases. she liked maria. she liked them all. they were all very kind to her, as far as they knew. but they did not know. and they were kind with each other. for they all seemed lost, like lost, forlorn aborigines, and they treated alvina as if she were a higher being. they loved her that she would strip maize-cobs or pick acorns. but they were all anxious to serve her. and it seemed as if they needed some one to serve. it seemed as if alvina, the englishwoman, had a certain magic glamour for them, and so long as she was happy, it was a supreme joy and relief to them to have her there. but it seemed to her she would not live. and when she was unhappy! ah, the dreadful days of cold rain mingled with sleet, when the world outside was more than impossible, and the house inside was a horror. the natives kept themselves alive by going about constantly working, dumb and elemental. but what was alvina to do? for the house was unspeakable. the only two habitable rooms were the kitchen and alvina's bedroom: and the kitchen, with its little grated windows high up in the wall, one of which had a broken pane and must keep one-half of its shutters closed, was like a dark cavern vaulted and bitter with wood-smoke. seated on the settle before the fire, the hard, greasy settle, alvina could indeed keep the fire going, with faggots of green oak. but the smoke hurt her chest, she was not clean for one moment, and she could do nothing else. the bedroom again was just impossibly cold. and there was no other place. and from far away came the wild braying of an ass, primeval and desperate in the snow. the house was quite large; but uninhabitable. downstairs, on the left of the wide passage where the ass occasionally stood out of the weather, and where the chickens wandered in search of treasure, was a big, long apartment where pancrazio kept implements and tools and potatoes and pumpkins, and where four or five rabbits hopped unexpectedly out of the shadows. opposite this, on the right, was the cantina, a dark place with wine-barrels and more agricultural stores. this was the whole of the downstairs. going upstairs, half way up, at the turn of the stairs was the opening of a sort of barn, a great wire-netting behind which showed a glow of orange maize-cobs and some wheat. upstairs were four rooms. but alvina's room alone was furnished. pancrazio slept in the unfurnished bedroom opposite, on a pile of old clothes. beyond was a room with litter in it, a chest of drawers, and rubbish of old books and photographs pancrazio had brought from england. there was a battered photograph of lord leighton, among others. the fourth room, approached through the corn-chamber, was always locked. outside was just as hopeless. there had been a little garden within the stone enclosure. but fowls, geese, and the ass had made an end of this. fowl-droppings were everywhere, indoors and out, the ass left his pile of droppings to steam in the winter air on the threshold, while his heartrending bray rent the air. roads there were none: only deep tracks, like profound ruts with rocks in them, in the hollows, and rocky, grooved tracks over the brows. the hollow grooves were full of mud and water, and one struggled slipperily from rock to rock, or along narrow grass-ledges. what was to be done, then, on mornings that were dark with sleet? pancrazio would bring a kettle of hot water at about half-past eight. for had he not travelled europe with english gentlemen, as a sort of model-valet! had he not _loved_ his english gentlemen? even now, he was infinitely happier performing these little attentions for alvina than attending to his wretched domains. ciccio rose early, and went about in the hap-hazard, useless way of italians all day long, getting nothing done. alvina came out of the icy bedroom to the black kitchen. pancrazio would be gallantly heating milk for her, at the end of a long stick. so she would sit on the settle and drink her coffee and milk, into which she dipped her dry bread. then the day was before her. she washed her cup and her enamelled plate, and she tried to clean the kitchen. but pancrazio had on the fire a great black pot, dangling from the chain. he was boiling food for the eternal pig--the only creature for which any cooking was done. ciccio was tramping in with faggots. pancrazio went in and out, back and forth from his pot. alvina stroked her brow and decided on a method. once she was rid of pancrazio, she would wash every cup and plate and utensil in boiling water. well, at last pancrazio went off with his great black pan, and she set to. but there were not six pieces of crockery in the house, and not more than six cooking utensils. these were soon scrubbed. then she scrubbed the two little tables and the shelves. she lined the food-chest with clean paper. she washed the high window-ledges and the narrow mantel-piece, that had large mounds of dusty candle-wax, in deposits. then she tackled the settle. she scrubbed it also. then she looked at the floor. and even she, english housewife as she was, realized the futility of trying to wash it. as well try to wash the earth itself outside. it was just a piece of stone-laid earth. she swept it as well as she could, and made a little order in the faggot-heap in the corner. then she washed the little, high-up windows, to try and let in light. and what was the difference? a dank wet soapy smell, and not much more. maria had kept scuffling admiringly in and out, crying her wonderment and approval. she had most ostentatiously chased out an obtrusive hen, from this temple of cleanliness. and that was all. it was hopeless. the same black walls, the same floor, the same cold from behind, the same green-oak wood-smoke, the same bucket of water from the well--the same come-and-go of aimless busy men, the same cackle of wet hens, the same hopeless nothingness. alvina stood up against it for a time. and then she caught a bad cold, and was wretched. probably it was the wood-smoke. but her chest was raw, she felt weak and miserable. she could not sit in her bedroom, for it was too cold. if she sat in the darkness of the kitchen she was hurt with smoke, and perpetually cold behind her neck. and pancrazio rather resented the amount of faggots consumed for nothing. the only hope would have been in work. but there was nothing in that house to be done. how could she even sew? she was to prepare the mid-day and evening meals. but with no pots, and over a smoking wood fire, what could she prepare? black and greasy, she boiled potatoes and fried meat in lard, in a long-handled frying pan. then pancrazio decreed that maria should prepare macaroni with the tomato sauce, and thick vegetable soup, and sometimes polenta. this coarse, heavy food was wearying beyond words. alvina began to feel she would die, in the awful comfortless meaninglessness of it all. true, sunny days returned and some magic. but she was weak and feverish with her cold, which would not get better. so that even in the sunshine the crude comfortlessness and inferior savagery of the place only repelled her. the others were depressed when she was unhappy. "do you wish you were back in england?" ciccio asked her, with a little sardonic bitterness in his voice. she looked at him without answering. he ducked and went away. "we will make a fire-place in the other bedroom," said pancrazio. no sooner said than done. ciccio persuaded alvina to stay in bed a few days. she was thankful to take refuge. then she heard a rare come-and-go. pancrazio, ciccio, giovanni, maria and a mason all set about the fire-place. up and down stairs they went, maria carrying stone and lime on her head, and swerving in alvina's doorway, with her burden perched aloft, to shout a few unintelligible words. in the intervals of lime-carrying she brought the invalid her soup or her coffee or her hot milk. it turned out quite a good job--a pleasant room with two windows, that would have all the sun in the afternoon, and would see the mountains on one hand, the far-off village perched up on the other. when she was well enough they set off one early monday morning to the market in ossona. they left the house by starlight, but dawn was coming by the time they reached the river. at the high-road, pancrazio harnessed the ass, and after endless delay they jogged off to ossona. the dawning mountains were wonderful, dim-green and mauve and rose, the ground rang with frost. along the roads many peasants were trooping to market, women in their best dresses, some of thick heavy silk with the white, full-sleeved bodices, dresses green, lavender, dark-red, with gay kerchiefs on the head: men muffled in cloaks, treading silently in their pointed skin sandals: asses with loads, carts full of peasants, a belated cow. the market was lovely, there in the crown of the pass, in the old town, on the frosty sunny morning. bulls, cows, sheep, pigs, goats stood and lay about under the bare little trees on the platform high over the valley: some one had kindled a great fire of brush-wood, and men crowded round, out of the blue frost. from laden asses vegetables were unloaded, from little carts all kinds of things, boots, pots, tin-ware, hats, sweet-things, and heaps of corn and beans and seeds. by eight o'clock in the december morning the market was in full swing: a great crowd of handsome mountain people, all peasants, nearly all in costume, with different head-dresses. ciccio and pancrazio and alvina went quietly about. they bought pots and pans and vegetables and sweet-things and thick rush matting and two wooden arm-chairs and one old soft arm-chair, going quietly and bargaining modestly among the crowd, as anglicized italians do. the sun came on to the market at about nine o'clock, and then, from the terrace of the town gate, alvina looked down on the wonderful sight of all the coloured dresses of the peasant women, the black hats of the men, the heaps of goods, the squealing pigs, the pale lovely cattle, the many tethered asses--and she wondered if she would die before she became one with it altogether. it was impossible for her to become one with it altogether. ciccio would have to take her to england again, or to america. he was always hinting at america. but then, italy might enter the war. even here it was the great theme of conversation. she looked down on the seethe of the market. the sun was warm on her. ciccio and pancrazio were bargaining for two cowskin rugs: she saw ciccio standing with his head rather forward. her husband! she felt her heart die away within her. all those other peasant women, did they feel as she did?--the same sort of acquiescent passion, the same lapse of life? she believed they did. the same helpless passion for the man, the same remoteness from the world's actuality? probably, under all their tension of money and money-grubbing and vindictive mountain morality and rather horrible religion, probably they felt the same. she was one with them. but she could never endure it for a life-time. it was only a test on her. ciccio must take her to america, or england--to america preferably. and even as he turned to look for her, she felt a strange thrilling in her bowels: a sort of trill strangely within her, yet extraneous to her. she caught her hand to her flank. and ciccio was looking up for her from the market beneath, searching with that quick, hasty look. he caught sight of her. she seemed to glow with a delicate light for him, there beyond all the women. he came straight towards her, smiling his slow, enigmatic smile. he could not bear it if he lost her. she knew how he loved her--almost inhumanly, elementally, without communication. and she stood with her hand to her side, her face frightened. she hardly noticed him. it seemed to her she was with child. and yet in the whole market-place she was aware of nothing but him. "we have bought the skins," he said. "twenty-seven lire each." she looked at him, his dark skin, his golden eyes--so near to her, so unified with her, yet so incommunicably remote. how far off was his being from hers! "i believe i'm going to have a child," she said. "eh?" he ejaculated quickly. but he had understood. his eyes shone weirdly on her. she felt the strange terror and loveliness of his passion. and she wished she could lie down there by that town gate, in the sun, and swoon for ever unconscious. living was almost too great a demand on her. his yellow, luminous eyes watched her and enveloped her. there was nothing for her but to yield, yield, yield. and yet she could not sink to earth. she saw pancrazio carrying the skins to the little cart, which was tilted up under a small, pale-stemmed tree on the platform above the valley. then she saw him making his way quickly back through the crowd, to rejoin them. "did you feel something?" said ciccio. "yes--here--!" she said, pressing her hand on her side as the sensation trilled once more upon her consciousness. she looked at him with remote, frightened eyes. "that's good--" he said, his eyes full of a triumphant, incommunicable meaning. "well!--and now," said pancrazio, coming up, "shall we go and eat something?" they jogged home in the little flat cart in the wintry afternoon. it was almost night before they had got the ass untackled from the shafts, at the wild lonely house where pancrazio left the cart. giovanni was there with the lantern. ciccio went on ahead with alvina, whilst the others stood to load up the ass by the high-way. ciccio watched alvina carefully. when they were over the river, and among the dark scrub, he took her in his arms and kissed her with long, terrible passion. she saw the snow-ridges flare with evening, beyond his cheek. they had glowed dawn as she crossed the river outwards, they were white-fiery now in the dusk sky as she returned. what strange valley of shadow was she threading? what was the terrible man's passion that haunted her like a dark angel? why was she so much beyond herself? chapter xvi suspense christmas was at hand. there was a heap of maize cobs still unstripped. alvina sat with ciccio stripping them, in the corn-place. "will you be able to stop here till the baby is born?" he asked her. she watched the films of the leaves come off from the burning gold maize cob under his fingers, the long, ruddy cone of fruition. the heap of maize on one side burned like hot sunshine, she felt it really gave off warmth, it glowed, it burned. on the other side the filmy, crackly, sere sheaths were also faintly sunny. again and again the long, red-gold, full ear of corn came clear in his hands, and was put gently aside. he looked up at her, with his yellow eyes. "yes, i think so," she said. "will you?" "yes, if they let me. i should like it to be born here." "would you like to bring up a child here?" she asked. "you wouldn't be happy here, so long," he said, sadly. "would you?" he slowly shook his head: indefinite. she was settling down. she had her room upstairs, her cups and plates and spoons, her own things. pancrazio had gone back to his old habit, he went across and ate with giovanni and maria, ciccio and alvina had their meals in their pleasant room upstairs. they were happy alone. only sometimes the terrible influence of the place preyed on her. however, she had a clean room of her own, where she could sew and read. she had written to the matron and mrs. tuke, and mrs. tuke had sent books. also she helped ciccio when she could, and maria was teaching her to spin the white sheep's wool into coarse thread. this morning pancrazio and giovanni had gone off somewhere, alvina and ciccio were alone on the place, stripping the last maize. suddenly, in the grey morning air, a wild music burst out: the drone of a bagpipe, and a man's high voice half singing, half yelling a brief verse, at the end of which a wild flourish on some other reedy wood instrument. alvina sat still in surprise. it was a strange, high, rapid, yelling music, the very voice of the mountains. beautiful, in our musical sense of the word, it was not. but oh, the magic, the nostalgia of the untamed, heathen past which it evoked. "it is for christmas," said ciccio. "they will come every day now." alvina rose and went round to the little balcony. two men stood below, amid the crumbling of finely falling snow. one, the elder, had a bagpipe whose bag was patched with shirting: the younger was dressed in greenish clothes, he had his face lifted, and was yelling the verses of the unintelligible christmas ballad: short, rapid verses, followed by a brilliant flourish on a short wooden pipe he held ready in his hand. alvina felt he was going to be out of breath. but no, rapid and high came the next verse, verse after verse, with the wild scream on the little new pipe in between, over the roar of the bagpipe. and the crumbs of snow were like a speckled veil, faintly drifting the atmosphere and powdering the littered threshold where they stood--a threshold littered with faggots, leaves, straw, fowls and geese and ass droppings, and rag thrown out from the house, and pieces of paper. the carol suddenly ended, the young man snatched off his hat to alvina who stood above, and in the same breath he was gone, followed by the bagpipe. alvina saw them dropping hurriedly down the incline between the twiggy wild oaks. "they will come every day now, till christmas," said ciccio. "they go to every house." and sure enough, when alvina went down, in the cold, silent house, and out to the well in the still crumbling snow, she heard the sound far off, strange, yelling, wonderful: and the same ache for she knew not what overcame her, so that she felt one might go mad, there in the veiled silence of these mountains, in the great hilly valley cut off from the world. ciccio worked all day on the land or round about. he was building a little earth closet also: the obvious and unscreened place outside was impossible. it was curious how little he went to pescocalascio, how little he mixed with the natives. he seemed always to withhold something from them. only with his relatives, of whom he had many, he was more free, in a kind of family intimacy. yet even here he was guarded. his uncle at the mill, an unwashed, fat man with a wife who tinkled with gold and grime, and who shouted a few lost words of american, insisted on giving alvina wine and a sort of cake made with cheese and rice. ciccio too was feasted, in the dark hole of a room. and the two natives seemed to press their cheer on alvina and ciccio whole-heartedly. "how nice they are!" said alvina when she had left. "they give so freely." but ciccio smiled a wry smile, silent. "why do you make a face?" she said. "it's because you are a foreigner, and they think you will go away again," he said. "but i should have thought that would make them less generous," she said. "no. they like to give to foreigners. they don't like to give to the people here. giocomo puts water in the wine which he sells to the people who go by. and if i leave the donkey in her shed, i give marta maria something, or the next time she won't let me have it. ha, they are--they are sly ones, the people here." "they are like that everywhere," said alvina. "yes. but nowhere they say so many bad things about people as here--nowhere where i have ever been." it was strange to alvina to feel the deep-bed-rock distrust which all the hill-peasants seemed to have of one another. they were watchful, venomous, dangerous. "ah," said pancrazio, "i am glad there is a woman in my house once more." "but did _nobody_ come in and do for you before?" asked alvina. "why didn't you pay somebody?" "nobody will come," said pancrazio, in his slow, aristocratic english. "nobody will come, because i am a man, and if somebody should see her at my house, they will all talk." "talk!" alvina looked at the deeply-lined man of sixty-six, "but what will they say?" "many bad things. many bad things indeed. they are not good people here. all saying bad things, and all jealous. they don't like me because i have a house--they think i am too much a _signore_. they say to me 'why do you think you are a signore?' oh, they are bad people, envious, you cannot have anything to do with them." "they are nice to me," said alvina. "they think you will go away. but if you stay, they will say bad things. you must wait. oh, they are evil people, evil against one another, against everybody but strangers who don't know them--" alvina felt the curious passion in pancrazio's voice, the passion of a man who has lived for many years in england and known the social confidence of england, and who, coming back, is deeply injured by the ancient malevolence of the remote, somewhat gloomy hill-peasantry. she understood also why he was so glad to have her in his house, so proud, why he loved serving her. she seemed to see a fairness, a luminousness in the northern soul, something free, touched with divinity such as "these people here" lacked entirely. when she went to ossona with him, she knew everybody questioned him about her and ciccio. she began to get the drift of the questions--which pancrazio answered with reserve. "and how long are they staying?" this was an invariable, envious question. and invariably pancrazio answered with a reserved-- "some months. as long as _they_ like." and alvina could feel waves of black envy go out against pancrazio, because she was domiciled with him, and because she sat with him in the flat cart, driving to ossona. yet pancrazio himself was a study. he was thin, and very shabby, and rather out of shape. only in his yellow eyes lurked a strange sardonic fire, and a leer which puzzled her. when ciccio happened to be out in the evening he would sit with her and tell her stories of lord leighton and millais and alma tadema and other academicians dead and living. there would sometimes be a strange passivity on his worn face, an impassive, almost red indian look. and then again he would stir into a curious, arch, malevolent laugh, for all the world like a debauched old tom-cat. his narration was like this: either simple, bare, stoical, with a touch of nobility; or else satiric, malicious, with a strange, rather repellent jeering. "leighton--he wasn't lord leighton then--he wouldn't have me to sit for him, because my figure was too poor, he didn't like it. he liked fair young men, with plenty of flesh. but once, when he was doing a picture--i don't know if you know it? it is a crucifixion, with a man on a cross, and--" he described the picture. "no! well, the model had to be tied hanging on to a wooden cross. and it made you suffer! ah!" here the odd, arch, diabolic yellow flare lit up through the stoicism of pancrazio's eyes. "because leighton, he was cruel to his model. he wouldn't let you rest. 'damn you, you've got to keep still till i've finished with you, you devil,' so he said. well, for this man on the cross, he couldn't get a model who would do it for him. they all tried it once, but they would not go again. so they said to him, he must try califano, because califano was the only man who would stand it. at last then he sent for me. 'i don't like your damned figure, califano,' he said to me, 'but nobody will do this if you won't. now will you do it? 'yes!' i said, 'i will.' so he tied me up on the cross. and he paid me well, so i stood it. well, he kept me tied up, hanging you know forwards naked on this cross, for four hours. and then it was luncheon. and after luncheon he would tie me again. well, i suffered. i suffered so much, that i must lean against the wall to support me to walk home. and in the night i could not sleep, i could cry with the pains in my arms and my ribs, i had no sleep. 'you've said you'd do it, so now you must,' he said to me. 'and i will do it,' i said. and so he tied me up. this cross, you know, was on a little raised place--i don't know what you call it--" "a platform," suggested alvina. "a platform. now one day when he came to do something to me, when i was tied up, he slipped back over this platform, and he pulled me, who was tied on the cross, with him. so we all fell down, he with the naked man on top of him, and the heavy cross on top of us both. i could not move, because i was tied. and it was so, with me on top of him, and the heavy cross, that he could not get out. so he had to lie shouting underneath me until some one came to the studio to untie me. no, we were not hurt, because the top of the cross fell so that it did not crush us. 'now you have had a taste of the cross,' i said to him. 'yes, you devil, but i shan't let you off,' he said to me. "to make the time go he would ask me questions. once he said, 'now, califano, what time is it? i give you three guesses, and if you guess right once i give you sixpence.' so i guessed three o'clock. 'that's one. now then, what time is it? 'again, three o'clock. 'that's two guesses gone, you silly devil. now then, what time is it? 'so now i was obstinate, and i said _three o'clock_. he took out his watch. 'why damn you, how did you know? i give you a shilling--' it was three o'clock, as i said, so he gave me a shilling instead of sixpence as he had said--" it was strange, in the silent winter afternoon, downstairs in the black kitchen, to sit drinking a cup of tea with pancrazio and hearing these stories of english painters. it was strange to look at the battered figure of pancrazio, and think how much he had been crucified through the long years in london, for the sake of late victorian art. it was strangest of all to see through his yellow, often dull, red-rimmed eyes these blithe and well-conditioned painters. pancrazio looked on them admiringly and contemptuously, as an old, rakish tom-cat might look on such frivolous well-groomed young gentlemen. as a matter of fact pancrazio had never been rakish or debauched, but mountain-moral, timid. so that the queer, half-sinister drop of his eyelids was curious, and the strange, wicked yellow flare that came into his eyes was almost frightening. there was in the man a sort of sulphur-yellow flame of passion which would light up in his battered body and give him an almost diabolic look. alvina felt that if she were left much alone with him she would need all her english ascendancy not to be afraid of him. it was a sunday morning just before christmas when alvina and ciccio and pancrazio set off for pescocalascio for the first time. snow had fallen--not much round the house, but deep between the banks as they climbed. and the sun was very bright. so that the mountains were dazzling. the snow was wet on the roads. they wound between oak-trees and under the broom-scrub, climbing over the jumbled hills that lay between the mountains, until the village came near. they got on to a broader track, where the path from a distant village joined theirs. they were all talking, in the bright clear air of the morning. a little man came down an upper path. as he joined them near the village he hailed them in english: "good morning. nice morning." "does everybody speak english here?" asked alvina. "i have been eighteen years in glasgow. i am only here for a trip." he was a little italian shop-keeper from glasgow. he was most friendly, insisted on paying for drinks, and coffee and almond biscuits for alvina. evidently he also was grateful to britain. the village was wonderful. it occupied the crown of an eminence in the midst of the wide valley. from the terrace of the high-road the valley spread below, with all its jumble of hills, and two rivers, set in the walls of the mountains, a wide space, but imprisoned. it glistened with snow under the blue sky. but the lowest hollows were brown. in the distance, ossona hung at the edge of a platform. many villages clung like pale swarms of birds to the far slopes, or perched on the hills beneath. it was a world within a world, a valley of many hills and townlets and streams shut in beyond access. pescocalascio itself was crowded. the roads were sloppy with snow. but none the less, peasants in full dress, their feet soaked in the skin sandals, were trooping in the sun, purchasing, selling, bargaining for cloth, talking all the time. in the shop, which was also a sort of inn, an ancient woman was making coffee over a charcoal brazier, while a crowd of peasants sat at the tables at the back, eating the food they had brought. post was due at mid-day. ciccio went to fetch it, whilst pancrazio took alvina to the summit, to the castle. there, in the level region, boys were snowballing and shouting. the ancient castle, badly cracked by the last earthquake, looked wonderfully down on the valley of many hills beneath, califano a speck down the left, ossona a blot to the right, suspended, its towers and its castle clear in the light. behind the castle of pescocalascio was a deep, steep valley, almost a gorge, at the bottom of which a river ran, and where pancrazio pointed out the electricity works of the village, deep in the gloom. above this gorge, at the end, rose the long slopes of the mountains, up to the vivid snow--and across again was the wall of the abruzzi. they went down, past the ruined houses broken by the earthquake. ciccio still had not come with the post. a crowd surged at the post-office door, in a steep, black, wet side-street. alvina's feet were sodden. pancrazio took her to the place where she could drink coffee and a strega, to make her warm. on the platform of the high-way, above the valley, people were parading in the hot sun. alvina noticed some ultra-smart young men. they came up to pancrazio, speaking english. alvina hated their cockney accent and florid showy vulgar presence. they were more models. pancrazio was cool with them. alvina sat apart from the crowd of peasants, on a chair the old crone had ostentatiously dusted for her. pancrazio ordered beer for himself. ciccio came with letters--long-delayed letters, that had been censored. alvina's heart went down. the first she opened was from miss pinnegar--all war and fear and anxiety. the second was a letter, a real insulting letter from dr. mitchell. "i little thought, at the time when i was hoping to make you my wife, that you were carrying on with a dirty italian organ-grinder. so your fair-seeming face covered the schemes and vice of your true nature. well, i can only thank providence which spared me the disgust and shame of marrying you, and i hope that, when i meet you on the streets of leicester square, i shall have forgiven you sufficiently to be able to throw you a coin--" here was a pretty little epistle! in spite of herself, she went pale and trembled. she glanced at ciccio. fortunately he was turning round talking to another man. she rose and went to the ruddy brazier, as if to warm her hands. she threw on the screwed-up letter. the old crone said something unintelligible to her. she watched the letter catch fire--glanced at the peasants at the table--and out at the wide, wild valley. the world beyond could not help, but it still had the power to injure one here. she felt she had received a bitter blow. a black hatred for the mitchells of this world filled her. she could hardly bear to open the third letter. it was from mrs. tuke, and again, all war. would italy join the allies? she ought to, her every interest lay that way. could alvina bear to be so far off, when such terrible events were happening near home? could she possibly be happy? nurses were so valuable now. she, mrs. tuke, had volunteered. she would do whatever she could. she had had to leave off nursing jenifer, who had an _excellent_ scotch nurse, much better than a mother. well, alvina and mrs. tuke might yet meet in some hospital in france. so the letter ended. alvina sat down, pale and trembling. pancrazio was watching her curiously. "have you bad news?" he asked. "only the war." "ha!" and the italian gesture of half-bitter "what can one do?" they were talking war--all talking war. the dandy young models had left england because of the war, expecting italy to come in. and everybody talked, talked, talked. alvina looked round her. it all seemed alien to her, bruising upon the spirit. "do you think i shall ever be able to come here alone and do my shopping by myself?" she asked. "you must never come alone," said pancrazio, in his curious, benevolent courtesy. "either ciccio or i will come with you. you must never come so far alone." "why not?" she said. "you are a stranger here. you are not a contadina--" alvina could feel the oriental idea of women, which still leaves its mark on the mediterranean, threatening her with surveillance and subjection. she sat in her chair, with cold wet feet, looking at the sunshine outside, the wet snow, the moving figures in the strong light, the men drinking at the counter, the cluster of peasant women bargaining for dress-material. ciccio was still turning talking in the rapid way to his neighbour. she knew it was war. she noticed the movement of his finely-modelled cheek, a little sallow this morning. and she rose hastily. "i want to go into the sun," she said. when she stood above the valley in the strong, tiring light, she glanced round. ciccio inside the shop had risen, but he was still turning to his neighbour and was talking with all his hands and all his body. he did not talk with his mind and lips alone. his whole physique, his whole living body spoke and uttered and emphasized itself. a certain weariness possessed her. she was beginning to realize something about him: how he had no sense of home and domestic life, as an englishman has. ciccio's home would never be his castle. his castle was the piazza of pescocalascio. his home was nothing to him but a possession, and a hole to sleep in. he didn't _live_ in it. he lived in the open air, and in the community. when the true italian came out in him, his veriest home was the piazza of pescocalascio, the little sort of market-place where the roads met in the village, under the castle, and where the men stood in groups and talked, talked, talked. this was where ciccio belonged: his active, mindful self. his active, mindful self was none of hers. she only had his passive self, and his family passion. his masculine mind and intelligence had its home in the little public square of his village. she knew this as she watched him now, with all his body talking politics. he could not break off till he had finished. and then, with a swift, intimate handshake to the group with whom he had been engaged, he came away, putting all his interest off from himself. she tried to make him talk and discuss with her. but he wouldn't. an obstinate spirit made him darkly refuse masculine conversation with her. "if italy goes to war, you will have to join up?" she asked him. "yes," he said, with a smile at the futility of the question. "and i shall have to stay here?" he nodded, rather gloomily. "do you want to go?" she persisted. "no, i don't want to go." "but you think italy ought to join in?" "yes, i do." "then you _do_ want to go--" "i want to go if italy goes in--and she ought to go in--" curious, he was somewhat afraid of her, he half venerated her, and half despised her. when she tried to make him discuss, in the masculine way, he shut obstinately against her, something like a child, and the slow, fine smile of dislike came on his face. instinctively he shut off all masculine communication from her, particularly politics and religion. he would discuss both, violently, with other men. in politics he was something of a socialist, in religion a freethinker. but all this had nothing to do with alvina. he would not enter on a discussion in english. somewhere in her soul, she knew the finality of his refusal to hold discussion with a woman. so, though at times her heart hardened with indignant anger, she let herself remain outside. the more so, as she felt that in matters intellectual he was rather stupid. let him go to the piazza or to the wine-shop, and talk. to do him justice, he went little. pescocalascio was only half his own village. the nostalgia, the campanilismo from which italians suffer, the craving to be in sight of the native church-tower, to stand and talk in the native market place or piazza, this was only half formed in ciccio, taken away as he had been from pescocalascio when so small a boy. he spent most of his time working in the fields and woods, most of his evenings at home, often weaving a special kind of fishnet or net-basket from fine, frail strips of cane. it was a work he had learned at naples long ago. alvina meanwhile would sew for the child, or spin wool. she became quite clever at drawing the strands of wool from her distaff, rolling them fine and even between her fingers, and keeping her bobbin rapidly spinning away below, dangling at the end of the thread. to tell the truth, she was happy in the quietness with ciccio, now they had their own pleasant room. she loved his presence. she loved the quality of his silence, so rich and physical. she felt he was never very far away: that he was a good deal a stranger in califano, as she was: that he clung to her presence as she to his. then pancrazio also contrived to serve her and shelter her, he too, loved her for being there. they both revered her because she was with child. so that she lived more and more in a little, isolate, illusory, wonderful world then, content, moreover, because the living cost so little. she had sixty pounds of her own money, always intact in the little case. and after all, the high-way beyond the river led to ossona, and ossona gave access to the railway, and the railway would take her anywhere. so the month of january passed, with its short days and its bits of snow and bursts of sunshine. on sunny days alvina walked down to the desolate river-bed, which fascinated her. when pancrazio was carrying up stone or lime on the ass, she accompanied him. and pancrazio was always carrying up something, for he loved the extraneous jobs like building a fire-place much more than the heavy work of the land. then she would find little tufts of wild narcissus among the rocks, gold-centred pale little things, many on one stem. and their scent was powerful and magical, like the sound of the men who came all those days and sang before christmas. she loved them. there was green hellebore too, a fascinating plant--and one or two little treasures, the last of the rose-coloured alpine cyclamens, near the earth, with snake-skin leaves, and so rose, so rose, like violets for shadowiness. she sat and cried over the first she found: heaven knows why. in february, as the days opened, the first almond trees flowered among grey olives, in warm, level corners between the hills. but it was march before the real flowering began. and then she had continual bowl-fuls of white and blue violets, she had sprays of almond blossom, silver-warm and lustrous, then sprays of peach and apricot, pink and fluttering. it was a great joy to wander looking for flowers. she came upon a bankside all wide with lavender crocuses. the sun was on them for the moment, and they were opened flat, great five-pointed, seven-pointed lilac stars, with burning centres, burning with a strange lavender flame, as she had seen some metal burn lilac-flamed in the laboratory of the hospital at islington. all down the oak-dry bankside they burned their great exposed stars. and she felt like going down on her knees and bending her forehead to the earth in an oriental submission, they were so royal, so lovely, so supreme. she came again to them in the morning, when the sky was grey, and they were closed, sharp clubs, wonderfully fragile on their stems of sap, among leaves and old grass and wild periwinkle. they had wonderful dark stripes running up their cheeks, the crocuses, like the clear proud stripes on a badger's face, or on some proud cat. she took a handful of the sappy, shut, striped flames. in her room they opened into a grand bowl of lilac fire. march was a lovely month. the men were busy in the hills. she wandered, extending her range. sometimes with a strange fear. but it was a fear of the elements rather than of man. one day she went along the high-road with her letters, towards the village of casa latina. the high-road was depressing, wherever there were houses. for the houses had that sordid, ramshackle, slummy look almost invariable on an italian high-road. they were patched with a hideous, greenish mould-colour, blotched, as if with leprosy. it frightened her, till pancrazio told her it was only the copper sulphate that had sprayed the vines hitched on to the walls. but none the less the houses were sordid, unkempt, slummy. one house by itself could make a complete slum. casa latina was across the valley, in the shadow. approaching it were rows of low cabins--fairly new. they were the one-storey dwellings commanded after the earthquake. and hideous they were. the village itself was old, dark, in perpetual shadow of the mountain. streams of cold water ran round it. the piazza was gloomy, forsaken. but there was a great, twin-towered church, wonderful from outside. she went inside, and was almost sick with repulsion. the place was large, whitewashed, and crowded with figures in glass cases and ex voto offerings. the lousy-looking, dressed-up dolls, life size and tinselly, that stood in the glass cases; the blood-streaked jesus on the crucifix; the mouldering, mumbling, filthy peasant women on their knees; all the sense of trashy, repulsive, degraded fetish-worship was too much for her. she hurried out, shrinking from the contamination of the dirty leather door-curtain. enough of casa latina. she would never go _there_ again. she was beginning to feel that, if she lived in this part of the world at all, she must avoid the _inside_ of it. she must never, if she could help it, enter into any interior but her own--neither into house nor church nor even shop or post-office, if she could help it. the moment she went through a door the sense of dark repulsiveness came over her. if she was to save her sanity she must keep to the open air, and avoid any contact with human interiors. when she thought of the insides of the native people she shuddered with repulsion, as in the great, degraded church of casa latina. they were horrible. yet the outside world was so fair. corn and maize were growing green and silken, vines were in the small bud. everywhere little grape hyacinths hung their blue bells. it was a pity they reminded her of the many-breasted artemis, a picture of whom, or of whose statue, she had seen somewhere. artemis with her clusters of breasts was horrible to her, now she had come south: nauseating beyond words. and the milky grape hyacinths reminded her. she turned with thankfulness to the magenta anemones that were so gay. some one told her that wherever venus had shed a tear for adonis, one of these flowers had sprung. they were not tear-like. and yet their red-purple silkiness had something pre-world about it, at last. the more she wandered, the more the shadow of the by-gone pagan world seemed to come over her. sometimes she felt she would shriek and go mad, so strong was the influence on her, something pre-world and, it seemed to her now, vindictive. she seemed to feel in the air strange furies, lemures, things that had haunted her with their tomb-frenzied vindictiveness since she was a child and had pored over the illustrated classical dictionary. black and cruel presences were in the under-air. they were furtive and slinking. they bewitched you with loveliness, and lurked with fangs to hurt you afterwards. there it was: the fangs sheathed in beauty: the beauty first, and then, horribly, inevitably, the fangs. being a great deal alone, in the strange place, fancies possessed her, people took on strange shapes. even ciccio and pancrazio. and it came that she never wandered far from the house, from her room, after the first months. she seemed to hide herself in her room. there she sewed and spun wool and read, and learnt italian. her men were not at all anxious to teach her italian. indeed her chief teacher, at first, was a young fellow called bussolo. he was a model from london, and he came down to califano sometimes, hanging about, anxious to speak english. alvina did not care for him. he was a dandy with pale grey eyes and a heavy figure. yet he had a certain penetrating intelligence. "no, this country is a country for old men. it is only for old men," he said, talking of pescocalascio. "you won't stop here. nobody young can stop here." the odd plangent certitude in his voice penetrated her. and all the young people said the same thing. they were all waiting to go away. but for the moment the war held them up. ciccio and pancrazio were busy with the vines. as she watched them hoeing, crouching, tying, tending, grafting, mindless and utterly absorbed, hour after hour, day after day, thinking vines, living vines, she wondered they didn't begin to sprout vine-buds and vine stems from their own elbows and neck-joints. there was something to her unnatural in the quality of the attention the men gave to the wine. it was a sort of worship, almost a degradation again. and heaven knows, pancrazio's wine was poor enough, his grapes almost invariably bruised with hail-stones, and half-rotten instead of ripe. the loveliness of april came, with hot sunshine. astonishing the ferocity of the sun, when he really took upon himself to blaze. alvina was amazed. the burning day quite carried her away. she loved it: it made her quite careless about everything, she was just swept along in the powerful flood of the sunshine. in the end, she felt that intense sunlight had on her the effect of night: a sort of darkness, and a suspension of life. she had to hide in her room till the cold wind blew again. meanwhile the declaration of war drew nearer, and became inevitable. she knew ciccio would go. and with him went the chance of her escape. she steeled herself to bear the agony of the knowledge that he would go, and she would be left alone in this place, which sometimes she hated with a hatred unspeakable. after a spell of hot, intensely dry weather she felt she would die in this valley, wither and go to powder as some exposed april roses withered and dried into dust against a hot wall. then the cool wind came in a storm, the next day there was grey sky and soft air. the rose-coloured wild gladioli among the young green corn were a dream of beauty, the morning of the world. the lovely, pristine morning of the world, before our epoch began. rose-red gladioli among corn, in among the rocks, and small irises, black-purple and yellow blotched with brown, like a wasp, standing low in little desert places, that would seem forlorn but for this weird, dark-lustrous magnificence. then there were the tiny irises, only one finger tall, growing in dry places, frail as crocuses, and much tinier, and blue, blue as the eye of the morning heaven, which was a morning earlier, more pristine than ours. the lovely translucent pale irises, tiny and morning-blue, they lasted only a few hours. but nothing could be more exquisite, like gods on earth. it was the flowers that brought back to alvina the passionate nostalgia for the place. the human influence was a bit horrible to her. but the flowers that came out and uttered the earth in magical expression, they cast a spell on her, bewitched her and stole her own soul away from her. she went down to ciccio where he was weeding armfuls of rose-red gladioli from the half-grown wheat, and cutting the lushness of the first weedy herbage. he threw down his sheaves of gladioli, and with his sickle began to cut the forest of bright yellow corn-marigolds. he looked intent, he seemed to work feverishly. "must they all be cut?" she said, as she went to him. he threw aside the great armful of yellow flowers, took off his cap, and wiped the sweat from his brow. the sickle dangled loose in his hand. "we have declared war," he said. in an instant she realized that she had seen the figure of the old post-carrier dodging between the rocks. rose-red and gold-yellow of the flowers swam in her eyes. ciccio's dusk-yellow eyes were watching her. she sank on her knees on a sheaf of corn-marigolds. her eyes, watching him, were vulnerable as if stricken to death. indeed she felt she would die. "you will have to go?" she said. "yes, we shall all have to go." there seemed a certain sound of triumph in his voice. cruel! she sank lower on the flowers, and her head dropped. but she would not be beaten. she lifted her face. "if you are very long," she said, "i shall go to england. i can't stay here very long without you." "you will have pancrazio--and the child," he said. "yes. but i shall still be myself. i can't stay here very long without you. i shall go to england." he watched her narrowly. "i don't think they'll let you," he said. "yes they will." at moments she hated him. he seemed to want to crush her altogether. she was always making little plans in her mind--how she could get out of that great cruel valley and escape to rome, to english people. she would find the english consul and he would help her. she would do anything rather than be really crushed. she knew how easy it would be, once her spirit broke, for her to die and be buried in the cemetery at pescocalascio. and they would all be so sentimental about her--just as pancrazio was. she felt that in some way pancrazio had killed his wife--not consciously, but unconsciously, as ciccio might kill _her_. pancrazio would tell alvina about his wife and her ailments. and he seemed always anxious to prove that he had been so good to her. no doubt he had been good to her, also. but there was something underneath--malevolent in his spirit, some caged-in sort of cruelty, malignant beyond his control. it crept out in his stories. and it revealed itself in his fear of his dead wife. alvina knew that in the night the elderly man was afraid of his dead wife, and of her ghost or her avenging spirit. he would huddle over the fire in fear. in the same way the cemetery had a fascination of horror for him--as, she noticed, for most of the natives. it was an ugly, square place, all stone slabs and wall-cupboards, enclosed in four-square stone walls, and lying away beneath pescocalascio village obvious as if it were on a plate. "that is our cemetery," pancrazio said, pointing it out to her, "where we shall all be carried some day." and there was fear, horror in his voice. he told her how the men had carried his wife there--a long journey over the hill-tracks, almost two hours. these were days of waiting--horrible days of waiting for ciccio to be called up. one batch of young men left the village--and there was a lugubrious sort of saturnalia, men and women alike got rather drunk, the young men left amid howls of lamentation and shrieks of distress. crowds accompanied them to ossona, whence they were marched towards the railway. it was a horrible event. a shiver of horror and death went through the valley. in a lugubrious way, they seemed to enjoy it. "you'll never be satisfied till you've gone," she said to ciccio. "why don't they be quick and call you?" "it will be next week," he said, looking at her darkly. in the twilight he came to her, when she could hardly see him. "are you sorry you came here with me, allaye?" he asked. there was malice in the very question. she put down the spoon and looked up from the fire. he stood shadowy, his head ducked forward, the firelight faint on his enigmatic, timeless, half-smiling face. "i'm not sorry," she answered slowly, using all her courage. "because i love you--" she crouched quite still on the hearth. he turned aside his face. after a moment or two he went out. she stirred her pot slowly and sadly. she had to go downstairs for something. and there on the landing she saw him standing in the darkness with his arm over his face, as if fending a blow. "what is it?" she said, laying her hand on him. he uncovered his face. "i would take you away if i could," he said. "i can wait for you," she answered. he threw himself in a chair that stood at a table there on the broad landing, and buried his head in his arms. "don't wait for me! don't wait for me!" he cried, his voice muffled. "why not?" she said, filled with terror. he made no sign. "why not?" she insisted. and she laid her fingers on his head. he got up and turned to her. "i love you, even if it kills me," she said. but he only turned aside again, leaned his arm against the wall, and hid his face, utterly noiseless. "what is it?" she said. "what is it? i don't understand." he wiped his sleeve across his face, and turned to her. "i haven't any hope," he said, in a dull, dogged voice. she felt her heart and the child die within her. "why?" she said. was she to bear a hopeless child? "you _have_ hope. don't make a scene," she snapped. and she went downstairs, as she had intended. and when she got into the kitchen, she forgot what she had come for. she sat in the darkness on the seat, with all life gone dark and still, death and eternity settled down on her. death and eternity were settled down on her as she sat alone. and she seemed to hear him moaning upstairs--"i can't come back. i can't come back." she heard it. she heard it so distinctly, that she never knew whether it had been an actual utterance, or whether it was her inner ear which had heard the inner, unutterable sound. she wanted to answer, to call to him. but she could not. heavy, mute, powerless, there she sat like a lump of darkness, in that doomed italian kitchen. "i can't come back." she heard it so fatally. she was interrupted by the entrance of pancrazio. "oh!" he cried, startled when, having come near the fire, he caught sight of her. and he said something, frightened, in italian. "is it you? why are you in the darkness?" he said. "i am just going upstairs again." "you frightened me." she went up to finish the preparing of the meal. ciccio came down to pancrazio. the latter had brought a newspaper. the two men sat on the settle, with the lamp between them, reading and talking the news. ciccio's group was called up for the following week, as he had said. the departure hung over them like a doom. those were perhaps the worst days of all: the days of the impending departure. neither of them spoke about it. but the night before he left she could bear the silence no more. "you will come back, won't you?" she said, as he sat motionless in his chair in the bedroom. it was a hot, luminous night. there was still a late scent of orange blossom from the garden, the nightingale was shaking the air with his sound. at times other, honey scents wafted from the hills. "you will come back?" she insisted. "who knows?" he replied. "if you make up your mind to come back, you will come back. we have our fate in our hands," she said. he smiled slowly. "you think so?" he said. "i know it. if you don't come back it will be because you don't want to--no other reason. it won't be because you can't. it will be because you don't want to." "who told you so?" he asked, with the same cruel smile. "i know it," she said. "all right," he answered. but he still sat with his hands abandoned between his knees. "so make up your mind," she said. he sat motionless for a long while: while she undressed and brushed her hair and went to bed. and still he sat there unmoving, like a corpse. it was like having some unnatural, doomed, unbearable presence in the room. she blew out the light, that she need not see him. but in the darkness it was worse. at last he stirred--he rose. he came hesitating across to her. "i'll come back, allaye," he said quietly. "be damned to them all." she heard unspeakable pain in his voice. "to whom?" she said, sitting up. he did not answer, but put his arms round her. "i'll come back, and we'll go to america," he said. "you'll come back to me," she whispered, in an ecstasy of pain and relief. it was not her affair, where they should go, so long as he really returned to her. "i'll come back," he said. "sure?" she whispered, straining him to her. joe strong the boy fire-eater or _the most dangerous performance on record_ by vance barnum author of "joe strong, the boy wizard," "joe strong and his wings of steel," "joe strong and his box of mystery," etc. joe strong, the boy fire-eater chapter i the vanishing lady "ladies and gentlemen, if you will kindly give me your attention for a few moments i will be happy to introduce to your favorable notice an entertainer of world-wide fame who will, i am sure, not only mystify you but, at the same time, interest you. you have witnessed the death-defying dives of the demon discobolus; you have laughed with the comical clowns; you have thrilled with the hurrying horses; and you have gasped at the ponderous pachyderms. now you are to be shown a trick which has baffled the most profound minds of this or any other city--aye, i may say, of the world!" jim tracy, ringmaster and, in this instance, stage manager of sampson brothers' circus, paused in his announcement and with a wave of his hand indicated a youth attired in a spotless, tight-fitting suit of white silk. the youth, who stood in the center of a stage erected in the big tent, bowed as the manager waited to allow time for the applause to die away. "you have all seen ordinary magicians at work making eggs disappear up their sleeves," went on the stage manager. "you have, i doubt not, witnessed some of them producing live rabbits from silk hats. but professor joe strong, who will shortly have the pleasure of entertaining you, not only makes eggs disappear, but what is far more difficult, he causes a lady to vanish into thin air. "you will see a beautiful lady seated in full view of you. a moment later, by the practice of his magical art, professor strong will cause the same lady to disappear utterly, and he will defy any of you to tell how it is done. now, professor, if you are ready--" and with a nod and a wave of his hand toward the youth in the white silk tights, jim tracy stepped off the elevated stage and hurried to the other end of the circus tent where he had to see to it that another feature of the entertainment was in readiness. "oh, joe, i'm actually nervous! do you think i can do it all right?" asked a pretty girl, attired in a dress of black silk, which was in striking contrast to joe strong's white, sheeny costume. "do it, helen? of course you can!" exclaimed the "magician," as he had been termed by the ringmaster. "do just as you did in the rehearsals and you'll be all right." "but suppose something should go wrong?" she asked in a low voice. "don't be in the least excited. i'll get you out of any predicament you may get into. tricks do, sometimes, go wrong, but i'm used to that. i'll cover it up, somehow. however, i don't anticipate anything going wrong. now take your place while i give them a little patter." this talk had taken place in low voices and with a rapidity which did not keep the expectant audience waiting. joe strong, while he was reassuring helen morton, his partner in the trick and also the girl to whom he was engaged to be married, was rapidly getting the stage ready for the illusion. "ladies and gentlemen," said joe, as he advanced to the edge of the stage, "i am afraid our genial manager has rather overstated my powers. what i am about to do, to be perfectly frank with you, is a trick. i lay no claim to supernatural powers. but if i can do a trick and you can't tell how it is done, then you must admit that, for the moment, i am smarter than you. in other words, i am going to deceive you. but the point is--how do i do it? with this introduction, i will now state what i am about to do. "mademoiselle mortonti will seat herself on a stage in a chair in full view of you all. i will cover her, for a moment only, with a silken veil. this, if i were a real necromancer, i should say was to prevent your seeing her dissolve into a spirit as she disappears. but to tell you the truth, it is to conceal the manner in which i do the trick. you'd guess that, anyhow, if i didn't tell you," he added. there was a good-natured laugh at this admission. "as soon as i remove the silken veil," went on joe, "you will see that the lady will have disappeared before your very eyes. what's that? through a hole in the stage did some one say?" questioned joe, appearing to catch a protesting voice. "well, that's what i hear everywhere i go," he went on with easy calmness. "every time i do the vanishing lady trick some one thinks she disappears through a hole in the stage. now, in order to convince you to the contrary, i am going to put a newspaper over that part of the stage where the chair is placed. i will show you the paper before and after the trick. and if there is not a hole or a tear in the paper, either before or after the lady has disappeared, i think you will admit that the lady did not go through a hole in the stage floor. won't you?" asked joe strong. "yes, i thought you would," he added, as he pretended to hear a "yes" from somewhere in the audience. "all ready now, helen," he said in a low voice to the girl, and an attendant brought forward an ordinary looking chair and a newspaper. joe, who had done the trick many times before, but not often with helen, was perfectly at ease. helen was very frankly nervous. she had not done the trick for some time, and joe had introduced into it some novel features since last presenting it. helen was afraid she would cause some hitch in the performance. "you'll be all right," joe said to her in a low voice. "just act as though you had done this every day for a year." placing the chair in the center of the stage and handing joe the newspaper, the attendant stepped back. joe addressed the audience. "you here see the paper," said the "magician," as he held it up. "you see that there is no hole in it. i'll now spread it down on the stage. if the lady disappears down through the stage she will have to tear the paper. you shall see if she does." joe next placed the chair directly over the square of paper and motioned to helen. her plain black dress, of soft, clinging silk, swayed about her as she took her place. "i might add," said joe, pausing a moment after helen had taken her seat, "that in order to prevent any shock to mademoiselle mortonti i am going to mesmerize her. she will then be unconscious. i do this for two reasons. in totally disappearing there is sometimes a shock to a person's mentality that is unpleasant. to avoid indicting that on mademoiselle mortonti i will hypnotize her. "the other reason i do that is that she may not know how or when she disappears. thus she will not be able to see how i do the trick, and so cannot give away my secret." of course this was all "bunk" or "patter," to use names given to it by the performers. it kept the attention of the audience and so enabled joe to do certain things without attracting too much attention to them. as a matter of fact he did not mesmerize helen, and she knew perfectly well how the trick was done. those who have read previous books of this series are also in the secret. joe waved his hands in front of helen's face. she swayed slightly in her chair. then her eyes closed as though against her will, and she seemed to sleep. "she is now in the proper condition for the trick," said joe. "i must beg of you not to make any sudden or unnecessary noise. you might suddenly awaken her from the mesmeric slumber, and this might be very serious." as joe said this with every indication of meaning it, there was a quick hush among the audience. even though many knew it was only a trick, they could not help being impressed by the solemn note in joe's voice. such is the psychology of an audience, and the power over it of a single person. "she now sleeps!" said joe in a low voice. as a matter of fact, helen was wide awake, and as joe stood between her and the circus crowd she slowly opened one eye and winked at him. he was glad to see this, as it showed her nervousness had left her. "now for the mystic veil!" cried joe, as he took from his helper a thin clinging piece of black silk gauze. he tossed this over helen and the chair, completely covering both from sight. he brought the veil around behind helen's head, fastening it there with a pin. "to make sure that mademoiselle mortonti sleeps, i will now make the few remaining mesmeric passes," said joe. "i must be positive that she slumbers." he waved his hands slowly over the black robed figure. a great hush had fallen over the big crowd. every eye was on the black figure in the center of the raised stage in the middle of the big circus tent. all the other acts had temporarily stopped, to make that of joe strong, the boy magician, more spectacular. as joe continued to wave one hand with an undulating motion over the silent black-covered figure in the chair, he touched, here and there, the drapery over helen. he seemed very solicitous that it should hang perfectly right, covering the figure of the girl and the chair completely from sight in every direction all around the stage. the music, which had been playing softly, suddenly stopped at a wave of joe's hand. he stood for a moment motionless before the veiled figure. "her spirit is dissolving into thin air!" he said in a low voice, which, nevertheless, carried to every one in the crowd. suddenly joe took hold of the veil in the center and directly over the outlined head of the figure in the chair. quickly the young magician raised the soft, black silk gauze, whisking it quickly to one side. the audience gasped. the chair, in which but a moment before helen morton had been seated, was empty! the girl had disappeared--vanished! joe stooped and raised from the stage the newspaper. it showed not a sign of break or tear. then, before the applause could begin, the girl appeared, walking out from one of the improvised wings of the circus stage. she smiled and bowed. the act had been a great success. now the silent admiration of the throng gave place to a wave of hand clapping and feet stamping. "was it all right, joe?" asked helen, as he held her hand and they both bowed their appreciation of the applause. "couldn't have been better!" he said. "we'll do this trick regularly now. it takes even better than my ten thousand dollar box mystery. you were great!" "i'm so glad!" the two performers were bowing themselves off the stage when suddenly there came the unmistakable roar of a wild beast from the direction of the animal tent. it seemed to shake the very ground. at the same time a voice cried: "a tiger is loose! one of the tigers is out of his cage!" chapter ii a dangerous swing there is no cry which so startles the average circus audience as that which is raised when one of the wild animals is said to be at large. not even the alarm that the big tent is falling or is about to be blown over will cause such a panic as the shout: "a tiger is loose!" there is something instinctive, and perfectly natural, in the fear of the wild jungle beasts. let it be said that a tiger or a lion is loose, and it causes greater fear, even, than when it is stated that an elephant is on a rampage. an elephant seems a big, but good-natured, creature; though often they turn ugly. but a lion or a tiger is always feared when loose. but the chances are not one in a hundred that a circus lion or a tiger, getting out of its cage, would attack any one. the creature is so surprised at getting loose, and so frightened at the hue and cry at once raised, that all it wants to do is to slink off and hide, and the only harm it might do would be to some one who tried to stop it from running away. joe strong, jim tracy, and the other circus executives and employees knew this as soon as they heard the cry: "a tiger is loose." who raised the cry and which of the several tigers in the sampson show was out of its cage, neither joe nor any of those in the big tent near him knew. but they realized the emergency, and knew what to do. "keep your seats! don't rush!" cried joe, as he released helen's hand and hurried to the front of the platform. "there is no danger! the animal men will catch the tiger, if one is really loose. stay where you are! keep your seats! don't rush!" it is the panic and rush that circus men are afraid of--the pushing and "milling" of the crowd and the trampling under foot of helpless women and children. there was some commotion near the junction of the animal tent and that in which the main performance took place. what it was, joe did not concern himself about just then. he felt it to be his task to prevent a panic. and to this he lent himself, aided by helen, jim tracy, and others who realized the danger. and while this is going on and while the expert animal men are preparing to get back into its cage the tiger which, it was learned afterward, had got out through an imperfectly fastened door, time will be taken to tell new readers something about joe strong and the series of books in which he is the central character. joe strong seemed destined for a circus life and for entertaining audiences with sleight-of-hand and other mystery matters. his father, alexander strong, known professionally as professor morretti, was a stage magician of talents, and joe's mother, who was born in england, had been a rider of trick horses. his parents died when joe was young. he did not have a very happy boyhood, and one day he ran away from the man with whom he was living and joined a traveling magician, who called himself professor rosello. with him joe, who had a natural aptitude for the business, learned to become a sleight-of-hand performer. in the first book of the series, entitled "joe strong, the boy wizard; or, the mysteries of magic exposed," is told how joe got on in life after his first start. joe was not only a stage magician, but he had inherited strength, skill and daring, and he liked nothing better than climbing to great heights or walking in lofty and dizzy places where the footing was perilous. so it was perhaps natural that he should join the sampson brothers' show. and in the second book is related, under the title, "joe strong on the trapeze; or, the daring feats of a young circus performer," what happened to our hero under canvas. joe loved the circus life, even though he made some enemies. but he had many friends. there was helen morton. then there was benny turton, who did a "tank act," and was billed as a "human fish." jim tracy, the ringmaster, bill watson, the veteran clown, and his wife, the circus "mother," tom layton, the elephant man who taught the big creatures many tricks, were only a few of joe's friends. among others might be mentioned señor bogardi, the lion tamer, mrs. talfo, the professional "fat lady," señorita tanzalo, the pretty snake charmer, and tom jefferson, the "strong man." joe loved them all. the circus was like one big family, with, as might be expected, a "black sheep" here and there. joe became an expert on the trapeze, and, later, when benny turton was temporarily in a hospital, joe "took on" the tank trick. in the third volume some of his under-water feats are related, while in the fourth book joe's acts on a motor cycle on the high wire are dealt with. with his "wings of steel," joe caused a sensation, and after an absence from the circus for a time he joined it again, bringing this act to it. eventually joe was made one of the circus owners, and now controlled a majority of the stock. he had also inherited considerable money from his mother's relatives in england, so that now the youth was financially well off for one who had started so humbly. the book immediately preceding this one is called "joe strong and his box of mystery; or, the ten thousand dollar prize trick." in that volume is related how joe constructed a trick box, out of which he made his way after it was locked and corded about with ropes. helen morton helped him in this trick, which was very successful. the circus management offered a prize of ten thousand dollars to whomsoever could fathom how the trick was done. bill carfax, an enemy of joe's and a former circus employee, tried to solve the problem but failed. the box trick was a great attraction for the circus, and joe was in higher favor than before. he had been on the road with the show for some time when the events detailed in the first chapter of this book took place. by dint of much shouting and urging the people to retain their seats and not rush into danger, joe strong and the others succeeded in calming the circus crowd. meanwhile there was much suppressed excitement. "is the tiger caught? is he back in his cage?" was asked on every side. while joe and his fellow showmen were calming the crowd, the animal men were having their own troubles. burma, one of the largest of the tigers, had got loose, having taken advantage of the open door of his cage. he rushed out with a snarl of delight at his freedom. his jungle cry was echoed by the roar of a lion in the next cage, and this was followed by the cries and snarls of all the wild jungle beasts in the tent. fortunately the animal tent was deserted by all save the keepers, the audience having filed into the tent where the main show was going on. "head him off now! head him off!" cried tom layton, the elephant man, as he saw the tiger dart out of its cage--a flash of yellow and black. "head him off! don't let him get in the main top!" "that's right! head him off!" cried señor bogardi, the lion tamer. "he won't hurt any one--he's too scared!" this was true, but it was difficult to believe, and some of the people seated in the "main top," or big tent, who were nearest the animal tent, hearing the cries and learning what had occurred, spread the alarm. burma, the tiger, slunk around in behind the cages of the other animals. all about him were men with clubs and pointed goads, with whips and pistols. the circus men had had to cope with situations like this before. they surrounded the tiger, advancing on him in an ever-narrowing circle, and in a short time they drove him into an emergency cage which was pushed forward with the open door toward him. burma had no choice but to enter, to get away from the cracking whips and the prodding goads. and, after all, he was glad to be barred in again. so, without causing any harm except for badly frightening a number of people in the audience, the tiger was caged again, and the circus performance went on. joe strong did his box of mystery trick. the usual announcement of a reward of ten thousand dollars to whomsoever could solve it was made, and there was great applause when joe managed to get out of the big box without disturbing the six padlocks or the binding ropes. "i'm glad bill carfax isn't here to make trouble, trying to show how much he knows about this trick," said joe to the ringmaster, as he stepped off the stage at the conclusion of the trick. "yes, you put several spokes in bill's wheels when you turned the laugh on him that time," said jim tracy. "i don't believe he'll ever show up around our circus again." but they little knew bill carfax. those who have read the book just before this will recall him and remember how unscrupulous he was. but his plans came to naught then. any one who wishes to learn how the wonderful box trick was worked will find a full explanation in the previous volume. helen morton received much applause at the conclusion of her act with her trick horse, rosebud. joe strong's promised wife was an accomplished bareback rider, as well as one of her fiancé's helpers in his mystery tricks. "well, i'm glad to-day is over," said helen to joe that night, as they went to the train that was to take them to the next city where the circus performance would be given. "what with doing the vanishing lady act for the first time in a long while and the tiger getting loose, we have had quite a bit of excitement." "yes," agreed joe. "but everything came out all right. i'm going to put on a new stunt next week." "what's that?" asked helen. "something in the mystery line?" "no. i'm going back to some of my high trapeze work. you know, since we lost wogand there hasn't been any of the big swing work done." "that's so," agreed helen. "but i've been so busy practicing the vanishing lady act with you on top of my other work that i hadn't given it a thought. but you aren't going to do that dangerous trick, are you?" "i think i am," joe answered. "it's sensational, and we need sensational acts now to draw the crowds. i used to do it, and i can again, i think, with a little practice. i'm going to start in and train to-morrow." "i wish you wouldn't," said helen, in a low voice, but joe did not seem to hear her. the big swing was a trapeze act performed on the highest of the circus apparatus. part of this apparatus consisted of two platforms fastened to two of the opposite main poles, and up under the very roof of the big top. midway between the platforms, which were just large enough for a man to stand on, was a trapeze with long ropes, capable of being swung from one resting place to the other. it was, in reality, a "big swing." joe's act, which he had often done, but which of late had been performed by a man billed as "wogand," was to stand on one platform, have the long trapeze started in a long, pendulumlike swing by an attendant, and then to leap down, catch hold of the bar with his hands, and swing up to the other platform. if he missed catching the bar it meant a dangerous fall; a fall into a net, it is true, but dangerous none the less. its danger can be judged when it is said that wogand had died as an indirect result of a fall into the net. he missed the trapeze, toppled into the net, and, by some chance, did not land properly. his back was injured, his spine became affected, and he died. when circus performers on the high trapezes fall or jump into the safety nets, they do not usually do it haphazardly. if they did many would be killed. there is a certain knack and trick of landing in a net. joe strong, ever having the interest of the circus at heart, had decided to do this dangerous swing. he was an acrobat, as well as a stage magician, and he had decided to take up some of his earlier acts which had been so successful. "but i wish he wouldn't," said helen to herself. "i have a premonition that something will happen." helen was very superstitious in certain ways. but to all she said, joe only laughed. "i'm going to do the big swing," he replied simply. chapter iii too many people hundreds of men toiling and sweating over stiff canvas and stiffer ropes. the thud of big wooden sledge hammers driving in the tent stakes. the rumble of heavy wagons, and a cloud of dust where they were being shoved into place by the busy elephants. on one edge of the big, vacant lot were wisps of smoke from the fires in the stove wagons, and from these same wagons came appetizing odors. here and there men and women darted, carrying portions of their costumes in their hands. clowns, partly made up, looked from their dressing tents to smile or shout at some acquaintance who chanced to be passing by. all this was the sampson brothers' circus in preparation for a day's performance. joe strong, having had a good breakfast, without which no circus man or woman starts the day, strolled over to where helen morton was just finishing her morning meal. "feeling all right?" he asked her. "well, yes, pretty well," she answered. "what's the matter?" asked joe quickly, as he detected an under note of anxiety in the girl's voice. "is your star horse, rosebud, lame or off his feed?" "oh, no," she answered. "it's just--oh, here comes mother watson, and i promised to help her mend a skirt," said helen quickly, as she turned to greet the veteran clown's wife. "see you later, joe!" she called to him over her shoulder as she started away. the young magician moved away toward his own private quarters. "i wonder what's the matter with helen," he said. "she doesn't act naturally. if that bill carfax has been around again, annoying her, i'll put him out of business for all time. but if he had been around i'd have heard of it. i don't believe it can be that." nor was it. helen's anxiety had to do with something other than bill carfax, the unprincipled circus man who had so annoyed her before joe discharged him. and, as joe had said, the man had not been seen publicly since the fiasco of his attempt to expose joe's mystery box trick. "well, i suppose she won't tell me what it is until she gets good and ready," mused joe. "now i'll go in and have a little practice at the big swing before the parade." joe did not take part in the street pageant, though helen did, riding her beautiful horse to the admiration, not only of the small boys and their sisters, but the grown-up throng in the highways as well. helen made a striking picture on her spirited, but gentle, steed. it was not that joe strong felt above appearing in the parade. that was not his reason for not taking part. he had done so on more than one occasion, and with his wings of steel had created more than one sensation. but now that he did a trapeze act, as well as working the sleight-of-hand mysteries, his time was pretty well occupied. he had not, as yet, done the big swing in public since that act was abandoned on the death of the man who had been injured while doing it. but joe had been perfecting himself in it. he had had a new set of trapezes made, and had ornamented them and the two platforms in a very striking manner. in other words, the trick had a new "dress," and joe, as one of the circus proprietors, hoped it would go well and attract attention. this was from a business standpoint, and not only because joe was himself the performer. of course it was natural that he should like applause--all do, more or less. but joe was one of the owners of the circus--the chief owner, in fact--and he wanted to make a financial success of it. nor was this a purely selfish reason. many persons owned stock in the enterprise, and joe felt it was only fair to them to see that they received a good return for their investment. any trick he could do to draw crowds he was willing to attempt. so, while the parade was being gotten ready, joe went inside the main top, which by this time was erected, to see about having his platforms and trapeze put in place. in this he was always very careful, as is every aerial performer. the least slip of a rope may cause disaster, and no matter how careful the attendants are, the performers themselves always give at least a casual look to their apparatus. "all right, harry?" asked joe of one of the riggers who had charge of putting up the platforms and the big swing. "sure, it's all right, mr. strong!" was the answer. "i should say so! i don't make no mistakes when i'm putting up trapezes. you'll find everything shipshape and proper. going to have a big crowd to-day, i guess." joe looked at harry loper closely. the young man had never talked so much before, being, on the whole, rather close-mouthed. as the man passed joe, after giving a pull on the last rope, the young magician became aware that harry had been drinking--and something stronger than pink lemonade. "i'm sorry about that!" mused joe, as the rope rigger passed on. "if there's any place a man ought not to drink it's in a circus, and especially when he has to rig up high flying apparatus for others. it was drink that put bill carfax out of business. i didn't know harry was that kind, i never noticed it before. i'm sorry. and i'll take extra precautions that my ropes won't slip. you can't trust a man who drinks." joe shook his head a bit sadly. he was thinking of bill carfax, and of the fact that he had had to discharge the man because, while under the influence of liquor, he had insulted helen. then bill had tried to get revenge on joe. "i hope it doesn't turn out this way with harry loper," mused joe, as he began climbing up a rope ladder that led to one of the high platforms. and as harry had to do with the placing of this ladder, joe tested it carefully before ascending. "i don't want to fall and be laid up in the middle of the circus season," mused the young circus man, with a frown. however, the ladder appeared to be perfectly secure, and as joe went up, finally reaching the high platform, he felt a sense of exhilaration. heights always affected him this way. he liked, more than anything else, to soar aloft on his wings of steel. and he liked the sensation when he leaped from one platform toward the swinging trapeze bar, aiming to grasp it in his hands and swing in a great arc to the other little elevated place, close under the top of the tent. there was a thrill about it--a thrill not only to the performer but to the audience as well--and joe could hear the gasps that went up from thousands of throats as he made his big swing. but, for the time being, he gave his whole attention to the platform and its fastenings. the platforms were not very likely to slip, being caught on to the main tent poles, which themselves were well braced. the real danger was in the long trapeze. not only must the thin wire ropes of this be strong enough to hold joe's weight, but an added pressure, caused by the momentum of his jump. and not only must the cables be strong, but there must be no defect in the wooden bar and in the place where the upper ends of the ropes were fastened to the top of the tent. "well, this platform is all right," remarked joe, as he looked it over. "now for the other and the trapeze." he went down the rope ladder and climbed up another to the second platform. the show would not start for several hours yet, and the tent was filled with men putting in place the stage for joe's magic tricks and other apparatus for various performers. the parade was just forming to proceed down town. joe found that harry loper had done his work well, at least as far as the platforms were concerned. they were firmly fastened. the one to which joe leaped after his swing needed to be considerably stronger than the one from which he "took off." the next act of the young circus performer was to climb up to the very top of the tent, and there to examine the fastenings of the trapeze ropes. he spent some time at this, having reached his high perch by a third rope ladder. "i guess everything is all right," mused joe. "perhaps i did harry an injustice. he might have taken some stimulant for a cold--they all got wet through the other night. but still he ought to be careful. he was a little too talkative for a man to give his whole attention to fastening a trapeze. but this seems to be all right. i'll do the big swing this afternoon and to-night, in addition to the box trick and the vanishing lady. helen works exceedingly well in that." having seen that his aerial apparatus was all right, joe next went to his tent where his magical appliances were kept. many stage tricks depend for their success on special pieces of apparatus, and joe's acts were no exception. joe saw that everything was in readiness for his sleight-of-hand work, and then examined his box of mystery. as this was a very special piece of apparatus, he was very careful about it. his ability to get out of it, once he was locked and roped in, depended on a delicate bit of mechanism, and the least hitch in this meant failure. but a test showed that it was all right, and as by this time it was nearly the hour for the parade to come back and the preliminaries to begin, joe went over to the circus office to see if any matters there needed his attention. as he crossed the lot to where the "office" was set up in a small tent, the first horses of the returning parade came back on the circus grounds. following was a mob of delighted small boys and not a few men. "looks as if we'd have a big crowd," said joe to himself. "and it's a fine day for the show. we'll make money!" he attended to some routine matters, and then the first of the afternoon audience began to arrive. as joe had predicted, the crowd was a big one. the young performer was in his dressing room, getting ready for the big swing, which he would perform before his mystery tricks, when mr. moyne, the circus treasurer, entered. there was a queer look on mr. moyne's face, and joe could not help but notice it. "what's worrying you?" asked joe. "doesn't this weather suit you, or isn't there a big enough crowd?" "that's just it, joe," was the unexpected answer. "there's too big a crowd. we have too many people at this show, and that's what is worrying me a whole lot!" joe strong looked in surprise at the treasurer. what could mr. moyne mean? chapter iv the rusted wire "yes," went on the circus treasurer, as he rubbed his chin reflectively, "it's a curious state of affairs, and as you're so vitally interested i came to you at once. there's going to be trouble!" "trouble!" cried joe with a laugh. "i can't see that, mr. moyne. you say there's a big crowd of people at our circus--too much of a crowd, in fact. i can't see anything wrong in that. it's just what we're always wanting--a big audience. let 'em fill the tent, i say, and put out the 'straw seats only' sign. trouble! why, i should say this was good luck!" and joe hastened his preparations, for he wanted to go on with the big swing. "ordinarily," said mr. moyne, in the slow, precise way he had of speaking, brought about, perhaps, by his need of being exact in money matters, "a big crowd would be the very thing we should want. but this time we don't--not this kind of a crowd." "what do you mean?" asked joe, beginning to feel that it was more than a mere notion on the part of the treasurer that something was wrong. "is it a rough crowd? will there be a 'hey rube!' cry raised--a fight between our men and the mill hands?" "oh, no, nothing like that!" the treasurer hastened to assure joe. "the whole thing is just this. there are a great many more people in the main top now than there are admission prices in the treasurer's cash box. the books don't balance, as it were." "more people in the tent than have paid their way?" asked joe. "well, that always happens at a circus. small boys will crawl in under the canvas in spite of clubs." "oh, it isn't a question of the small boys--i never worry about them," returned mr. moyne. "but there are about a thousand more persons at the performance which will soon begin than we have admission prices for. in other words there are a thousand persons occupying fifty cent seats that haven't paid their half dollar. it isn't the reserve chairs that are affected. we're all right there. but fully a thousand persons have come into the show, and we're short five hundred dollars in our cash." "you don't tell me!" cried joe. he saw that mr. moyne was very much in earnest. "have the ticket men and the entrance attendants been working a flim-flam game on us?" "oh, no, it isn't that," said the treasurer. "i could understand that. but the men are perfectly willing to have their accounts gone over and their tickets checked up. they're straight!" "then what is it?" asked joe. "that's what we've got to find out," went on mr. moyne. "in some way the thousand people have come in without paying the circus anything. and they didn't sneak in, either. a few might do that, but a thousand couldn't. they've come in by the regular entrance." "did they force themselves past without tickets?" "no, each one had the proper coupon." "has there been a theft of our tickets?" demanded the young magician and acrobat. "no, our ticket account is all right, except there are a thousand extra entrance coupons in the box--coupons taken in by the entrance attendants. it's a puzzle to me," confessed the treasurer. "there is some game being played on us, and we're out to the tune of five hundred dollars by it already." "is there any way of finding out who these persons are who have come in without paying us and having them ejected?" asked joe. "i don't see how," admitted mr. moyne. "if they were in reserved seats it could be done, but not in the ordinary un-numbered fifty cent section. the whole situation is that we have a thousand persons too many at the show." "well, we'll have a meeting of the executive body and take it up after the performance," said joe, as he quickly prepared to get into his aerial costume. "we'll have to go on with the performance now; it's getting late. if we're swamped by people coming along who hold our regular tickets we'll have to sit 'em anywhere we can. if we lose five hundred dollars we'll make it up by having a smashing crowd, which is always a good advertisement. i'll see you directly after the show, mr. moyne." "i wish you would," said the harassed treasurer. "something must be done about it. if this happens very often we'll be in a financial hole at the end of the season." he departed, looking at some figures he had jotted down on the back of an envelope. joe strong was puzzled. nothing like this had ever come up before. true, there had been swindlers who tried to mulct the circus of money, and there were always small boys, and grown men, too, who tried to crawl in under the tent. but such a wholesale game as this joe had never before known. "well, five hundred dollars, for once, won't break us," he said grimly, as he fastened on a brightly spangled belt, "but i wouldn't want it to happen very often. now i wonder what luck i'll have in my big swing. i haven't done it in public for some time, but it went all right in practice." joe looked from his dressing room. he was all ready for his act now, but the time had not yet come for him to go on. he saw helen hastening past on her way to enter the ring with her horse, rosebud, which a groom held at the entrance for her. "good luck!" called joe, waving his hand and smiling. "the same to you," answered helen. "you'll need it more than i. oh, joe," she went on earnestly, "won't you give up this big swing? stick to your box trick, and let me act with you in the disappearing lady stunt. don't go on with this high trapeze act!" she pleaded. "why, helen! anybody would think you'd been bitten by the jinx bug!" laughed joe. "i thought you were all over that." "perhaps i am foolish," she said. "but it's because--" she blushed and looked away. "i suppose i should take it as a compliment that you are so interested in my welfare," said joe, with a smile. "and, believe me, i am. but, helen, i can't back out of this act now. it's been advertised big. i've got to go on!" "then do be careful, won't you?" she begged. "oh, do be careful! somehow, i have a feeling that--oh, well, i won't set you to worrying by telling you," she said quickly, with a laugh, in which, however, there was no mirth. she smiled again, trying to make it a bright one; but joe saw that she was under a strain. "i'll be careful," he promised. "really, there's no danger. i've done the stunt a score of times, and i can judge my distance perfectly. besides there's the safety net." "yes, i know, but there was poor--oh, well, i won't talk about it! good luck!" and she hurried on, for it was time for her act--the whistle of the ringmaster having blown. joe looked after the girl he loved. he smiled, and then a rather serious look settled over his face. like a flash there had come to him the memory of the too loquacious harry loper, who had fitted up his aerial apparatus. "there can be nothing wrong with that," mused joe. "i went over every inch of it. i guess helen is just nervous. well, there goes my cue!" he hurried toward the entrance, and then he began to ponder over the curious fact of there being a thousand persons too many at the performance. "we'll have to straighten out that ticket tangle after the show," mused joe. "it's likely to get serious. i wonder--" he went on, struck by a new thought. "i wonder if--oh, no! it couldn't be! he hasn't been around in a long while." out into the tent, filled with a record-breaking crowd, went joe to the place where his high trapeze was waiting for him. the band was playing lively airs, on one platform some trained seals were juggling big balls of colored rubber, and on another a bear was going about on roller skates. in one end ring helen was performing with rosebud, while in another a troupe of japanese acrobats were doing wonderful things with their supple bodies. joe waved his hand to helen in passing, and then he began to ascend to his high platform. when he reached it and stood poised ready for his act, there came a shrill whistle from jim tracy, the ringmaster, who wore his usual immaculate shirt front and black evening clothes--rather incongruous in the daytime. the whistle was the signal for the other acts to cease, that the attention of all might be centered on joe. this is always done in a circus in the case of "stars," and joe was certainly a star of the first magnitude. "ladies and gentlemen!" cried jim tracy, with the accented drawl that carried his voice to the very ends of the big tent. "calling your attention to one of the most marvelous high trapeze acts ever performed in any circus!" he pointed dramatically to joe, who stood up straight, ready to do his act. "are you ready?" asked the man who was to release the trapeze, which was caught up at one side of the platform opposite joe. "ready," answered the young acrobat. the man pulled a rope which released a catch, letting the trapeze start on its long swaying swing. the man pulled it by means of a long, thin cord, until it was making big arcs, like some gigantic pendulum. joe watched it carefully, judging it to the fraction of an inch. he stood poised and tense on the gayly decorated platform, himself a fine picture of physical young manhood. the band was blaring out the latest jazz melody. suddenly, from his perch, the young acrobat gave a cry, and jim tracy, on the ground below, hearing it, held up his white-gloved hand as a signal for the music to cease. then joe leaped. full and fair he leaped out toward the swinging bar of the big trapeze, the snare drum throbbing out as he jumped. he was dimly conscious of thousands of eyes watching him--eyes that looked curiously and apprehensively up. and he realized that helen was also watching him. as true as a die, joe's hands caught and gripped the bar of the swinging trapeze. so far he was safe. the momentum of his jump carried him in a long swing, and he at once began to undulate himself to increase his swing. he must do this in order to get to the second platform. as the young performer began to do this, he looked up at the wire ropes of his trapeze. it was a look given instinctively and for no particular purpose, as joe's eyes must rest, most of all, on the second platform where he needed to land, to save himself from a bad fall. as his eyes glanced along the steel cables on which his life depended, he saw, to his horror, a spot of rust on one. and at the spot of rust several of the thin strands of twisted wire were loose and frayed. the cable seemed about to give way! chapter v a fire sensation joe strong had to think quickly. every acrobat, every person who does "stunts" in a circus, must; for something is always happening, or on the verge of taking place. and when joe looked up and saw the rusted wire and noted the fraying strands, several thoughts shot through his mind at once. "that rust spot wasn't there this morning when, i looked at the trapeze," he mused. "and it hasn't rained since. how did it get there?" he thought of the too talkative harry loper, and an ugly suspicion associated itself with him. but joe had no time for such thoughts then. what was vital for him to know was whether or not the thin wire cable would remain unbroken long enough for him to reach the maximum of his swing, and land on the platform. or would he fall, spoiling the act and also endangering himself? true he might land in the net in such a way as to come to no harm, as he had done many times, and as many performers before him had done. but the danger was that in a sudden and unexpected drop downward he might not be able to get his limbs in the proper landing position. joe strong had nerve. if he had lacked it he would never have been so successful. and at once he decided on a courageous proceeding. "i'll bring all my weight suddenly on that left hand cable," he mused, as he swung to and fro, from side to side of the big tent. "if it's going to break it will do so then. and i'll be ready for it. i'll then keep hold of the trapeze bar, which will be straight up and down instead of crosswise, and swing by that. the other cable seems all right." this was a fact which joe ascertained by a quick inspection. there was no time for further thought. as he swung, joe suddenly shifted his weight, bringing it all on the frayed and strangely rusted cable. as he half expected, it gave way, and he dropped in an instant, but not far. the watching crowd gasped. it looked like an accident. and it was, in a way, but joe had purposely caused it. as the wire broke joe held tightly to the wooden bar, which was now upright in his hands instead of being horizontal. and though it slipped through his fingers, perhaps for the width of his palm, at last he gripped it in a firm hold and kept on with his swing. and then the applause broke forth, for the audience thought it all a part of the trick--they thought that joe had purposely caused the cable to break to make the act more effective. to and fro swung joe, nearer and nearer to the second platform, and then, reaching the height of the long arc, he turned his body and stepped full and fair on the little square of velvet-covered boards. with a lithe contortion, joe squirmed to an upright position, recovering his balance with a great effort, for he had been put out in his calculations of distance, and then, turning, he bowed to the crowds, revolving on the platform to take in every one. again the applause broke forth, to be drowned in the boom and ruffle of the drums as the band began to play. there is little time in a circus, where act follows act so quickly, for long acknowledgments. the other performers came into the rings or on to the raised platforms, and joe descended by means of the rope ladder. helen met him, and they walked toward the dressing rooms. "that was a wonderful trick, joe," she said. "but i didn't see you practice that drop." "i didn't practice it," he remarked dryly. "i did it on the spur of the moment." "joe strong! wasn't it dangerous?" "well, a little." "what made you do it?" "i couldn't help it." "you couldn't help it? joe--do you mean--?" she sensed that something was wrong, but walking around the circus arena, with performers coming and going, was not the place to speak of it. joe saw that she understood. "i'll tell you later," he said. "we have to get ready for the trick box and the vanishing lady stunt now." "oh, joe! were you in much danger?" she asked in a low voice. "oh, not much," he answered, and he tried to speak lightly. yet he did not like to think of that one moment when he saw the rusted and broken wire. while joe and helen are preparing for the box act, which has been treated fully in the previous volume, the explanation of how the vanishing lady trick was accomplished will be given, though that, too, has been explained in an earlier volume. a large newspaper is put on the stage and the chair set on the paper, thus, seemingly, precluding the possibility of a trap door being cut in the stage through which the lady in the chair might slip. the word "seemingly" is used with a due sense of what it means. the newspaper was not a perfect one. on one of its sides which was not exhibited to the audience, there was cut an opening, or trap, that exactly corresponded in size with a trap door on the stage. the paper, as explained in the previous book, is strengthened with cardboard, and the trap is a double one, being cut in the center, the flaps being easily moved either way. the audience thinks it sees a perfect newspaper. but there is a square hole in it, but concealed as is a secret trap door. when joe laid the paper on the stage he placed it so that the square, double flap in it was exactly over the trap in the stage floor. he then drew the page of the paper that he had held out to the audience toward himself, exposing the trap for use, but because it was so carefully made, and the cut was so fine, it was not visible from the front. helen took her place in the chair, which, of course, was a trick one. it was fitted with a concealed rod and a cap, and it was over this cap, brought out at the proper moment, that joe carefully placed the black veil, when he was pretending to mesmerize helen. there was a cross rod, also concealed in the chair, and on either end of this, something like the epaulettes of a soldier, so that when these ends were under the veil and the cap was in place it looked as though some one sat in the chair, when, really, no one did. helen was in the chair at the start. but as soon as she was covered by the veil she began to get out the seat of the chair was hinged within its frame as helen sat on it, and after she had been covered with the veil, she rested her weight on her hands, which were placed on the extreme outer edges of this seat frame. she pulled a catch which caused the seat to drop, and at the same time the trap beneath her, including the prepared newspaper, was opened by an attendant. the black veil all about the chair prevented the audience seeing this. helen lowered herself down through the dropped seat of the chair, through the trap, and under the stage. and while she was doing this it still looked as if she were in the chair, for the false cap and the extended cross rod made outlines as if of a human form beneath the black veil. as soon as helen was out of the chair and beneath the stage an attendant closed the newspaper and wooden floor traps. joe then suddenly raised the veil, taking in its folds the false cap and the cross piece which had represented helen's shoulders. they were thin and light--these pieces of trick apparatus--and no one suspected they were in the veil. the hinged seat of the chair snapped back in place by means of a spring, and when joe stepped aside, holding the veil, there was the empty chair; and the newspaper, which he picked up, seemed to preclude the possibility of there having been a trap in the stage. but joe was careful how he exhibited this paper to his audience. and so it was that the lady "vanished." "and now, joe, tell me all about it!" demanded helen, when the circus was over for the afternoon, and the box and vanishing tricks had been successfully performed. "what happened to your trapeze?" "some one spilled acid on one of the wire ropes, and it ate into the metal, corroding it and separating a number of the strands so that a little extra weight broke them," said joe. "acid on the cable?" cried helen. "how did you find out?" "i just examined the wire. i knew it couldn't have rusted naturally in such a short time. there was a peculiar smell about the wire, and i know enough of chemistry to make a simple acid test! what kind of acid was used i don't know, but it was strong enough to eat the steel." "who could have put it on?" "that i've got to find out!" "was it harry loper?" "i taxed him with it, but he swears he knew nothing of it," said joe. "i'm inclined to believe him, too. i charged him with drinking, and he could not deny that. but he said he met some old friends and they induced him to have a little convivial time with them. no, i don't believe he'd do it. he's weak and foolish, but he had no reason to try to injure me." "who would, joe? of course there's bill carfax, but he hasn't been seen near the circus of late." "no, i don't believe it could have been bill. i'll have to be on my guard." "do, joe!" urged helen. "oh, i can't bear to think of it!" "don't then!" laughed joe, trying to make light of it. "let's go down town and i'll buy you some ice cream." "but you're not going to give up trying to find out who put acid on the trapeze, are you?" "no, indeed!" declared the young performer. "i have two problems on my hands now--that and trying to learn how too many persons came to the circus this afternoon," and he told helen about the extra tickets. "that's queer!" she exclaimed. "some jinx bug must be after us!" "don't get superstitious!" warned joe. "now we'll forget our troubles. they may not amount to anything after all." but, though he spoke lightly, joe was worried, and he was not going to let helen know that. they went into an ice-cream parlor and "relaxed," as helen called it. the two were on their way back to the circus lot, intending to go to supper and prepare for the evening entertainment, when there was a sudden alarm down the street, and, in an instant, the fire engines and other apparatus dashed past. "a fire!" cried joe. "come on, helen! it's just down the street!" they could see smoke pouring from a small building and a crowd rushing toward it. thither, also, the fire apparatus was dashing. joe and helen were among the early arrivals. "what is it?" asked joe of an officer. "i mean what sort of place is that?" and he pointed to the building, which was now obscured by smoke. "dime museum," was the answer. "lot of fakes. i sent in the alarm. a fire-eater was trying some new stunt and he set the place ablaze, so the boss yelled to me. come now, youse all have to git back!" and he motioned to the crowd, which was constantly increasing, to get beyond the fire lines. chapter vi something new what with the clanging of the gongs on the engines and on the red runabouts that brought two battalion chiefs to the fire; the pall of smoke, with, here and there, the suggestion of a red blaze; the swaying excitement of the crowd; the yells of harassed policemen; the scene at the blaze of the dime museum was one long to be remembered by joe strong and helen morton--particularly in the light of what happened afterward. "joe, did you hear what he said?" asked helen, as she moved back with the young acrobat in conformity with the officer's order. "you mean that we've got to slide?" "no, that a fire-eater started the blaze. does he mean a professional 'fire bug,' as i have heard them called?" "oh, not at all!" exclaimed joe. "a fire-eater is a chap who does such stunts in a museum, theater, or even in a circus. sampson brothers used to have one, i understand, from looking over the old books. but it wasn't much of an act. golly, this is going to be some blaze!" that was very evident from the increased smoke that rolled out and the crackle of fire that now could be heard above the puffing of the engines and the shouts of the mob. "a regular tinder box!" muttered the officer who had told joe the origin of the blaze. "place ought to have been pulled down long ago. git back there youse!" he yelled to some venturesome lads. "want to git mushed up?" the blaze was a big one, considerable damage was done, and several persons were injured. but quick work by an efficient department prevented the flames from spreading to the buildings on either side of the one where it had started. joe and helen stayed long enough to see the menace gotten under control, and then they departed just as the ambulance rolled away with the last of the victims. "that's the fire-eater they're taking to the hospital now," said the policeman who had first spoken to the young circus performers. "they took him into a drug store to wrap him in oil and cotton batting." "will he live?" asked helen. "just a chance," was the answer. "say, if i had to get my living eating fire i'd starve," confided the policeman. "it must be some stunt! i always thought it was a fake, but this fire burned real enough." "oh, it isn't all fake," said joe, "though of course there's a trick about it." "you seem to know," said the policeman, and he smiled at joe and helen. his chief troubles were about over with the departure of the ambulance and the knowledge that filtered through the crowd that the most of the excitement was over. "oh, i'm in the circus business," confessed joe. "i never ate fire," he went on, "but--" "oh, i know you now!" cried the officer. "i was on duty out at the circus grounds this afternoon, and i went into the tent when you did that box act. say, that's some stunt! do they really pay ten thousand dollars to the fellow who tells how it's done?" "well, we've never paid out the money yet," said joe, with a smile. "but it's there, waiting for some one to claim it." "then i'm coming to-night to watch you," said the officer, who appeared delighted that he had recognized one of the "profesh." "come along," replied joe. "here, wait a minute! there are a couple of passes. come and bring a friend. if you tell how i do the trick you'll get the ten thousand. only you'll have to post a hundred dollars as a forfeit to the red cross in case you don't guess right. that's included in the offer." "oh!" the officer did not seem quite so pleased. "well, i'll come anyhow," he went on, accepting the passes joe handed him. the policeman had allowed joe and helen to stay in an advantageous place where they could watch the fire. "where are they taking the man who did the dangerous trick that caused all the trouble?" asked helen, as she prepared to walk on with joe. "to the city hospital, miss. he's a bad case, i understand." "poor fellow," murmured helen. "do you think we could go to see him, and do something for him, joe?" she asked solicitously. "he's in almost the same line of business as ourselves." "well, i don't know," was the slow answer. "i can fix it up if you want to see him--that is, if the doctors and nurses will let you," said the policeman. "i know the hospital superintendent. you just tell him that casey sent you and it will be all right." "thanks; perhaps we will," said joe. there was a little time after supper before the performers had to go on with their acts, and helen prevailed on joe to take her to the hospital whither the injured fire-eater had been removed. they found him swathed in bandages, no objection being made to their seeing him after the magic name of "casey" had been mentioned to the superintendent. "we came in to see if you needed any help," said joe to the pathetic figure in the bed. "we're in the same line of business, in a way." "are you a fire-eater?" slowly asked the man. "no," joe told him. "but i'm in the circus--sampson brothers'." "oh, yes, i've heard about it. a partner of mine was with 'em for years. gascoyne was his name." "that was before my time," said joe. "but how are you getting on? can we be of any help to you? we professionals must help one another." "that's right. we get knocked often enough," was the reply. "well, i'm doing as well as can be expected, the doctor says. and i'm not really in need of anything. the museum folks were pretty good to me. thank you, just the same." "how did it happen?" asked helen. "oh, just my carelessness," said the man. "we get careless after playing with fire a bit. i put too much alcohol on the tow, and there was a draft from an open door, some draperies caught, and it was all going before i knew it. i tried to put it out--that's how i got burned." "then you really didn't eat fire?" asked helen. joe and the man swathed in bandages looked at one another and a semblance of a wink passed between them. "nobody can eat fire, lady," said the museum performer. "it's all a trick, same as some your husband does in the circus." joe blushed almost as much as did helen. "we're not married yet, but we're going to be," explained joe, smiling. "lucky guy!" murmured the man. "well, as i was saying, it's all a trick," he went on. "strong alum solution in your mouth, just a dash of alcohol to make a blaze that flares up but goes out quickly if you smother it right. you know the game," and he looked at joe. "well, not exactly," was the reply. "i've read something of it. but, somehow, it never appealed to me." "oh, it makes a good act, friend!" said the man earnestly. "i've done a lot of museum and circus stunts, and this always goes big. there's no danger if you handle it right. i'll be more careful next time." "you don't mean to say you'll go back to it, do you?" asked helen. "sure, lady! i've got to earn my living! and this is the best thing i know. i'll be out in a week. i didn't swallow any, thank goodness! oh, sure i'll go at it again." joe and helen cheered the sufferer up as much as they could, and then departed. joe privately left a bill of substantial denomination with the superintendent to be used for anything extra the patient might need. on the way back to the circus, where they were soon to give their evening performance, joe was unusually quiet. "what's the matter?" asked helen. "are you thinking of that accident on the trapeze?" "no," was the answer. "it's something different. i've got to get up a new act for the show. that trapeze act, even the way i had to do it this afternoon, isn't sensational enough. i've got to have something new, and i've about decided on it." "what?" asked helen. "i'm going to become a fire-eater!" was the unexpected, reply. chapter vii the paper expert for a moment helen morton stared at joe strong as though not quite sure whether or not he was in his proper mind. then, seeing plainly that he was in earnest, she seemed to shrink away from him, as he had noticed her shrink away, for a moment, from the burned man suffering there in the hospital. "what's the matter, helen?" asked joe, trying to speak lightly. "don't you want to see some more sensational acts in the show?" "yes, but not that kind," she answered with a shudder she could not conceal. "oh, joe, if you were to--" she could not go on. her breast heaved painfully. "now look here, helen!" he exclaimed with good-natured roughness, "that isn't any way to look at matters; especially when we both depend on sensations for making our living. "you know, as well as i do, that in this business we have to take risks. that's what makes our acts go. you take a risk every time you perform with rosebud. you might slip, the horse might slip, and you'd be hurt. now is this new act i am thinking of perfor--" "yes, i may take risks, joe!" interrupted helen. "but they are perfectly natural risks, and i have more than an even chance. you might just as well say you take a risk walking along the street, and so you do. an elevated train might fall on you or an auto run up on the sidewalk. the risks i take in the act with rosebud are only natural ones, and really shouldn't be counted. but if you start to become a fire-eater--oh, joe, think of that poor fellow in the hospital!" "he didn't get that way from eating fire--or pretending to eat it--for the amusement of the public. he might just as easily have been burned the way he is by lighting the kitchen stove for his wife to get breakfast. his accident was entirely outside of his act, you might say. why, i use lighted candles in some of my tricks. now, if some one knocked over a candle, and it caused a fire on the stage and i was burned, would you want me to give up being a magician?" "oh, no, i suppose not," said helen slowly. "but fire is so dangerous. and to think of putting it in your mouth! how can you do it, joe? oh, it can't be done!" "oh, there's a trick about it. i haven't mastered all the details yet, so as to give a smooth performance, but i can make an attempt at it." "joe strong! do you mean to say you know how to eat fire?" demanded helen, and now her eyes showed her astonishment. "well, not exactly eat it, though that is the term used. but i do know how to do it. i learned, in a rudimentary way, when i was with professor rosello--the first man who taught me sleight-of-hand. he had one fire-eating act, but it didn't amount to much. he told me the secret of it, such as it was. "but if i put on that stunt i'm going to make it different. i'm going to dress it up, make it sensational so that it will be the talk of the country where circuses are exhibited." "and won't you run any danger?" questioned the girl quickly. "oh, i suppose so; just as i do when i work on the high trapeze or ride my motor cycle along the high wire. but it's all in the day's work. and now let's talk about something pleasant--i mean let's get off the shop." helen sighed. she was plainly disturbed, but she did not want to burden joe with her worries. she knew he must have calm nerves and an untroubled mind to do his various acts in the circus that night. after supper and before the evening performance joe made a careful examination of his trapeze apparatus. beyond the place where the acid had eaten into the wire strands, causing them to become weakened so that they parted, the appliances did not appear to have been tampered with. nor were there any clews which might show who had done the deed. that it could have happened by accident was out of the question. the acid could have gotten on the wire rope in one way only. some one must have climbed up the rope ladder to the platform and applied the stuff. "but who did it?" asked jim tracy, when joe had told him of the discovery of the acid-eaten cable. "some enemy. perhaps the same one who was responsible for our loss in tickets this afternoon," answered the young magician. "carfax?" asked the ringmaster. "it might be, and yet he isn't the only man who's been discharged or who has a grudge against me. there was gianni with whom i had a fight." "you mean the italian? yes, he was an ugly customer. but i haven't heard of him for years. i don't believe he's even in this part of the country." "and we haven't any reason to suppose that carfax is, either, after his fiasco in trying to expose my box of mystery trick. but we've got to be on our guard." "i should say so!" exclaimed the ringmaster. "and now about your trapeze act, joe! are you going to put it on again to-night?" "of course. it's billed." "then you'll have to hustle to rig up a new rope." "i'm not going to put on a new rope," declared joe. "the act went so well when i seemed about to fall, that i'm going to keep that feature in. i'll rig up a catch on the severed cable. at the proper time i'll snap it loose, seem to fall, swing by the dangling bar as i did before, and land on the platform that way. it will be more effective than if i did it in the regular way." "but won't it be risky?" joe shrugged his shoulders. "no more so than any trapeze act. now that i'm ready for the sudden drop i'll be on my guard. no, i can work it all right. and now about these extra admissions? what are we going to do about them?" "well," said the ringmaster, "maybe we'd better talk to moyne about them. if they ring an extra thousand persons in on us again to-night the thing will be getting serious." the treasurer was called in consultation with joe and tracy and other circus officials, and it was decided to keep a special watch on the ticket wagon and the ticket takers that night. joe quickly made the change in his trapeze and tested it, finding that he could work it perfectly. then he began to think of his new fire-eating act. he was determined to make that as great a success as was his now well advertised ten thousand dollar mystery box act. the evening performance had not long been under way, and joe had done his big swing successfully, when he was sought out by mr. moyne. "the same thing has happened again," said the treasurer. "you mean more people coming in than we have sold tickets for?" "that's it." "well, where do the extra admissions come from? i mean where do the people get their admission slips from--the extra people?" "that's what we can't find out," the treasurer aid. "as far as the ticket takers can tell only one kind of admission slip for the fifty cent seats is being handed them. but the number, as tallied by the automatic gates, does not jibe with the number of ordinary admissions sold at the ticket office. to-night there is a difference of about eight hundred and seventy-five." "do you mean," asked joe, "that that number of persons came in on tickets that were never sold at the ticket wagon?" "that's just what i mean. there is an extra source from which the ordinary admission tickets come. as i told you this afternoon, we are having no trouble with our reserved seats. there have been no duplicates there. but there is a duplication in the fifty cent seats, where one may take his pick as to where he wants to sit." "don't we have tickets on sale in some of the downtown stores?" joe asked. "oh, yes, several of the stores sell tickets up to a certain hour. then they send the balance up here for us to dispose of." "how about their accounts? have you had them gone over carefully?" "they tally to a penny." "how about the unsold tickets these agents send back to us? isn't there a chance on the way up for some one to slip out some of the pasteboards, mr. moyne?" "there is a chance, yes, but it hasn't been done. i have checked up the accounts of the stores, and there is the cash or the unsold tickets to balance every time. but somehow, and from some place, an extra number of the ordinary admission tickets are being sold, and we are not getting the money for them." "it is queer," said joe. "i have an idea that i want to try out the first chance i get. save me a bunch of these ordinary admission tickets. take them from the boxes at random and let me have them." "i will," promised the treasurer. "there is nothing we can do to-night to stop the fraud, is there?" he asked. mr. moyne was a very conscientious treasurer. it disturbed him greatly to see the circus lose money. "i don't see what we can do," said joe. "if we start an inquiry it may cause a fight. let it go. we'll have to charge it to profit and loss. and don't forget to let me have some of those tickets. i want to examine them." mr. moyne promised to attend to the matter. joe then had to go on in his box of mystery trick, and when this was finished, amid much applause, he caused helen to "vanish" in the manner already described. the circus made considerable money in this town, even with the bogus admissions, and as the weather was fine and as the show would exhibit the next day in a big city for a two days' stand, every one was in good humor. staying over night in the same city where they exhibited during the day was always a rest for the performers. they got more sleep and were in better trim for work. the last act was finished, the chariot races had taken place, and the audience was surging out. the animal tent had already been taken down and the animals themselves were being loaded on the railroad train. as joe, helen, and the other performers started for their berths, to begin the trip to the next town, the "main top" began coming down. the circus was on the move. soon after breakfast the next morning, having seen that all his apparatus had safely arrived, joe visited mr. moyne in the latter's office. "have you a bunch of tickets for me?" asked the young magician. "yes, here they are--several hundred picked at random from the boxes at the entrance. i can't see anything wrong. if you're looking for counterfeit tickets i don't believe you'll find them," added mr. moyne. "i don't know that i am looking for counterfeits," said joe. "that may be the explanation, or it may be there is a leak somewhere in the ticket wagon." "i'm almost sure there isn't," declared the treasurer. "but of course no one is infallible. i hope you get to the bottom of the mystery." "i hope so myself," replied joe, with a smile, as he put the tickets in a valise. a little later he was on his way downtown. he had several hours before he would have to go "on," as he did not take part in the parade, and he had several matters to attend to. joe made his way toward a large office building, carrying the valise with the circus tickets. a little later he might have been seen entering an office, the door of which bore the name of "herbert waldon, consulting chemist." "mr. strong," said joe to the boy who came forward to inquire his errand. "mr. waldon is expecting me, i believe." "oh, yes," said the boy. "you're to come right in." joe was ushered into a room which was filled with strange appliances, from test tubes and retorts to electrical furnaces and x-ray apparatus. a little man in a rather soiled linen coat came forward, smiling. "i won't shake hands with you, mr. strong," he said, "for i've been dabbling in some vile-smelling stuff. but if you wait until i wash i'll be right with you." "all right," assented joe. and then, as he caught sight of what seemed to be a number of canceled bank checks on a table, he smilingly asked: "have you been paying your income tax?" "oh, no," answered the chemist with a laugh. "those are just some samples of paper sent in for me to test. an inventor is trying to get up an acid-proof ink. i'm a sort of paper expert, among my other chemical activities, and i'm putting these samples through a series of tests. but you'll not be interested in them." "i don't know but what i shall be," returned joe, with sudden energy. "since you are a paper expert i may be able to set you another task besides that of showing me the latest thing in fire-resisting liquids. yes, i may want your services in both lines." "well, i'm here to do business," said mr. waldon, smiling. chapter viii joe eats fire the chemist led the way into a little office. this opened off from the room in which was the apparatus, and where, as joe had become more and more keenly aware, there was a most unpleasant odor. "i'll open the window, close the laboratory door, and you won't notice it in a little while," said mr. waldon, as he observed joe's nose twitching. "i'm so used to it i don't mind, but you, coming in from the fresh air--" "it isn't exactly perfume," interrupted joe, with a laugh. "but don't be uneasy on my account. i can stand it." however, he was glad when the fresh air came in through the window. the chemist washed his hands and then sat down at a desk, inviting joe to draw up his chair. "now, what can i do for you?" asked mr. waldon. "is it fire or paper?" "well, since i know pretty well what i want to ask you in the matter of fire," replied joe, "and since i've got a puzzling paper problem here, suppose we tackle the hardest first, and come to the known, and easier, trick later." "just as you say," assented mr. waldon. "what's your paper problem?" joe's answer was to take from the valise several hundreds of the circus tickets. they were the kind sold for fifty cents, or perhaps more in these days of the war tax. they entitle the holder to a seat on what, at a baseball game, would be called the "bleachers." in other words they were not reserved-seat coupons. however, these tickets were not the one-time blue or red pieces of stiff pasteboard, bearing the name of the circus and the words "admit one," which were formerly sold at the gilded wagon. these were handed in at the main entrance, and the tickets were used over and over again. sometimes the blue ones sold for fifty cents, and a kind selling for seventy-five cents entitled the purchaser to a seat with a folding back to it, though it was not reserved. but joe had instituted some changes when he became one of the circus proprietors, and one was in the matter of the general admission tickets. he had them printed on a thin but tough quality of paper, and each ticket was numbered. in this way it needed but a glance at the last ticket in the rack and a look at the memorandum of the last number previously sold at the former performance, to tell exactly how many general admissions had been disposed of. these numbered tickets were not used over again, but were destroyed after the day's accounts had been made up. at first joe and some others of the officials had had an idea that the man who was charged with the work of destroying the tickets, instead of doing so, had kept some out and sold them at a reduced price. but an investigation proved that this was not the case. "some one is ringing in extra tickets on us," stated joe to the chemist. "we want to find out who it is and how the trick is worked. so far, we haven't been able to find this out. as a matter of fact, we don't know whether there are bogus tickets in our boxes or not. we haven't been able to detect two kinds. they all seem the same." "some numbers must be duplicated," said mr. waldon, as he picked up a handful of the slips joe had brought. "that's very obvious. the numbers must be duplicated in some instances." "yes, we have discovered that," returned joe. "but the queer part is, taking even two tickets with the same number, we don't know which was sold at our ticket wagon and which is the bogus one. here's a case in point." he picked up two of the coupons. as far as eye or touch could tell they were identical, and they bore the same red number, one up in the hundred thousands. "now," continued joe, "can you tell which of these two is the official circus ticket and which is the bogus one?" the chemist thought for a moment. "have you a ticket--say one issued some time ago--which you are positive is genuine?" he asked. "i'm ready for you there," answered joe. "here's a coupon that happened to escape destruction. it was one sold several weeks ago at our ticket wagon, before we noticed this trouble. i bought the ticket myself, so i know. i happened to be passing the wagon, and a boy was trying to reach up to buy a fifty cent seat. he wasn't quite tall enough, so i reached for him. "then, when i looked at him, i saw that fifty cents meant a lot to him. i gave him back his half dollar out of my own pocket, and passed him in to a reserved seat. but i forgot to turn the ticket in to the wagon, and it's been in my pocket ever since. now i'm glad i saved it, for it will serve as a tester." "yes," admitted the chemist, "it will. it's a good thing you have this. but, mr. strong, this is going to take some time. i'll have to compare all these tickets with the admittedly genuine one, and i'll have to make some intricate tests." "well, i hoped you might be able to tell me right off the reel which of these coupons were good and which bad," said joe. "but i can appreciate that it isn't easy. we certainly have been puzzled. so i'll leave them with you, and you can write to me when you have any results. i'll leave you a list of the towns where we'll be showing for the next two weeks. and now suppose we get at the fire-eating business." "all right," was the reply of the chemist. "but with the understanding that you do all the eating. i haven't any appetite that way myself." they both laughed, and then, for some hours, joe strong was closeted with the chemist. when joe emerged from the office of mr. waldon there was a look of satisfaction on the face of the young magician. "i think i can make quite an act, after what you've told me," he said. "as soon as i get it perfected i'll send you word and you can come to see me." "i will, if you aren't too far away," promised the chemist. that night, following the closing of the performance, joe invited helen, jim tracy, and a few of his more intimate friends and associates into his private dressing tent. "i have the nucleus of a new act," he said, when they were seated in chairs before a small table, on which were several pieces of apparatus. "just give me your opinion of this." joe lighted a candle, picked up on a fork what seemed to be a piece of bread, and touched it to the candle flame. in an instant the object that was on the fork burst into a blaze, and, before the eyes of his friends, joe calmly put the flaming portion into his mouth. he closed his lips, seemed to be chewing something, opened his mouth, and showed it empty. "a little light lunch!" he remarked, but his smile faded as helen screamed in horror. chapter ix the chemist's letter "oh, joe, you'll surely burn yourself!" exclaimed the startled bareback rider. "did you get burned?" questioned mrs. watson. "some trick!" declared the snake charmer. for the moment there was some excitement, for this was a new act for the circus people. helen soon recovered her customary composure, and then she explained the cause of her excitement and the startled cry she had given. she had, of course, expected some trick with fire when joe had summoned her and the others to his own private part of the dressing tents. but she had not expected to see him actually put the blazing material in his mouth. "i thought there was some sleight-of-hand performance about it," she said. "i had an idea that you only pretended to put the blazing stuff in your mouth, joe. and when i saw it i was afraid you'd breathe in the flames and--and--" she did not need to go on, they all understood what she meant, for every one in the circus knew that helen and joe were engaged. "i once saw a little boy burned at a bonfire at which he was playing," went on helen. "he died. since then the sight of fire near a human being has always a bad effect on me. but i suppose i can get over it, if i know there is no danger," she said with a slight smile at joe. "well, i can assure you there isn't the slightest danger," he declared. "if there was, i should be the first to give it up. i am as fond of living as any one." "you don't show it, young man, in some of the tricks you do," commented mrs. watson, with the freedom befitting a "circus mother," and the privilege of an old friend. "you must remember that you don't live only for yourself," and she looked significantly at helen. "oh, i'll be careful!" promised joe. "and now i'll do the trick again for you, and let you see that it's absolutely harmless. any of you could do it--if you knew how." "excuse me!" exclaimed jim tracy. "not for mine!" however they all watched joe eagerly and interestedly, even helen. he did not seem to make any unusual preparations. he merely took a drink of what seemed to be water. then he ignited something in the flame of the candle and placed the burning stuff in his mouth, seeming to chew it with gusto. "oh!" exclaimed helen. but beyond that and a momentary placing of one hand over her heart, she did not give way to emotion. then, as joe did the fire-eating trick again, helen forced herself to watch him closely. as he had said, he took no harm from the act. "tell us how you do it," begged bill watson. "when i get over being funny--or getting audiences to think i am--i may want to live on something hot. how do you work it?" "well," said joe, "if it's all the same to you, i'd rather not tell. it isn't that i'm afraid of any of my friends giving the trick away, and so spoiling the mystery of it for the crowds. it's just as it was in my box act. if any of you are asked how i do this fire trick you can truly say you don't know, for none of you will know by my telling, not even helen, though she is in on the box secret. i'll only say that i protect my face and mouth, as well as hands, in a certain way, and that i do, actually, put the blazing material into my mouth. i am not burned. so if any one asks you about the act you may tell them that much with absolute truth. now the question is--how is it going to go with the audiences? we need something--or, at least, i do--to create a sensation. will this answer?" "i should say so!" exclaimed jim tracy. "that ought to go big when it's dressed up." "oh, this is only the ground work," said joe. "i'm going to elaborate this fire act and make it the sensation of the season. i've only begun on it. i got from a chemist the materials i want with which to protect myself, and i have shown, to my own and your satisfaction, that i can eat fire without getting harmed. so far all is well. now i'm going to work the act up into something really worth while." "but you'll still be careful, won't you, joe?" asked helen. "indeed i will," he assured her. "do the trick once more, joe," suggested bill watson. "i'm coming as close as you'll let me, and i want to criticize it from the standpoint of a man in the audience." "that's what i'm after," said joe. "if there are any flaws in the act, now is the time to find it out." once more he set the material ablaze and put it into his mouth. bill watson watched closely, and, at the end, the old clown shook his head. "i saw you actually put the fire in your mouth," he testified. "no one can do more than that. it takes nerve!" of course, no one can actually swallow fire and live. the slightest breath of flame on the lungs or on the mucous membrane of the throat and passages is fatal. so when the terms "fire-eating" or "fire-eater" are used it will be in the sense of its being a theatrical act. there is a trick about it, and the trick is this: in the first place, the flame itself is produced by blazing alcohol. this produces a blaze, and a hot one, too, but there is no smoke. in other words, the combustion is almost perfect, there being no residue of carbon to remain hot after the actual flame is extinguished. and now as to the actual putting into one's mouth something that is blazing hot: it all depends on a very simple principle. if the hand be thoroughly wet in water it may be safely thrust for a fraction of a second into a flaming gas jet. but mark this--for the _fraction of a second only_. the water forms a protecting film for the skin, and before it is evaporated the hand must be taken out of danger. in other words, there is needed an appreciable time for the fire to beat the skin to the burning point. this immunity from burns, to which the professional fire-eaters owe their success, comes from this film of moisture on their skin. they do not always use water--in fact, this is only serviceable for a momentary contact with flame, and, at that, on the hands or face. in case a longer contact is desired, a fire-resisting chemical liquid is used. it is about the contact of flame with the tender mucous membrane surfaces of the mouth and throat that joe, as a fire-eater, was most concerned. in the first place, there is a constant film of the secretion called saliva always flowing in the mouth. it comes from glands in the throat and mouth, and is very necessary to good digestion. now, for a very brief period this saliva, which is just the same as a film of water on the hand, resists the fire. but professional fire-eaters do not depend on saliva alone. they use a chemical solution, and this is what joe did when he drank something from a glass. what that chemical solution was, joe kept as a closely guarded professional secret. he feared, too, that some boy might make it, rinse his mouth out with it, and then, getting an audience of his chums together, might try to eat some blazing coals. he might, and very likely would, be severely burned, and his parents or those in charge of him would blame joe for allowing such dangerous information to leak out. so, though he guarded all his secrets of magic, he was particularly careful to keep this one to himself. but joe protected his mouth and throat with a fire-resisting liquid, the formula for which was given him by the chemist to whom he submitted the circus tickets. the success of joe and others of his kind depends also in this on a well known natural law. it is that there can be no combustion in the ordinary sense where there is no oxygen. as a candle will surely go out if enclosed in an air-tight receptacle--that is, it will go out as soon as it has burned up all the oxygen--just so surely will flame of any kind go out when a person closes his mouth on it. and as there is scarcely any air in the closed mouth--all of it going down the bronchial tubes into the lungs--it follows that the flame dies out almost instantly. that fact being considered, and the mouth and throat having been previously treated with the secret chemical, there is really not so much danger as appears. as a matter of fact, a person inadvertently swallowing hot tea or coffee will burn or scald his mouth or tongue much more painfully than will a professional fire-eater. most people know how painful a burned tongue is. joe told something of the history of fire-eating "champions" to his audience of friends, for it appeared that he had been reading up on the subject and was well informed. then he announced that the private rehearsal was over. "but i'm going to work this fire-eating up into something that will cause a sensation," he said. and he made good his promise. it was about a week after this, and the circus had been traveling about, playing to good business, when joe received a letter. in the upper left-hand corner was the imprint of herbert waldon, chemist. "i hope he has some news about the circus tickets!" exclaimed joe. for the show had been losing money steadily by means of the bogus coupons; not as much as at first, but enough to make it necessary to discover the fraud. and, so far, mr. moyne had not been successful. "perhaps this explains the mystery," mused joe as he opened the letter. chapter x the pet cat the typewritten sheet of the letter from mr. waldon enclosed two of the engraved circus coupons. they fluttered to the floor of joe's private tent as he tore open the envelope. "well, either he has discovered something, or he has sent them back and given up," mused the young magician. "let's see what he says." joe quickly took in the contents of the letter. in effect it stated that mr. waldon had discovered which were the bogus and which were the real circus tickets. he first gave an explanation of the chemical tests he used. joe read this hastily, but carefully, then passed to the conclusions arrived at by the expert, who was an authority on various kinds of paper, as well as chemicals. "the ticket i have marked no. is a genuine coupon, issued by your circus corporation," said mr. waldon in his letter. "the slip marked by me as no. is a counterfeit. you will observe that they both bear the red ink serial number , . "if you were a paper expert you would observe that the paper used in the two tickets is different. there is not a very great difference, and i am inclined to think that both the genuine and the counterfeit tickets were made on paper from the same mill, but of a different 'run.' that is, it was made at a different time. "the printer who manufactured your tickets bought his paper from a certain mill making a specialty of this particular kind. then some one, who must know something of your financial and business interests, had the bogus tickets made, and on the same kind of paper. but there is a slight difference, which i was able to detect by means of chemical reactions. the coloring matter used varied slightly, though the texture of the two kinds of paper is almost exactly similar. "now, having settled that point, the solution of the remaining equations of the problem rests with you. i can not tell who had the bogus tickets printed. you will have to go to the mill making the paper and find out to whom they sold this kind. in that way you will learn the names of all printers, using it, and by a process of elimination you will get at the one who printed the counterfeits. "this printer may be an innocent party, or he may be guilty. that is for you and the detectives to determine. i hope i have started you on the right track. i shall be interested to hear, my dear mr. strong, how you make out in your fire-eating act." "i'll tell him as soon as i try it on a real audience," said joe, with a smile, as he folded the letter. "and so counterfeit tickets have been rung in on us! well, i suspected that, since our own men were thoroughly to be trusted. now to get at the guilty ones. and i shouldn't be surprised if i could name one of the men involved. but i'll call a meeting, and lay this before the directors." the sampson brothers' show was incorporated and was run strictly on business lines. there was a board of directors who looked after all business matters, and joe was soon in consultation with them, laying before them mr. waldon's letter and the two marked tickets. "it would take an expert to tell them apart," said mr. moyne, as he examined the coupons closely. "well, what are we to do?" "in the first place," declared joe, "we must change our form of general admission tickets at once. that will stop the fraud, graft, or whatever you want to call it. then we must do as mr. waldon says--look for the guilty parties. we'll have to hire some detectives, i think." this plan was voted a good one, and steps were at once taken to change the form and style of the general admission tickets. joe also wired for a man from a well known detective agency to meet the show at the next town. then the printing shop which made the circus tickets was communicated with. that was all that could be done at present, and joe gave his attention to perfecting his new fire-eating act. he did not give up his mystery box trick, and he still presented the vanishing lady illusion, helen assisting in both of these. joe also did the big swing, which always caused a thrill on account of the danger involved. careful watch was kept over the trapeze and other apparatus so that no more dangerous tampering could he attempted, and joe always looked over everything with sharp eyes before trusting himself high in the air. "some one evidently has a grudge against me as well as against the circus in general," he said to jim tracy. "maybe it's the same person," suggested the ringmaster. "perhaps. well, as soon as we get some word from the detectives we can start on the trail." the circus had arrived at a large city, where it was to show three days and nights, and preparations were made for big crowds, as the city was the center of a large number of industries, where many thousands of men were employed at good wages. "we'll play to 'straw room only' at every performance," said mr. moyne, rubbing his hands with glee as he thought of the dollars that would be taken in. "and i'm glad we discovered the bogus tickets in time. we'd be out a lot of money if the counterfeits were to be used here." "yes," agreed joe. "but we aren't out of the woods yet. the same man who imitated the light green tickets may have the bright blue ones which we now use for general admission duplicated and sell them." "we'll have to take that chance," said the treasurer. "but i'll instruct the ticket takers to be unusually careful." that was all that could be done. the detective had reported that he was making an examination, starting at the paper mill, and was endeavoring to learn where the bogus tickets had been made. the circus parade had been held and witnessed by enthusiastic crowds lining the streets. then was every prospect of big business, and it was borne out. joe wished he had prepared his fire act earlier but it could not be helped. "i'll have it ready for to-morrow, though," he said to jim tracy, at the conclusion of the first afternoon in the big city where they were to stay three days. "then i'm going to have it advertised," said the ringmaster, who also sometimes acted as assistant general manager. "we'll bill it big. you're sure of yourself, are you?" "oh, yes," answered joe with a laugh. "i'll give 'em their money's worth all right, but it won't be the big sensation i'm planning for later on. that will take time." "well, as long as it's a fire act it will be new and novel, and it will draw," declared jim tracy. it was later in the afternoon, when the circus performance was over, that joe and helen strolled downtown, as was their custom. some convention was being held in the city, and across one of the principal streets was stretched a big banner of the kind used in political campaigns. it was hung from a heavy, slack wire from the brick walls of two opposite buildings, and the banner attracted considerable attention because of a novel picture on it. joe and helen were standing in the street, looking up at the swaying creation of canvas and netting, when a woman's cry came to their ears. "look! look! the cat! the cat is walking the wire!" she exclaimed. joe and helen turned first to see who it was that had cried out. it was a woman in the street, and with her parasol she pointed upward. there, surely enough, half way out on the thick, slack wire, and high above the middle of the street was a large white cat. it was walking the wire as one's pet might walk the back fence. but this cat seemed to have lost its nerve. it had got half way across, but was afraid to go farther and could not turn around and go back. as joe and helen looked, a woman appeared at the window of one of the buildings from the front walls of which the banner was suspended, and, pointing at the cat, cried: "a hundred dollars to whoever saves my cat! a hundred dollars reward!" chapter xi the rescue the tumult which had arisen in the street beneath the banner when the crowd caught sight of the cat was hushed for a moment after the woman's frantic cry. before that there had been some laughter, and not a few cat-calls and exaggerated "miaows" from boys in the street. but now every one, even the mischievous urchins, seemed to sense that something unusual was about to take place. "come back, peter! come back!" cried the woman, stretching out her arms to the cat from the window out of which she leaned. "come back to me!" the white cat on the wire heard the voice of the woman and seemed to want to return to its mistress. but either the cat was not an adept at turning on such a narrow support, or it was afraid to try. and, likewise, it was afraid to go forward. there it stood, about in the middle of the wire, high above the street, and it clung to its perch by its claws. the banner was hung from the cross wire by means of several loops of rope, and it was in some of these loops that the cat had stuck its claws, and so hung on. as the cat remained there, suspended, the crowd in the street below increased in size. but from the time the woman had so frantically called there had been no more of the cries from the crowd that might be expected to frighten the animal. "will some one get my cat?" cried the woman in a shrill voice, which could easily be heard by joe, helen, and nearly every one else. "i'll give one hundred dollars in cash to whoever saves him!" she went on. "come back, peter! come back!" she appealed. there was a thoughtless laugh from some one at the woman's anxiety, and some one cried: "there's lots of cats! let peter go!" "the society for the prevention of cruelty to animals ought to get after whoever that was," said helen indignantly, and there was an approving murmur from some of those near her. "does any one know that lady?" asked joe, pointing at the figure in the window. a pathetic figure it was, too, of an old woman clad in black, as though she had lost all her friends. "yes, she's a queer character," said some one who seemed to know. "lives up there all alone in the old house that, except for the upper part where she is now, has been turned into offices. "she's rich, they say. owns that building and a lot of others on this street. but she lives all alone in a few rooms, and has a lot of pet cats. i guess that's one which got away." "it got away all right," said another man. "and i don't believe she'll ever get it back. the cat's scared to death." "why doesn't it jump?" asked some one. "i heard that cats always land on their feet, no matter how far they fall." "a fall from there would kill any cat," said joe, as he handed helen a small package he had been carrying--a purchase he had made at one of the stores. "what are you going to do?" she asked, sensing that joe strong had some object in mind. "i'm going to get that cat," he said in a low voice. "i can't bear to see it harmed, and it can't cling there much longer. night's coming on, too, and if it isn't rescued soon it won't be until morning. i know what it is to have a pet suffer. i'm going to get that cat!" "oh, mister, you can't!" cried a small girl who was standing near by and overheard this remark. "i should say not!" exclaimed the man who had given a little personal sketch of the woman in black. "the longest ladder in the fire department won't reach up to that wire, and they can't use extension ones, or scaling ones as they could on a building. you can't get that cat, sir, though i wish some one could. i don't like to see dumb brutes suffer. but you can't get it!" "perhaps i can!" said joe modestly. he started toward the street entrance of the old building, from the upper window of which leaned the pathetic figure of the woman calling to her cat out on the swaying wire. "oh, joe," helen began, "are you really going to--" and then she stopped. "i am!" he answered, for he knew she understood. "wait here for me. i won't be long." only a few in the crowd had heard what joe said, or understood his intentions as he made his way through the press of people. the woman at the window was unaware of the fact that some one had heard her and was about to heed her appeal. "a hundred dollars to whoever saves my cat!" she cried again. this time no one laughed. joe strong, acrobat, athlete, magician, and possessed of many other muscular accomplishments started up the stairs. the lower part of the office building was deserted at this hour, but he made his way to the place where he judged the woman lived alone. he was confirmed in this belief by hearing from behind a closed door the barking and whining of dogs. "she must keep a regular menagerie," mused joe. "probably these are all the friends she has, poor old lady!" he knocked on a door that seemed to be the entrance to the living apartments. there was a cessation of the barking and whining, and a moment later a querulous voice asked: "who is there? what do you want?" "is that your cat out on the wire?" asked joe. "yes! oh, yes! that's peter! my favorite cat! oh, have you saved him? have you got him down? no, you can't have! he's out on that wire yet!" she cried. and then she opened the door. joe was confronted by the same woman he had observed leaning from the window. her face was pale, and she was quite elderly. but there was a kind and pathetic look about her eyes. once, she must have been beautiful. joe had no time to speculate on what might have been the romantic history of the woman. she looked eagerly at him. "what do you want?" she demanded. "i never see any one. i live here alone. i must beg you to excuse me. i have to see if some one will not, save my cat." "that is just what i came up for," said joe, smiling. "i am a lover of animals myself. i'd like to save your pet." "oh, if you will, i'll pay you the hundred dollars!" cried the woman. "i have it!" she went on eagerly. "it's in here," and she motioned to the rooms. they were tastefully, but not lavishly, furnished. "we'll talk about that later," said joe, with a smile. "the point is let me get the cat first." "but you can't get him from here--from these rooms!" the woman in black exclaimed. "he's out on the wire! you'll have to climb up in some way! oh, i don't know how you can do it!" there were tears in her eyes and she clasped her hands imploringly. "i can't get your cat from the street," said joe. "that's why i came up here. i must walk out on the wire from your window. have you a pair of slippers? the older and softer the better--slippers with thin, worn soles." "why, yes, i have. but you--you can't walk out on the wire! it is too small, almost, for my cat! you can't do it! it is impossible!" "oh, no," answered joe gently, "it isn't impossible. i have done it before. if you'll let me get to a window near which the wire is stretched, and if you will let me take a pair of old slippers." "come in!" interrupted the eccentric old woman, opening wide the door. "i don't in the least know what you intend to do, but something seems to tell me i can trust you. and if only you can save peter--" "i'll try," said joe simply. the woman began to search frantically in a closet, throwing out shoes, dresses, and other feminine wearing apparel. as she delved among the things, a shout arose from the street, the noise of the voices floating in through the open window. joe looked out. "oh, has peter fallen?" cried the woman. that, too, had been joe's thought. "no," he answered, as he took an observation. "your cat has only changed his position a little. i suppose the crowd thought it was going to fall, but it's all right. i'll soon have it back to you. is it a vicious cat?" "oh, no indeed. he's as gentle as can be. but perhaps he might be so scared now that he wouldn't know what he was doing. i see what you mean. here, i'll give you an old pair of gloves for your hands." "that's what i want," said joe. "i can't afford to have my hands scratched, as i do some legerdemain tricks. but i need some soft-soled slippers more than i need gloves." "here is a pair," said the woman. "they're mine. i wear large ones, for i like to be comfortable." "they'll fit me," decided joe, after an inspection. "just what i want, too!" he began to take off his shoes. "do you really mean you are going to walk out on that wire and get my cat?" asked the woman, comprehending his intention as she saw joe putting on the slippers and drawing on the old gloves she had given him. they were a man's size, and he judged she must have used them in rough work about the house. "i'm going out on the wire to get your cat," he said. "oh, but i ought not to let you! you may fall and be killed! when i said i'd give a hundred dollars to whoever would save peter, i did not mean that any one should risk his life. much as i love my cat, i couldn't allow that." "i'll be all right," said joe easily. "walking wires is part of my business. now don't worry. and please don't scream if you are going to watch me." she looked at him curiously. "i am not in the habit of screaming," she said quietly. "well, i thought it best to mention it," said joe. he was now ready for his most novel form of walking the wire. he moved toward the window from which the woman had leaned. it was the same casement whence the cat had started on its perilous journey. joe felt sure of himself. the slippers were just what he needed, with soft, pliable soles, worn thin. they were the best substitute he could have found for his circus shoes. the wire from which the banner was suspended was fast to an eye-bolt set in the brick wall of the building a little below the sill of the window. it had been easy for the cat to step out and get on the cable. joe appeared at the window. he had taken off his coat and, in his white shirt, blue tie, and black trousers, he made a striking figure in the brilliant sunset light. instantly the crowd in the street saw him and divined his intention. joe doubted not that helen was looking up at him. it was an easy step for him from the window sill to the wire from which was suspended the banner. he knew it would support his weight in addition to the big net affair. the size of the cable and the manner in which it was fastened told him that. still he cautiously tried it with one foot before trusting all his weight to it. the spring of the wire told him all he needed to know. pausing a moment to make sure of himself, joe strong started to walk across the wire toward the clinging cat. the crowd gave one roar of welcome and approval, and then became hushed. this was what joe wanted. now it was just as if he were doing the act in the circus. only there was this difference--there was no safety net below him. but it was not the first time joe had taken this risk. true, beneath him were the hard stones of the street, but a fall from the height at which he now was would be fatal, no matter what the character of ground under him. he dismissed all such thoughts from his mind. slowly, and with the caution he always used, joe started on his journey across the wire. the cat felt his coming, and turned its head, as it crouched down, and looked at him. but it did not move. the creature was literally "scared stiff." foot by foot joe progressed. below him the crowd watched breathlessly. joe knew helen was there, praying for him, though he could not see her. in the window stood the figure in black, a silent, hopeful but much worried woman. she kept her promise not to scream, but joe realized that the crucial moment was yet to come. on and on he went nearer and nearer to the crouching cat. if only the animal would have sense enough to lie still and not make a fuss when he picked it up, joe felt that all would be well. but would peter behave? that was the question. joe was now almost over the middle of the street. far below him was the crowd--a sea of upturned faces, reddened by the reflected rays of the setting sun. the throng was silent. joe was glad of that. "keep still now, peter, i'm coming for you!" said joe in a low voice. "that's right, peter!" added the woman. "be a good cat now. you are going to be saved! keep still and don't scratch!" whether the cat heard and understood it is hard to say. but it uttered a pitiful: "mew!" inch by inch, foot by foot joe advanced. he was quite sure of himself now. he felt that he could easily have walked across the wire from building to building, with the street chasm below him, and even could have made the return trip. but picking up the cat and carrying it back was another thing. it would have been easier for joe to have carried a man across on his back. he could direct the motions of the man. could he those of the cat? still he was going to try. on and on he went. the woman in black was leaning from the window, holding out her arms as though to catch joe should he fall. but he did not think of falling. in another few seconds he was standing right over the cat. he could see the animal's claws tensely clinging to the rope strands that held the banner. now came ticklish work. "easy, peter! go easy now!" said joe soothingly. he slowly and carefully stooped down. it was a trick he had often performed in the circus on the high wire. but never under circumstances like this. joe's hands came in contact with the fur of the cat's back. he gently stroked the animal, murmuring: "come on now, peter! let go! loosen your claws! i'm not going to hurt you. let me pick you up!" again it is hard to say that the cat knew what joe was saying, but it certainly made its body less tense. the claws were loosed. joe straightened up, holding the cat in his arms. he could feel its heart beating like some overworked motor. a roar arose from the crowd, but it was instantly hushed. the throng seemed to realize that the return journey was infinitely more perilous than the outward one had been. joe could not turn. he must walk backward to the window, carrying the cat, which at any moment might become wild and scramble from his arms, upsetting his balance. yet joe strong never faltered. chapter xii the fire act realizing that he must use every caution, joe strong had two things to think of. one was himself, and the other the cat. he could not carry the creature in his arms, as he needed to extend them to balance himself. he had walked short distances along slack wires without doing this, but in those cases he had been able to run, and his speed made up for the lack of balancing power of the extended arms. now, however, he needed to observe this precaution. what could he do with the cat? in that moment of peril a boyhood scene arose to joe's mind. he recalled that on the farm where he had lived there was a pet cat which liked to crawl up his back and curl on his shoulders, stretching out completely across them and snuggling against the back of his head. "if i can get this cat to do that i'll be all right," thought joe. "i'll try it." balancing himself, he changed the cat's position and put it up on his shoulder. even if it rested on only one it would leave his hands free and he could extend his arms and balance himself. but peter seemed to know just what was wanted of him. with a little "mew," the animal took the very position joe wanted it to--extended along his back, close to his head. and not until then did joe begin to step backward. breathlessly the crowd watched him. step by step he went, feeling for the wire on which he placed his feet. and each step made him more confident. the crowd was silently watching. it was reserving its wild applause. step by step joe walked backward until he heard the low voice of the woman at the open window. "shall i take peter now?" she asked. "can you reach him?" asked joe. he knew he was close to the building. "yes," she answered. "then do," said joe. "he may try to spring off when he sees himself so close to you. take him. i'll stand still a moment." he felt the cat stirring. the next instant he was relieved of peter's weight, and then, with a quick turning motion, joe himself was half way within the window and sitting on the sill. he had walked out on the wire, stretched a hundred feet above the street, and rescued the cat. the pet was now in the arms of the woman in black. and then such a roar as went up in the crowd! men thumped one another on the back, and then shook hands, wondering at their foolishness and why there was such a queer lump in their throats. "oh! oh!" gasped the woman, as she hugged peter to her. "i can never thank you enough--not in all my life. it may be foolish to care so much for a cat. but i can't help it. it isn't all that. i couldn't have borne it to have seen him fall and be killed." "he's all right now--after he gets over being scared," said joe, as he stroked the cat in the arms of the woman in black. "and now will you let me know to whom i am indebted?" she asked. "please come in, and i'll pay you the reward." "well, i'll come in and put on my shoes," said joe, with a smile. "i didn't need the gloves," he added. "peter was very gentle." "oh, he's a good cat!" said his mistress. "and now," she added, when joe had resumed his shoes and coat, "will you please tell me your name and how you learned to walk wires and rescue cats?" "i never rescued cats before," joe returned, smiling. "it's something new. but walking wires is my trade--or one of 'em. i'm with the circus. i do some tricks and--" "oh, are you the man who gets out of the box?" she cried. "i have read about that trick." "it is one of mine," said joe modestly. "i'm so glad to know you!" exclaimed the woman. she seemed less of a recluse than at first. "i haven't been to a circus for years--not since i was a child," she continued, half sadly, joe thought. "but i'm coming to-night!" she exclaimed. "i'll have the janitor look after my cats and dogs, and i'll go to the circus. i want to see you act. it will bring back my lost youth--or part of it," she murmured. "allow me to make sure that you will be there," said joe. "here is a reserved ticket. i will look for you." "and now let me give you the reward i promised," begged the woman, as joe was about to leave. "i have the money here--in cash," she added quickly. she went to a bureau, putting peter down on a cushion. the cat observed joe intently. the woman came back with a roll of bills. "no, really, i couldn't take it!" protested joe. "i didn't save your cat for money. i was glad enough to do it for the animal's sake." "please take it!" she urged. "i--i am well off, even if i live here," she said hesitatingly. "i shall feel better if you take it." "and i shall feel better if you give it to the red cross," said joe. "that needs it, to help the stricken, more than i do. i make pretty good money myself," he added. "and i didn't do this for a reward." "but i promised it!" "well, then consider that i took it, and you, in my name, may pass it on to the red cross," said joe. "and now, may i ask your name?" the woman told him. it was miss susan crawford. the name meant nothing to joe, though he afterward learned she was a member of an old, wealthy and aristocratic family. she had had an unfortunate love affair, and, her family having all died, she made for herself a little apartment in one of her many buildings and lived there with her pets--a recluse in the midst of a big city. it was a pathetic story. "i wish you would let me reward you in some way," said miss crawford wistfully, as joe left. "you did so much, and you get nothing out of it." "oh, yes i do," returned the young acrobat. "i'll get a lot of advertising out of this, and it will be the best thing in the world for the circus." and joe was right. the next day the papers all carried big stories of his wire-walking feat to save the cat that had ventured out over the street and was afraid to go back. bigger crowds than ever came to the circus. as she had promised, miss crawford was at the evening performance, and joe introduced a little novelty in one of his "magic stunts," producing a cat instead of a rabbit from a man's pocket. as he held it up he looked over and smiled at the old lady in black, for he had given her a seat near his stage. she smiled back. joe never saw her again. she was found dead a few months later in her lonely rooms, with her cats and dogs around her. but joe always remembered her. the street wire-walking feat was the talk of the city, and when, the following day, joe announced that he was ready to put on his fire act, which had been well advertised, every one was on figurative tiptoes to see what it would be. joe had made all his preparations, and he had taken care to provide against danger and accidents. he realized the risk he was running in handling fire in a circus tent before crowds of people. but extinguishers were provided, and one of the fire-fighting force of the circus was constantly on hand. after the preliminary whistle of the ringmaster which ended the other acts and prepared for joe's new one, the young magician advanced to the platform and gave a little "patter." "ladies and gentlemen," he said, "in introducing my new act i wish, first of all, to assure you that there is no danger. even though i seem to be in the midst of fire, do not be alarmed. i shall be safe, and no harm will come to you." joe did this to forestall a possible panic. "you have all heard of the ancient salamanders," he went on. "it is reputed that this animal was able to live in the midst of fire. as to the truth of that i can not say. i never saw a salamander, that i know of. but that fire may safely be handled by human beings, and not at the risk of being burned, i am about to demonstrate to you. i shall first show you how to carry fire about in your hands, so that if you run short of matches at any time you will not lack means of igniting the gas, starting your kitchen range, or enjoying your smoke. while the stage is being made ready for my main act, i will show you how to carry fire in your hands." chapter xiii a sensational dive striking a match, joe ignited two candles that stood on a little table at one side of his stage. on the other side his assistants were setting up the apparatus he intended to use in his more elaborate experiments. "you observe that the trick has not yet begun," said joe, with a laugh, as he blew out the match. "in other words, i am lighting these candles in the ordinary way--just as any one of you would do it, if he needed to. in a moment i will show you how to light the candles in case one is accidentally blown out and you have no match." allowing both candles to burn up well, with clear, bright flames, joe suddenly blew out one. "now," he said, "i will show you how to carry fire in your hands from the lighted to the unlighted candle. watch me closely!" joe cupped his hands around the lighted candle, seeming to take the flame up in his fingers. when he removed his hands, which he still held in cup, or globular, shape, the second candle had been extinguished. both were now out. "you will notice that i am carrying the flame in my hands from one candle to the other," said joe, in a loud voice, as he walked across the stage. for an instant he spread his hands, cup fashion, around the candle he had first blown out. suddenly he withdrew his hands, holding them wide apart and in full view of the audience, and, lo! the unlighted candle was glowing brightly. there was a moment of silence, and then the applause broke forth. joe bowed and said: "that is how to carry fire in your hands. but please don't any of you try it unless you get the directions from me." "tell us how to do it!" piped up a small boy. "come and see me after the show!" laughed joe. and, while on this subject, it might be well to explain how joe did the trick. it is very simple, but it takes practice, and an amateur may easily be fatally burned in the attempt, simple as it is. joe lighted the candles in the usual way, with a match, as already explained. there was no trick about this, nor about blowing out one. but immediately after that the trick started. joe placed a little piece of waxed paper between the first and second fingers of his left hand as soon as he had blown out the first candle. this paper was a slender strip, and could not be seen by the audience. when he cupped his hands around the remaining lighted candle joe ignited this waxed strip, taking care to work it away from his palms and fingers. it burned with a tiny flame and with scarcely any heat in the middle of the hollow cup formed by his hands. as soon as he had ignited the paper joe, by pressing the lower edges of his palms against the blazing wick of the candle, extinguished it. this had the same effect as though he had "pinched" out the flame with finger and thumb, as many country persons put out, or "snuff," candles to-day--for candles are still much used in some places. now we have joe with a little blazing taper concealed in his cupped hands, advancing to the candle he first blew out. he placed his hands around this, lighted the wick from the taper, which he at once crushed between his fingers, and the trick was done. the candle was lighted, the remains of the little taper were concealed between joe's fingers, and it looked as though he had really carried fire in his hands. the quickness with which he pinched out the candle flame, and also smothered the taper after he had used it, prevented him from being burned in the slightest. but it is best for a boy unpracticed and without the dexterity of a professional prestidigitator not to undertake to play with fire. joe strong believed in doing his tricks and acts artistically and elaborately. he had watched other performers "dress their act," and he had often improved on what even stage veterans had done. his apprenticeship had been a stern but good one. and now he was going to introduce something novel in his fire-eating tricks, but he was also going to add to that. he had read considerable of late about the fire-eating tricks of the old "magicians" and had delved into many curious old books. now he was going to give his audience some of this information. "there is a trick in everything," said joe, as he faced his audience in readiness for the fire-eating act. "if i told you that i actually swallowed blazing fire, any physician would know that i was not telling the truth. i do not really eat the fire. i only seem to do so. but if in doing so i can deceive you into thinking i do, and you are thrilled and amused, you get your money's worth, i earn mine, and we are all satisfied. so don't be alarmed by what you see. "the resistance of the human body to heat is greater than many persons suppose," said joe. "and there is a vast difference between wet heat and dry heat. water, above one hundred and fifty degrees, would be unbearable. it would really burn you badly. water, as you know, boils at two hundred and twelve degrees fahrenheit. but before this point is reached it is capable of ending life. "dry heat, however, is different. men have frequently borne without permanent discomfort dry heat up to three hundred degrees. this heat is often reached in the drying rooms of oilcloth and oiled silk factories. "now the fire i handle is dry heat. i would no more think of pouring boiling water over my hands than i would of taking poison. and yet i will show you that i can thrust my hand into a blazing fire and suffer no harm. "in an old book i read that to enable one to thrust one's hands into the fire all you had to do was to anoint them with a mixture of _bol armenian_, quicksilver, camphor and spirits of wine. i should prefer to leave that mixture alone, though in the book it is said that if one puts that mixture on his hands he may handle boiling lead. "perhaps some ancient magician did this, but i think he depended more on water than on anything else. if your hands are wet there is formed on them a film of moisture which, for a moment, will enable you to withstand high degrees of dry heat. "in another old book i read that if one prepared himself with 'liquid stortax,' which is juice from a certain tree growing in italy, he could enter fire, bathe in fire, put a burning coal on his tongue, and even swallow fire. "now i am not going to let you into all my secrets. you shall see--what you shall see!" concluded joe. as intimated before, the method joe strong used is not going to be printed here. you have been given some genuine ancient formulae, safe in the knowledge that some of the ingredients can not be obtained. and the modern substitutes are not going to be told. enough to say that joe had "prepared himself." the young magician looked to see that all was in readiness. perceiving that it was, he retired for a moment to a cabinet set up on the stage, and when he came out he was ready for his tricks. joe advanced to what seemed to be an elaborate candelabra in which seven tapers were set. he stood in front of this a moment, and then he announced: "having lived on a fire diet so long i have a bit to spare. i will light these candles without using a match." he waved his hand over the candelabra. sparks were seen to shoot from his finger tips, and in an instant the seven lights were glowing. that was an electrical trick. in reality the candles were gas jets, made to look like wax tapers, and joe lighted them from an electric current produced by a dry battery he carried on his person. he then proceeded to his main trick. he picked up a plate. it seemed to contain pieces of bread. joe touched the edge of the plate to a flame of one of the candles. in an instant the plate was ablaze, and joe calmly began putting the blazing stuff on it into his mouth. cube after cube of the blazing "bread" he lifted up on a fork and thrust between his lips. and he seemed to enjoy the "eating" of it. the audience was spellbound. every one's eyes were on joe strong doing his fire-eating trick. the plate was empty. joe looked about as though for something else hot to eat. he caught up an article from a table. holding it to the flame of a candle, it was at once ablaze. and then, with a thrilling cry, joe strong leaped from the stage, his two hands, held high above his head, seeming to be enveloped in a mass of fire. and with this fire held over him, he ran toward the tank in which benny turton did his "human fish" act. the next instant joe strong, apparently ablaze all over, dived into the tank. chapter xiv head first which was the more surprised--benny turton, who had just finished his fish act in his tank, the spellbound audience, or jim tracy, who was, in a way, directing joe's performance--it would be hard to say. all three were thrilled by the unexpected outcome of the fire-eating act. joe strong alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and, it might be mentioned incidentally, perfectly at home in the water. he had, as told in a previous volume, entitled "joe strong, the boy fish," perfected himself in this sort of work, and could remain submerged for an unusually long time. of course the fire which seemed to envelop the young magician was instantly put out when he leaped into the tank. he was wearing a rather fancy suit, and as he came up, wet and bedraggled, jim tracy could not help wondering what joe meant by his performance. "joe! joe! was that part of the act or an accident?" asked jim in a low voice, as he ran over to where joe was now climbing out of the tank. for one instant joe hesitated. the audience was wildly applauding now. clearly there was but one thought in their minds. the whole thing was a trick--joe had only pretended to be on fire and had taken that sensational means of appearing to extinguish the blaze. but the ringmaster noted a queer look on his friend's face. it was not the look it usually wore when joe had completed some hazardous or sensational trick. "are you hurt, joe--burned?" asked jim tracy anxiously. "no," was the answer. "it was all part of the act!" the ringmaster looked satisfied, and it was not until some time afterward that he learned what a narrow escape joe had had. "this will be part of the fire-eating stunt at every show," said joe to the ringmaster. "you might make the announcement so the people won't be scared." "i will! say, it's some stunt all right!" and then jim began with his sonorous "ladies and gentlemen!" he stated that the young fire-eater would show his familiarity with, and mastery over, fire by setting himself ablaze and leaping into the tank to extinguish the flames. the ringmaster added that there would be no danger to either the audience or the performer in this feature. joe bowed to the applause that followed, and then hurried to his dressing room to don dry clothes for his mystery box trick. "i should think, if you were going to do tank work, you'd wear a suit better adapted to it--like mine," said benny turton, whose apartment was next to joe's in the dressing tent. "i'm going to," joe announced, looking around to make sure no one overheard. "the fact of the matter is, benny, i didn't count on pulling off this stunt. it was an accident. some of the alcohol i use on the tow was spilled on my sleeves and caught fire. then more flames burst out. luckily they were at my back, so when i ran the flames were fanned away from me. but i knew the tank was the safest place to go, and in i jumped." "but i heard you tell jim it was all arranged." "i did that so the crowd wouldn't get into a panic. however i am going to work the trick at each performance after this, only i'm going to wear a different suit." and joe did. he had a garment partly made of asbestos, though outwardly it did not resemble that fire-resisting material any more than do the asbestos curtains in theaters. and at the conclusion of his fire-eating act joe would seemingly burst into fire and run blazing across the stage to leap into the tank of water. this finish to the act never failed to win great applause. and once in the tank joe did some of the under-water tricks that had brought him fame. he was careful, however, not to duplicate anything that benny turton did, for he did not want to "crab" the act of his friend. but joe's fire and water act was one of the big features on the circus bill. "is this the sensation you were speaking of?" asked helen one day, when they had concluded an afternoon's performance. "no," answered joe. "this only came about by accident. i'm working on something more sensational yet, and i am going to ask you to help me." "i'm sure i'll do anything i can," said she. "you won't be in any danger," the young magician went on. "i'm beginning to understand fire better the more i study it. i'm not getting too familiar, either, let me tell you. even a little scorch is very painful." "i glanced through one of your books the other day," remarked helen. "do you really suppose some of those old magicians actually handled fire in the way it is stated?" "well, at least they pretended to," said her friend. "there are tricks in all trades, you know." as the circus went on its way business kept up well, and it was seen that the season was going to be an excellent one from a financial standpoint. "any more bogus tickets coming in?" asked joe one day of the treasurer. "not since we adopted the new style," was the answer. "have the detectives gotten on the trail of the man, or the men, who cheated us?" asked helen. "not yet," reported mr. moyne. "the last report i had from them was that they were getting nearer and nearer to a certain person whom they suspected. they promise an arrest soon." "that's the usual story," remarked joe. "however, we don't so much care about an arrest now if we have stopped the counterfeit tickets from being worked off on us." "well, there's always a chance that the same thing will happen again," returned mr. moyne. "it's too easy money for the criminals to give up, i'm afraid. i'm on the lookout every day for more counterfeits." "well, i'll leave it to you," remarked joe. "whenever anything happens let me know and we'll take some action." joe strong was now kept very busy in the circus. in fact he was what would be called a "star." he did his mystery box trick, and, with helen, worked the "vanishing lady" trick so neatly that no one guessed how it was done. the ten thousand dollars was not claimed, successfully, though several tried it, with the result that several local red cross organizations were enriched by the hundred dollar forfeit. in addition to these mystery acts, and some more ordinary sleight-of-hand tricks which he used to fill in with, joe did his fire-eating trick, ending that act with the plunge into the tank. this never failed to create a sensation. "but it isn't the big sensation i'm after!" said joe, when his friends congratulated him. "wait until you see that!" another feature of joe's performance was his wire-walking. since he had rescued the lady's cat he had added this to his share of the program, and it was a thriller enjoyed by many audiences. "but it's a little tame," said joe one day to jim tracy. "i want to put a little more pep into it." "how are you going to do it?" asked the ringmaster. "i think i know a way," was the answer. and a few days later joe gave a demonstration. the wire on which he performed was a high one, stretched between two well-braced poles. on each pole was fastened a small platform, somewhat like those high up in the tent where the big swing was fastened. joe walked across the wire from one platform to the other, doing various "stunts" on the slender support. one day jim tracy noticed that a long to the ground between one of the rings and a wooden platform. "what's that, joe?" asked the ringmaster, "looks like an extra guy wire for the pole." "no, that's for my new stunt," said joe. "i'll show you at this show." the audience watched him performing on the high wire. jim tracy was watching, too, for he remembered what joe had said. suddenly, at the conclusion of the usual wire-walking feats, joe stooped, placed his head on the slanting wire, raised himself until he was standing with his legs up and spread apart. then he quickly flung wide his hands and slid on his head down the slanting win to the ground, stopping himself just before he reached it by grasping the wire in his gloved hands. jim tracy, who was sitting on a box, leaped to his feat. "head first!" he cried. "that's some stunt!" and the audience seemed to think so, too, from the way it applauded. chapter xv the swindlers again joe strong, having checked his rapid, head-first and head-on slide down the slanting wire by grasping it in his gloved hands, gave a "flip-flop" and stood up, bowing to the loud applause. jim tracy and some of the other circus employees surrounded the young man. "why didn't you tell us you were going to pull off something like this?" demanded the ringmaster. "because i wasn't sure until the last minute that i would do it," answered joe. "i hadn't practiced it as much as i should have liked, but when i got up there on the platform i felt pretty sure i could do it. i wasn't running much risk anyhow, except that of failure. i knew i wouldn't fall, for i could have grabbed the wire in my hands if i had started to topple over." "but how did you do it?" asked some one, who came up to join the wondering throng after joe's feat had been performed. "i've seen you stand on your head before, but to slide down a wire--say, what sort of scalp have you, anyhow?" joe laughed and held out a close-fitting skull-cap of leather. fastened to the leather was a small steel framework, and in this frame were two small grooved wheels, like the wheels of a trolley by means of which street cars receive the electric current from the wire. joe put the cap on his head to show how it enabled him to do the trick. the big races were on now, as the close of the performance was close at hand, and the crowd was paying attention to the contests and not to the group of performers surrounding the young magician. once they had seen the cap with the grooved wheels on top placed on joe's head, his friends understood how the trick was done. he had simply to balance himself on his head on the wire, a feat he had often performed before. the natural attraction of gravitation did the rest. he simply slid down on the wheels, his extended arms and legs steadying him. "it's just as if you had a roller skate on your head," said señorita tanlozo, the snake charmer, who had strolled into the main tent after her act in the side show was over. "exactly," said joe, with a smile. "would you like to try it?" "not while my snakes are alive!" she assured him. "well, it's another drawing card for the sampson brothers' show," said jim tracy that night when the receipts were being counted and preparations being made for moving on to the next city. "how long are you going to keep it up, joe?" "as to that, i can't say," was the answer. "but i like the game, and i want to see the circus a success." "it's a big one now, thanks in a large part to you," observed the ringmaster. "but you'd better take a rest now, joe, my boy. don't try to pull off any more spectacular stunts." "oh, i haven't pulled off my big one yet," replied the young magician. "i mean the one with the fire. i'm working on that. if it comes out the way i think it will we'll have to give three performances a day instead of two." "oh, we can't do that!" protested mr. moyne, the treasurer. "it's hard enough keeping account of the money and tickets now, with two shows a day. if we have three--" he paused, for it was very evident joe was only joking, and there were smiles on the faces of the other circus folk. "don't worry!" said joe to the treasurer. "i don't want to act three times a day any more than you want to count the tickets and cash. and, i suppose, if we could, by some means, give three performances, it would only give our swindling ticket friends more chance to work their scheme. by the way, there are no further signs of their putting bogus tickets on sale, are there?" "not since we started the detectives at work," the treasurer answered. "but i'm always on the watch, and so are the men at the entrances." "it's about time those detectives got results, i think," declared jim tracy. "i wonder what they think we're paying them for?" "it takes time for a thing like that to be cleaned up," said joe. "well, i know what i'd do if i were detecting," half-growled the ringmaster. "what?" inquired the treasurer. "i'd round up and arrest a certain few worthless men i know who used to be in the circus business--some with this show!" declared jim. "it's queer, but our outfit seems to be the only one that they pick on. that's what makes me think it was some one who used to work for us." "who?" the treasurer wanted to know. "well, i'm not mentioning any names," declared the ringmaster, as he prepared to divest himself of his dress suit in readiness for the trip to the circus train. "but i have my suspicions." "what makes you say ours is the only circus to have lost money on bogus tickets?" asked joe. "read it in _paste and paper_," was the answer. that was the name of the trade journal devoted to the interests of circus folk, tent shows, and the like. "the last number had a piece in it about our losing money on fake tickets," went on the ringmaster, "and it said it was the first case of its kind to appear in several years. there have been no complaints of circuses in other parts of the country being cheated that way, this article said. so i know it's some one picking specially on us." "well, perhaps you're right," assented joe. "but as long as we have changed our style of tickets and they haven't tried their tricks again, maybe we've settled them." "all the same i'm going to be on the watch," declared the treasurer. the city where the circus showed the following day and night was a large one. a new automobile industry employing many hands had located there within the last six months. it was decided to make a stay of two days in this place, since the advance agent reported that many of the men worked overtime and nights, and otherwise they could not see the performance. "well, i'm glad we're to be here two days," remarked helen, as she passed joe's private quarters, where he was going over some of his apparatus, costumes, and effects. "yes, we'll have a good night's rest," he agreed, though, truth to tell, the circus folk were so used to traveling that the train journey almost every night did not bother them. still they always welcomed a stay in a city over night. "you seem busy," remarked helen, as she sat down on a box and watched joe. "yes, i'm going to introduce a little novelty in the slide down the slanting wire," he answered. "i'm going to work in a fire stunt." "a fire stunt!" exclaimed helen. "surely you aren't going to--" "oh, it won't be dangerous!" joe assured her, guessing her thoughts. helen had learned that the jump into benny's tank the first time was due to an accident. "it's just a bit spectacular and will liven things up a bit, i think. if it goes well i have an idea you can work one of the features in your bareback act." "oh, joe, i never could walk a wire, nor slide down on my head, the way you do. and i don't see how rosebud could, either." and helen gave a merry little laugh at the vision she raised. "oh, i'm not going to have your horse walk the tight rope nor the high wire!" laughed joe. "it would be a corking good stunt if we could, though. no, this is simpler. i'll tell you about it later." mrs. watson, wife of the veteran clown, called for helen just then, asking her to go to see one of the women performers who was ill. "i'll see you later, joe," helen called out, as she left him. joe was busy mixing up some chemicals in a pail on the ground outside his tent when he was accosted by a rather hoarse voice asking: "any chance for a job here, boss?" joe looked up to see a somewhat disreputable figure of a man observing him. the fellow looked like the typical tramp, perhaps not quite so ragged and dirty, but still in that class. however, there was something about the man that attracted joe's attention. as he said afterward, his visitor had about him the air of the "profesh." joe's first impulse was to say that he knew of no job, or else to refer his accoster to the head canvas man, who hired transient help in putting up the main top and in pulling or driving stakes. but as joe observed the man curiously watching him, he had another idea. before he could act on it, however, the man exclaimed: "you do a fire-eating stunt, don't you?" "yes," joe answered. and then it occurred to him to wonder how the man knew. true he might have observed joe in some of the many performances, but the man did not look like one who would spend money on circus tickets. he might have crawled under the tent, but it did not seem exactly probable. and, of course, some of the circus employees plight have pointed joe out to the man as the actor who handled fire. but, again, joe did not believe this. so he asked: "how did you know?" for answer the man pointed to the pail of chemicals into which joe was about to dip a suit of tights. "smelled the dope," was the brief answer. "you're using tungstate of soda, aren't you?" "yes," answered joe, surprised that a man, evidently of such a class, should recognize the not very common chemical. "we used to use alum in the old days," the man went on. "i guess the new dope's better, though i never tried it." "are you in the business?" asked joe. "well, i--er--i used to be," and the man straightened himself up with an air of forgotten pride. "i was with a circus once--used to do a fire-eating act and jump into a fake bonfire. i doped my clothes with alum water though. that's great stuff for preventing the fire taking hold if you don't stay in the blaze too long. but, as i say, they've discovered something new." "you used to be a fire-eater?" asked joe curiously. "yes. and i was counted a pretty good one. but i lost my nerve." "how?" "well--er--not to put too fine a point on it, i got too fond of the fire-water. couldn't stay on the water-wagon long enough, got careless in my act, went down and out. oh, it's the old story. you've probably heard it lots of times. but i would like a job now. i'm actually hungry, and i've seen the time i could blow the bunch to champagne and lobster." joe, on impulse, and yet, too, because he had an object, was just going to offer the man help when he saw mr. moyne coming across the lot toward him from the ticket wagon. the afternoon performance was about to start. "they're here again!" cried the treasurer. "who?" asked joe. "the ticket swindlers!" chapter xvi rings of fire instantly joe strong lost interest in the "tramp fire-eater," as he afterward came to call the man. all the attention of the young magician was centered on what the treasurer had said. "are you certain of this?" asked joe. "positive!" was the answer. "we've been keeping careful watch, paying special attention to the red serial numbers, and some duplicates have been taken in at the main entrance. the swindlers are at work again." "but our new tickets!" exclaimed joe. "the new style of paper and the precautions we have taken! what of that?" in answer mr. moyne held out two tickets, both bearing the same serial number in red ink. "which is the bogus and which is the genuine?" he asked. joe looked carefully at the two. he examined them for a full minute. "i can't tell!" he admitted. "and no one else can, either," declared the treasurer. "we're up against it again! those fellows are too clever for us. now we'll lose a lot of money!" "well, it won't break us," said joe easily. "though, of course, no one likes to be cheated. the only thing to do is to get the detectives busy. let them know the new turn affairs have taken, and i'll send these two tickets to our chemist friend. he can tell which is printed from our regular stock, and which is the counterfeit. "then, too, it ought to be easier to catch the rascals now than it was at first. you see, we didn't know how long the old tickets had been counterfeited. now we're warned, first shot out of the box, about the new ones. and since the paper mill hasn't been supplying our printer with the new kind of paper very long, it ought to be easy to trace where the new and clever counterfeit supply is coming from." "well, i hope they can catch the scoundrels," said mr. moyne. "i certainly hate to see money lost." mr. moyne was an ideal treasurer. he always had the interests of the circus at heart, and one would think that the money came out of his own pocket to hear him talk about the counterfeit tickets. in a way he did lose, personally, since he was one of the owners of the show, and the less money that came in the less his stock dividends would amount to. "i'll write to mr. waldon to-night," said joe, as he took the two tickets. "and we'll notify the detectives. now i must get ready for my act. that can't be dropped." "having trouble, eh?" asked the tramp, who had moved a little to one side. "oh, well, just a little," admitted joe, who was not altogether pleased that this talk should have been overheard by a stranger. "did you say there was any chance for a job?" asked the ragged man. "well, i don't know," said joe, rather doubtfully. "is that straight goods, about your being a fire-eater?" "i was once. but i'm not looking for that kind of a job now," was the quick answer. "i lost my nerve, i tell you. handling stakes or driving a wagon would be my limit." "what sort of an act in the fire line did you have?" asked joe, for a certain idea was beginning to form in his mind. "it was a good act!" was the response, and again the spark of pride seemed about to be fanned into a flame. "got any old-timers in this here circus of yours?" "yes," answered joe. "there's jim tracy and bill watson and--" "bill watson who used to clown it?" cried the man eagerly. "he clowns it yet." "old bill!" murmured the tramp. "him still making good in the business, and me a bum! well, it's all my own fault. if i'd stuck to the fire-eating and not drinking fire-water i'd be somewhere to-day. just ask bill watson what sort of an act ham logan had--'coal-fire logan!'" exclaimed the man. "that was my title. hamilton logan is my name, but i haven't told any one in--not in a long time," he added, and he looked away. "but ask bill watson about me." "here he comes now," said joe, as he observed the veteran clown approaching. "suppose you ask him yourself." for an instant ham logan hesitated. then he stepped forward and confronted the old clown. the latter paid no attention at first, evidently thinking the man one of the many hangers-on about a circus ground. "joe," began bill watson, "helen sent me to ask you if you have any ammonia in your kit--i mean the kind they give the ladies when their hearts are weak, or something like that. one of the girls has some kind of a little spell, and we can't find the doctor." "yes, i have some ammonia," said joe. "i'll get it." ham logan looked bill watson in the face, and asked: "don't you remember me?" "can't say that i do," was the somewhat cool response of the veteran clown. "is there any reason why i should?" "do you remember coal-fire logan?" bill watson started, looked more closely at the man, and then slowly asked: "are you ham logan?" "what's left of me--yes." "well, i'll be gum swizzled!" exclaimed bill. "say, did the elephant step on you or one of the tent wagons roll over you?" "neither one. i'm down and out, that's all--and it's enough, too." "well, that's enough, i should say," commented the clown, as he took the bottle of stimulant joe handed him. "last i heard of you you'd gone on a theater circuit. that was just after you'd quit the dobling show." "yes, i did do a theater circuit," admitted ham logan. "but it didn't last. or rather, i didn't last. i was just asking the young man here for a job. i said you'd remember me." "well, i certainly do," returned the old clown, who was not to do his act until later in the day. "and i'm sorry to see you in this state, ham. you did me a good turn once, and i haven't forgotten. stick around a while, and i'll see you as soon as i play first-aid. joe, if it isn't asking too much, will you look after ham for a while? he used to be a good sort, and--" "better say too much of a 'good _sport_,'" paraphrased the man. "i'll take care of him," promised joe. "did you say you were hungry?" asked the young magician, as the old clown turned and hurried away with the ammonia. "you said it! but i'm not altogether a grafter. i can work for what i eat." and again there was a flash of pride. "we'll talk of that later," said joe. "just now i want to get you something to eat. here, take that over to the dining tent," and he scribbled a few words on one of his cards. "after you've eaten all you want, and after the show this afternoon, look me up." "do you think you can give me work?" asked the man eagerly. "i don't mean to act," he hastened to say. "i'm past that--down and out. but i'm strong. i can pull on the ropes or drive stakes." "we'll talk of that later," replied joe gently. "go and eat now." "well, i sure can feed my face!" exclaimed the man. "i--i don't know how to thank you. bill will tell you that i wasn't a bad fellow in my day. i just lost my nerve--that's all. false friends and fire-water--" "see me later," said joe, with a friendly wave of his hand. and the man hurried toward the dining tent, next to the cook wagons. already he seemed imbued with more hope and pride, something that filled joe with pleasure. joe busied himself with mixing the chemicals in the pail. as ham logan had guessed, the young fire-eater was mixing up a solution of tungstate of soda. this chemical is a salt, made by roasting wolfram with soda ash, and wolfram is a native tungstate of iron and manganese. this soda preparation is used commercially in making garments fire-proof, and joe had learned this from mr. herbert waldon, the chemist. he had decided to use this instead of an alum solution, which is credited with great fire-resisting qualities. it has them, too, to a certain extent, but by experimenting joe had found the tungstate of soda best. it was the evening of the circus in the city in which the show was to remain two days. ham logan had returned to joe after having eaten a good meal, and later bill watson formed the third member of a trio that talked for some time in a corner of joe's tent. as already said, it was the evening performance, and as helen finished her act on rosebud she looked over toward the place where joe was preparing to do his slide down the slanting wire. "i wonder what he had in mind as a new act for me," mused helen. "i do hope it isn't anything to do with fire. that sort of stunt creates a sensation, but it's dangerous, in spite of what joe does to himself. i don't like it! not after what happened to joe that day!" she had seen that rosebud was given in charge of the groom who always looked after the clever steed, and now helen moved over where she could watch joe's comparatively new wire act. as she approached this part of the circus tent helen was startled to see several men carrying large hoops on long poles, take their positions on either side of the slanting wire down which the daring performer was soon to slide on his head, by means of the wheeled cap. "that's something new!" exclaimed helen, as she saw the men with the big hoops. "i wonder if joe is going to jump through them, as i jump through the paper hoops from rosebud's back?" joe was up on the little platform now, having finished his wire act. he was adjusting to his head the leather cap. "ladies and gentlemen!" began jim tracy in his sonorous voice, as he pointed to joe on his high perch, thus calling attention to the performer. all eyes were turned in his direction. then, as joe stooped over and stood on his head, preparatory to sliding down the wire, the hoops, which the men held over the cable by means of long poles, suddenly burst into flame. held over the wire, down which joe would in a moment slide, was a row of fiery circles! helen held her hand over her lips to stifle a scream. chapter xvii the broken bottle so still was it in the big circus tent after the band stopped playing, while joe prepared to do his head slide, that the whirr of the steel wheels in his leather cap could plainly be heard as he slid down the wire. and as helen and the others watched, the intention of the daring young performer became evident. he was going to coast through the blazing hoops of fire which the men held in such a position that joe could slide through them without touching them. though they were called "hoops," in reality they were not completely closed, there being a slight opening to enable them to be slipped over the slanting wire. if a gigantic letter "c" with a long pole fastened to the lower curved part, can be imagined, it; will give an exact idea of what is meant. as to the fire itself, it was caused by blazing bits of tow fastened to the circumference of the big wire hoops. and thus through the blazing circles joe strong slid down the slanting wire on his head. at the lower end of the wire, where it was fast to a stake in the ground, he caught hold of the cable in his gloved hands and so slowed his speed. then he leaped to his feet and bowed in acknowledgment of the applause. "oh!" murmured helen, as she watched. "it was only another of his sensational acts. when i first saw the blazing hoops i half thought that some one was trying to injure joe, as they did when the acid was used on his high trapeze. oh, it was only a trick!" and so it was. joe had planned it that day after meeting ham logan. the latter, talking about the time when he, too, had been a fire-eater, had mentioned an act where a performer leaped through blazing hoops, and joe determined to use the idea, varying it to suit his purpose. that it was effective was evidenced by the long-continued applause. "but, joe," asked helen, when the performance was over and she and joe had received another ovation at the conclusion of the box mystery and the vanishing lady trick, "wasn't there danger of setting your clothes on fire when you went through the blazing hoops?" "none at all," joe assured her. "i have been planning a stunt like this for some time, and my garments were fire-proofed. of course i wouldn't have done it otherwise. look here!" he took up a fancy jacket he had worn in his wire slide. taking a match joe lighted it and held it against the cloth. it did not take fire. "there was that day--" "but i have perfected the act since then, helen. of course the tungstate of soda that i soaked the clothes in wouldn't keep them from catching fire if i put the suit in a furnace. but the solution will make cloth resist a blaze temporarily, as will alum under some circumstances. i use alum on the suit i wear when i pretend to set myself on fire and then jump into the tank of water," went on joe. "but after this i'm going to use the soda. it's more certain." joe worked the trick of seeming to set himself ablaze in this way. as he said, his suit was made as nearly fireproof as possible. then on the back of his jacket were placed some bunches of tow saturated with alcohol. when this tow was set on fire it burned quickly, but joe knew the flame would not last long. and the fact that the garments on which the burning material was fastened were as nearly fireproof as was possible to make them gave him additional safety. he really ran little risk, as the fire was at his back, and, as he ran toward the tank, his speed carried the flames away from him. joe, and all others who do a fire-eating act, calculate to a nicety just how long a certain fire will burn. and they do not place the blazing material into the mouth until the flames are almost on the point of going out of themselves. this, added to the fact that a chemical solution protects the tongue and lips, makes the act comparatively safe. but one word of caution. _do not try to fire-proof the mouth with tungstate of soda_. this warning cannot be made too strong! in fact, it is well not to try any fire-eating _at all_. it is too risky unless one is a professional. "well, joe," remarked jim tracy, later that night when most of the circus folk were asleep, "if you want to add this fellow to our show, go ahead. you have the say, you know." "well, i don't want to do it in just that way," replied the young fire-eater. "bill watson says that ham logan was once a good man. he is down and out now, but he knows a lot about circus life and this handling of fire. i believe i can work him up into something useful--use him in a new act i'm thinking of putting on. if we can only keep him away from intoxicants he'll be all right, and i'd like to give him a chance." "well, joe, as i said, it's up to you. go to it! but remember, while he means all right, he may not have the spunk to keep his promise not to drink." "i think he'll keep it," said joe. "anyhow, i'd like to give him a trial. he helped me with that fire hoop stunt, and it would be an act of charity to give him work." "all right--you can be the charity," said the ringmaster. "what do you say, bill watson?" "oh, give him a chance," replied the old clown good-naturedly. "we all have our troubles. he can't do much harm, anyhow." "i don't know about that," said jim, with a shake of his head. "this playing with fire by a man who can't keep away from fire-water, is risky." "well, i'll take the chance," said joe. and that was characteristic of him--taking chances. ham logan was deeply grateful to joe for what the young performer did. that is, he hired the former fire-eater as a sort of handy man in the circus, ham to be subject to joe's direction day and night. "and let the fire-water alone!" demanded joe. "i will! i really will!" said the old circus performer. he seemed to mean it. joe advanced him money enough to get some better clothes, to have a bath and be shaved, and it was quite a different person who appeared at the tent the following day, ready to help joe. as ham knew more about fire than any assistant joe had yet been able to train, the new man was given charge of the various apparatus joe used in his sensational acts, including the one of sliding down the wire on his head through the blazing hoops. one matter bothered joe and his friends, in spite of the great success the circus was having, and this was the bogus tickets. several hundred of them were presented at the performances in the city where the two-day stay was made--the city already mentioned as being the location of a big automobile industry. and where the tickets came from remained a mystery. they were so nearly like the ones issued from the ticket wagon that not until duplicate numbers had been observed could the fraud be detected. and as the men at the main entrances had no time in the rush to compare serial numbers, there seemed no way of stopping the cheating. it was impossible to see to it that every one who came to the show purchased admission tickets at the wagon. the surging crowds around prevented this. men engaged by the circus circulated through the throngs about the tent, seeking to learn whether any unauthorized persons were selling bogus tickets. but none was seen. "it is evident," said mr. moyne, "that the counterfeiters get a bunch of the fake tickets and sell them in large lots to some men. these men, in turn, dispose of them at reduced prices to others, and perhaps the persons who use the tickets do not know they are counterfeits. i believe the swindlers go to the big factories and stores, and sell the tickets at a slightly lower price than we ask." "we ought to be able to put a stop to that," said joe. "we'll try it!" said the treasurer. "it seems the only way--that and having the detectives stop the fraud at the source. you see, we can't tell which are the counterfeit tickets until after we check up the serial numbers--that's what makes it so hard." and so, in spite of the success of joe's acts and the success of the show in general, there was this element of annoyance. joe wished the mystery could be cleared up. he had received back from the chemist the two tickets sent on last, and the counterfeit was marked. this was sent to the paper mill and the detectives notified. that was all that could be done for the present. "well, how's coal-fire logan making out?" asked bill watson of joe one day, just before an afternoon performance. "very good," was the answer. "he's faithful and steady, and he's good help to me. he certainly knows the fire-eating stunt." "well, as long as he doesn't do any fire-drinking maybe he'll be all right," said the old clown. "i haven't noticed any lapse," said joe. "i have great hopes of him." but that very afternoon, during the performance, joe felt doubt beginning to creep over him. he caught ham in several mistakes--slight ones--but enough, if not noticed in time, to have spoiled the act. "i wonder what the matter is with him?" mused joe. "he doesn't seem to have been drinking, and yet he acts queer. i wonder if he can be using drugs." it was at the close of the act and the wind-up of the circus for the afternoon that joe told ham to put away some of the apparatus until evening. joe was called away from his dressing room for a moment and when he came back he saw ham hastily throw away a dark brown bottle which struck on a stone and broke. immediately a queer odor filled the air. "i wonder if that was liquor he was taking, and if he threw away the empty bottle," thought joe quickly. "i'm going to find out, i've got to stop this thing at the start." he hurried to the place where ham had tossed the bottle. the fragments lay there, and the queer odor was more pronounced. "don't touch that! let that bottle alone!" suddenly cried ham logan, as he became aware of joe's intention. "don't touch it!" chapter xviii a narrow escape joe strong was in two minds as he heard this warning and observed the face of the man he was befriending. his first thought was that ham had broken his promise and was indulging in intoxicants. naturally the man would want to conceal this as long as possible. the other thought was that the tramp fire-eater was up to some trick--perhaps he was jealous of joe's success and his own failure and wanted to spoil some of joe's apparatus. yet joe did not recognize as any of his property the brown bottle, which when broken emitted such a queer smell. joe decided to investigate further, and so, not heeding the warning call of the former circus star, he walked closer to the broken flask. "keep away from that!" cried ham sharply. "keep away!" "why?" asked joe, with equal insistence. "because it's dangerous," was the answer. "very dangerous." "dangerous for you or me?" joe wanted to know. "look here, ham," he said earnestly, "are you up to--any of your old tricks? you know what i mean. are you?" the man flushed. then, looking joe straight in the face, he said: "you have a right to ask that, and i'll answer you as straight. i haven't broken my promise--that is, only the times you know about. i haven't broken it this time. i found that bottle in among your things, and i was mighty sure it didn't belong there." "what's in the bottle?" asked joe, for, though he had dabbled in chemistry, he did not recognize the queer odor. "a combination of the strongest acids ever known!" was the answer of ham logan. "a drop of it makes a terrible burn, and it will eat through solid steel and iron. i knew that if it broke where it was, among your trick things, a lot of them would be ruined. and i knew you couldn't have left the bottle there by mistake, as it wasn't there the last time i packed away your duds. and i knew if you knew what it was you wouldn't have left it around in that careless way. so, taking no chances, i threw it away, and i meant to break the bottle. that acid is awful stuff. it's best to let it soak into the ground. come over and see what it does even to earth and stones." he led the way to where the fluid had escaped from the broken flask, the fragments of which were scattered about. the odor was less strong now, as the acid was soaking into the earth. but there was a fuming and bubbling at the spot, and the very stones and earth seemed to be burning up in a small area. "don't step in it!" warned ham logan. "it will eat right through your shoes. glass is the only thing it won't hurt--glass and porcelain. they mix it in porcelain retorts. i'll throw some loose earth over this place. the effects of the acid will soon be lost, but while it's active it's terrible stuff, believe me!" "and you say you found that bottle in my baggage?" asked joe. "yes," answered ham logan. "and am i right in saying you didn't know it was there?" "i certainly didn't," declared joe. "who in the world could have put it there?" "have you any enemies?" asked ham. "i mean some one who would like to see your circus acts spoiled, or even see you laid up for a while?" "well, i guess perhaps there are some i've made enemies of by having to discharge them, or something like that," admitted joe, his thoughts going naturally to bill carfax. "there's one man, but he hasn't been seen around for a good while." "that doesn't count. he may have gotten some one to do his trick for him," asserted ham. "you'd better look out, mr. strong." "i will!" declared joe. "and thank you for your watchfulness. as you say, i didn't know that bottle was there, and i might have broken it by accident or have opened it and spilled some out. how did you come to discover it?" "just by accident. the smell is something you never forget. it comes up even around the glass stopper. as soon as i began overhauling your things, as you told me to, i smelled the stuff and i went on a still hunt for it. "i was careful, too. i knew what it meant to get any of that acid on you, or on any of the things about you. i used to work in the chemical plant where they made the stuff--that was after i left the circus. well, it can't do any harm now," he said as he got a shovel and covered with clean earth the bits of broken glass and the still fuming drops of add. "thank you," said joe fervently. he went into his private tent. presently he came out with a bit of wire cable, such as is used in making circus trapezes. one end was blackened and partly fused, as though it had been in the fire. joe held out this bit of wire rope. it was part of the trapeze he used in his big swing. "what would you say had eaten through these strands?" he asked. ham logan looked carefully at the cable. he sniffed it cautiously. he held it up to the light and again smelled it. "it was this same acid that ate those strands," he declared. "i know how it used to eat metal out at the chemical works, and it does so in a queer way. this wire rope is eaten through just like that. there isn't any odor left, though sometimes it lasts a long time. but i'm sure the same kind of acid was used. you don't mean to tell me you have been experimenting with it!" and he looked in surprise at joe. "no indeed!" and the young fire-eater shook his head. "i never handle the acid. and the fact that the cable was eaten through nearly caused an accident." he then explained how he had discovered the partly severed wire rope just in time. "they must have put on a weak solution of the acid," declared ham. "otherwise it would have eaten the rope through in jig time. so that's the game, is it? well, they may have been trying it on a larger scale. did you find out who doped the rope?" "there was a man who might have done it," said joe, thinking of harry loper. "but i don't believe he did." "is he still with the show?" "yes. i'll tell you all the circumstances," which joe did, mentioning loper by name. "well, we won't say anything," declared ham logan; "but i'll just keep my eyes on this loper. as you say, he may not have done it, but he may know who did. i'll keep my eyes on him. meanwhile be careful in overhauling your things. look out for bottles that smell as this one did." "i will!" promised joe. "i guess i won't forget that odor. i can't tell you how i thank you, ham. you've done me a good turn!" "well, you did me one," was the answer. "i was down and out when you gave me work, and i won't forget that in a hurry." joe pondered over what had happened as he performed his circus acts the remainder of that day and evening. he shuddered at the narrow escape he had had, and, when he had a chance, he carefully noted the conduct of harry loper. but that young fellow did not seem at all to act like one who had tried to do a dastardly trick. he was jolly and good-natured, as he always was, albeit somewhat of a weak character. the circus performances went off well, joe and the other actors receiving wild applause as they did their specialties. joe's fire-eating was eagerly watched, and when he slid down the rope on his head, through the blazing hoops, the crowd went wild, as they did when, seemingly all afire, he leaped into the tank. "when you going to spring that sensation you've been talking of, joe?" asked jim tracy, at the conclusion of one afternoon show. "oh, pretty soon now," was the reply. "ham logan and i are working on it." "ham logan! is he going to be in it with you?" asked the ringmaster in some surprise. "of course!" answered joe. "it's partly his idea. he's an old fire-actor, you know, and he's given me some good suggestions. yes, he's going to help me. i think we'll put the act on next week. we've got to train some new performers first." "new performers! say, what are you going to do, joe, take a troupe of fire-eating actors out on the road?" "something like that, yes," answered the young magician, with a laugh. "you'll see." joe strong varied his acts in the circus tent sometimes he would omit the "vanishing lady" act, as helen wanted to put through some extra work with rosebud, and there was not time for both. again he would leave out some of his acrobatic work, or perhaps not do the trick of seeming to catch fire and extinguishing the flames in benny turton's tank. once in a while he would omit the ten thousand dollar mystery box trick. but on the day when he had the above conversation with jim tracy they were showing in a large factory town. there had been good business in the afternoon, and joe had not done the box trick. but just before the evening show jim came to joe and said: "there've been several requests, joe, that you put the box trick on to-night." "requests from whom?" joe asked. "one of the newspaper men was telling me they received a lot of telephone calls to-day asking if the box trick would be done and the reward paid in case some one discovered the way it was done." "what did you say?" "i said i thought you'd put the trick on in that case. don't you think you'd better? we didn't advertise it specially for to-night, but there might be a lot of sore-heads if we don't pull it off." "oh, i'll do it all right!" declared joe. "i thought it was getting a bit stale. but if the crowd wants to see it i'll do it." "i guess it will be better," said the ringmaster. accordingly, at the proper time, joe, in his dazzling white suit, took his place in the silk-curtained enclosure. helen, in her black dress, was ready to help him. the fireman, with his gleaming ax, ready to chop joe out of the box in case anything should go wrong, was also on the stage. as has been related in the other book, this last was done only for effect. joe well knew that he could get out of the box. the manager made the usual offer of ten thousand dollars to be paid to any one who would disclose how the trick was done. "you will all be given a chance to claim the reward under the usual conditions after the trick has been performed by professor strong," was the announcement made. as the description of the manner in which joe and helen did the trick is given in all its details in the volume preceding this, suffice it here to say that joe got into the box, which was locked and roped, and, at the proper time, he appeared outside. "is there any one who can tell how the trick was done, and so earn the ten thousand dollar reward?" asked the manager. he had made this announcement many times. seldom, of late, had any one come forward. but now, somewhat to the surprise of joe and his friends, a man's voice called from a location near the platform: "i can tell how it was done!" "will you please come forward," invited joe, now taking charge of the proceedings. a fairly well-dressed man stepped across the arena and approached the stage. joe and jim tracy and the others vitally interested looked closely at him. he was not bill carfax--that was certain. and joe did not know the man, nor, as jim tracy admitted afterward, did he. "you say you can tell how i get out of the box?" asked joe, and the audience listened intently. "yes. i know the secret." "are you willing to post a hundred dollars to be forfeited to the red cross in case you fail?" went on the young magician. "i am. here is the money!" was the cool response. this quick compliance with the terms of the offer rather staggered joe. but he had no fear as to the outcome. "very well," went on the originator of the box trick. "the ringmaster will hold your money. if you are successful in telling how i get out of the box the cash will be handed back to you, and you will receive, in addition, a check for ten thousand dollars. now then, how do i get out of the box? tell the audience." there was a moment of suspense, and then the man, with an air of confidence, stepped close to the big, heavy box and, pointing to a certain corner, said: "right there is a secret panel. you slip it back and get out that way!" the man seemed so triumphantly confident and so sure of his statement, that several in the audience cried: "is that right? is that how you do the trick? if it is pay him the ten thousand dollars!" joe looked at jim tracy. this was the first time any one had ever come so close to the truth. helen, standing at one side of the stage, began to be fearful that, after all, joe's secret was discovered. it would mean an end of the box trick. then joe smiled, and stepped forward. and there was something in the smile that reassured helen. "has he guessed it?" she asked in a low voice, as joe passed her. "no. but it was a narrow escape," was the answer. chapter xix juggling with fire smilingly the man who had made claim to the ten thousand dollars waited for joe strong. the fellow seemed already to have the money in his grasp. "you say there is a sliding panel in that corner?" asked joe. "positive." "and that i get out that way?" "yes." "well, i say you are wrong, and i am going to prove it," returned joe easily, and also smiling. "now i'm going to let you, and any one you may select from the audience, paste sheets of paper over that corner. then i'll do the trick over again. if i get out of the box, and the paper you paste on remains unbroken, you'll have to admit that i didn't come out through the place where you say is a sliding panel, won't you?" "well, if you don't break the paper, i guess i'll have to admit you didn't get out that way," said the man, with a grin. "but i want to see you do it first." "very well. i'll send for some paste and paper," went on joe. "meanwhile call upon any of your friends you like to help." "come on up here, bill!" called out the man. for an instant joe, and helen also, as she admitted later, feared it might be bill carfax to whom he referred. but an altogether different individual shuffled up to the stage. "we'll paste paper over this end where the trick panel is," went on the man who had claimed the reward. "he won't get out then!" "sure he won't," agreed his companion. "do we get the ten thousand then?" "naturally, if you have guessed right," said joe. "but that remains to be seen." there was no trouble in getting paste and paper. that is part of a circus, for, even though it is old-fashioned, paper hoops are still used for the clowns and some bareback riders to leap through. a plentiful supply of large, white sheets and a pail of paste with a brush were brought up to the stage. then the men were invited to begin their work, which was to seal up the corner the man had picked out as the location of the secret panel. before pasting on the paper the men looked closely at the joinings of the box. they seemed rather puzzled in spite of the cock-sureness of the first individual. the pasting was not a work of art, but it was effective. the corner of the box was plastered over with sheets of white paper, in which there was no break. "if i get out of the box without cracking, tearing, or disturbing the paper you have pasted on, without moving it in any way, you'll admit that you're wrong, won't you?" asked joe, as he prepared to do the trick again. "yes," was the answer. "i will. but i've got you sewed up!" "pasted up would be a better word," returned joe, with a smile. "but that remains to be seen." the box was placed in position, and joe took his place in it. the lid was slammed down, locked, and the rope was knotted about it. the two men who had done the pasting assisted in this. then the curtains were drawn, and helen and the firemen took their places. there was a period of waiting. the tense suspense of the audience was manifest. even jim tracy and bill watson, veteran circus men though they were, seemed a bit worried. the man who had claimed the ten thousand dollars and his companion seemed a bit ill at ease. then, suddenly, the curtains parted and joe strong stood in plain view, outside the box, bowing to the applause that greeted him. when it had subsided, he said: "will you two gentlemen kindly look at the paper seals you placed on one corner of the box? if they are unbroken and undisturbed i take it you have lost. kindly look and announce what you find." the men shuffled to the case and bent down over the corner that was covered with the pasted sheets. look as they did, they could find no evidences of a break or tear in the paper. and it had not been removed and put back again. the men admitted that. "then you have to admit that i didn't get out of the box by means of a secret panel in that corner, don't you?" asked joe, when the two had asserted that the paper was intact. "yes, i guess you win," said the first man. "but there's some trick about it!" "oh, i admit that!" laughed joe. "it is a trick, and if you discover it you get ten thousand dollars. but not to-night. red cross is richer by a hundred dollars." "um!" grumbled the man, as he walked off, and many in the audience laughed. joe had won. the circus performance went on to its usual exciting close in the chariot races, and when preparations were being made to travel on to the next city, helen had a chance to speak to joe. "it was a narrow escape," she said. "just what it was!" he replied. "if he had picked the other corner--the left instead of the right--he would have had me. but luck was with us." "i'm glad," said helen. "but how did he happen to select any corner? some one must know more about your trick box than you think." "i'm afraid so," admitted joe ruefully. "i wouldn't be a bit surprised but what this was some of the work of bill carfax." "has he been around again?" asked helen, and there was a note of annoyance in her voice. "he hasn't been seen," said joe. "but this man may have been in communication with him. bill may have been studying the trick out since his last failure, and i must admit that he's on the right trail--that is, if it was bill who put this man up to making the claim." "what makes you think bill had anything to do with it?" asked helen. "well, for the reason that this is just the kind of town where bill would be likely to have friends--i mean in a big manufacturing center. bill may have found a man who is willing to act to help pull down the reward for him. but this time they failed." "he may succeed next time," remarked helen. "no, i'll take care of that," joe said. "i'm going to make a change in the box." as the mechanism of the trick box has been explained in the preceding volume, it will not be repeated here. suffice it to say that joe's method of getting out of the box could be changed, so that if a person thought he had discovered the secret panel it could be shifted to another part of the case. it was two or three days after this, and joe had made a change in his box which satisfied him that the secret would not soon be discovered, that helen, coming over to where he sat in his private tent, saw him making what seemed to be torches. "what are you doing?" she asked. "do you think our electric lights or gasoline flares are going to fail?" she went on jokingly. the sampson brothers' show was a modern one, and carried a portable electric light plant. "oh, no, i'm not worrying about that!" answered joe. "but i have a new idea for my wire act, and i want to see if it will work out." that night, at the proper time, when joe was introduced as about to perform his wire act, helen noticed ham logan come out with the young fire-eater, carrying a number of the torches joe had made. joe started across the high, slack wire, and on it performed many of his usual feats. they were not specially sensational, and helen wondered what he had planned. but, after a daring run across the slender support, following some risky side swinging, helen saw joe lower from the high platform where he stood a flexible wire. standing on the ground below, ham logan received it and fastened on the end several of the metal torches joe had made. the young magician hauled them up to him by means of the wire. then, as helen and the audience watched, joe set the torches ablaze. they were made of hollow cones of sheet iron, in which were placed bits of tow, soaked in alcohol. with four blazing torches, two in either hand, joe strong started out to cross the high, slack wire. and then, to the wonder and amazement of the audience, no less than that of his friends in the show, joe began juggling with fire. chapter xx the blazing banquet across the wire walked the young performer, and as he walked he tossed into the air, catching them as they came down, the flaming torches. when it is remembered that the fire was of the real, blazing sort, and hot at that, also when it is recalled that if joe happened to catch hold of the wrong end of any of the whirling torches, and when it is evident that he must "watch his step," it will be seen that he was performing no easy feat. yet to watch him one would have thought that he had been doing it right along for many performances, instead of this being his first in public, though he and ham logan had practiced in private. across the wire walked joe, juggling with fire, and when he reached the other platform he walked backward along the swaying wire. then the applause broke out, loud and long. the crowd appreciated the trick, with all its dangers. true, joe strong was an expert on the wire, and he was also a good juggler. but juggling with torches while on a swaying cable was not as easy as handling harmless rubber balls or indian clubs, and the circus throng seemed to appreciate this. getting back to the platform whence he had started, joe dropped the still blazing torches into a tub of water where they went out hissingly. this provided a fitting climax to the act, as showing that the flames were real ones. and then joe donned his cap of leather, with the little grooved wheels fastened in the top, and on his head he slid down the slanting wire through the blazing hoops. it was a good end to a good trick; and the crowd went wild. "well, joe, you sure did put another one over for us," said jim tracy, at the conclusion of the performance. "that fire juggling was a great trick. that's the sensation you promised us, i suppose." "no, it isn't," was the answer. "i'm not ready for that yet. but i'm glad you liked the trick. no, what i have up my sleeve is something even better, i think." "well, i hope you haven't any blazing torches up your sleeve," remarked helen, with a laugh. "you'll need a new coat, if you have." "no danger," laughed joe. "i think i'll be ready soon. by the way, any news of the bogus tickets--i mean the detectives haven't found out anything positive, have they?" "not yet," answered mr. moyne, who had joined the little party. "and it's keeping all of us who have to do with the financial end guessing as to where the trouble will break out next." "it is an unpleasant state of affairs," agreed joe. "but i don't see what we can do except to wait. you haven't noticed any more of the counterfeit tickets of late, have you?" "no," answered the treasurer. "it's only when we hit the big mill cities that they are worked in on us. that's why i believe there is some system to it all." "well, we'll have to break up the system," declared joe. "as soon as i get this new act of mine perfected i'm going to take a day or two off, over sunday say, and visit the detective agency. they may need stirring up." "i wish something could be done," declared the treasurer. about a week after this conversation, during which time the circus had moved from place to place, doing good business, mrs. watson, meeting helen on the lot, said: "who are joe's new friends?" "new friends? i didn't know he had any specially new ones," remarked the young bareback rider. "has he been befriending some more poor broken-down circus men, like ham logan?" "these aren't men," said the clown's wife. "they are three pretty girls. i saw joe coming back from downtown with them. they seemed jolly--laughing and talking." "three pretty girls!" murmured helen. and then she quickly added, with an air of indifference: "oh, i suppose they may be some cousins he hasn't seen for a long while." "i thought joe said he had no relatives in this country," went on mrs. watson. "i'm sure i don't know," and helen's voice was very cool. "there's something behind all this," mused mrs. watson, as helen walked away. "i hope those two haven't quarreled. maybe i shouldn't have said anything." however, it was too late now. the seeds of jealousy seemed to have been sown, though unwittingly, by mrs. watson. helen walked on with her head high in the air, and as the clown's wife passed joe's official tent a little later she heard, issuing from it, the jolly laughter and talk of several girlish voices. "i wonder what joe strong is up to," thought mrs. watson. "he never acted like that before--going off with other girls and neglecting helen. i'm going to speak to him. no, i won't either!" she decided. "i'll just keep still until i know i can help. it's better that way." it was perhaps an hour after this that joe, meeting helen, called to her: "oh, i say! don't you want to do me a favor?" "what sort?" asked the rider of rosebud, and if joe had not been thinking of something else he would have noticed the danger signs about helen's countenance. "the fancy jacket i use in one of my tricks is torn," went on joe. "would it be asking too much to request you to mend it?" helen tossed back her head and there was a snap to her eyes as she answered: "why don't you get one of the three pretty girls to do your mending? i'm afraid i'm not clever enough!" and with that she walked on haughtily. for an instant joe was so surprised that he could not speak. his face plainly showed how taken aback he was. then, after a moment, he managed to stammer: "oh, but i say! helen! wait a moment! let me explain. i--er i--i only--" but helen did not pause, she did not look back, and she did not answer. joe stood staring after her in blank amazement. then he gave utterance to a low whistle and exclaimed: "oh, ho! i see! well, it will be my turn later!" and he laughed silently. "he's either playing a mean trick or else he's up to some joke," declared mrs. watson, who, from a distance, had watched this little scene. "and," she added with a shake of her head, "i can't be sure what it is. young folks are so foolish! so foolish!" and she sighed as she walked away. joe, with the torn jacket in his hand, turned back toward his own tent, and presently there came from it the sounds of several young persons, including girls, in conversation and laughter. it was later, that same afternoon, when helen noticed joe in one part of the big tent. he was surrounded by three pretty young ladies and three good-looking young men. they were on one of the platforms seated about a table, and joe seemed to be entertaining them, for there were plates, cups, knives and forks on the board--all the outward indications of a meal. the time was late afternoon, following the day performance and prior to the evening show. helen looked curiously over at the gay little scene, and something tugged at her heart-strings. then she looked away, and mrs. watson, observing her from the other side of the tent, shook her gray head. "i can't understand joe strong," murmured the clown's wife. "what has come over him?" it was just before the opening of the evening performance that night when joe, meeting helen in the dressing tent, said: "i shan't need you in the box trick, to-night, nor in the vanishing lady stunt, either." "oh, i suppose you're going to use one of the new, pretty girls," snapped helen. joe looked at her quietly. "no," he said, "i am not. but i am not going to put on either trick. i thought you'd like to know, so if you want to introduce any of your extras you'll have a chance." "thank you!" she said coldly, and passed on. joe smiled as he looked after her. with a blare of trumpets, a boom and ruffle of drums, the gay procession started around the circus arena. the stately elephants, the hideous camels and the beautiful horses went around to be looked at, wondered at, and admired. then, when the last of the cavalcade had passed out, the various acts began. helen had a new costume for her bareback act, and as she started it she looked over to where joe was busy on his stage. she saw the young men and women around him. they wore fancy costumes and seemed a part of the circus. helen wondered what act they were going to appear in, since none including them had been announced. she danced about on the back of rosebud, and thought bitterly that joe had never noticed her new dress. she was wearing it for the first time, too. the whistle blew. all acts stopped and jim tracy advanced toward joe's platform. "a most marvelous and striking act!" he cried, not stating what it was to be. all eyes, even those of helen morton, turned in the direction of joe strong. he acted quickly. with a wave of his hand he invited the three pretty girls and the three well-appearing young men to be seated. they took their places around a table, with joe acting as host. the table appeared to be well laden, and at first the act seemed to be only a rather elaborate meal being served in public. "what is it all about?" mused helen. "i can't see anything very wonderful in that." but, even as she thus mused, something strange happened. the banquet table seemed to burst into flames. the dishes of food blazed up, and the audience gasped. but the young men, the young women, and joe strong did not seem in the least surprised. they kept their seats and went right on eating. and then, with a thrill of surprise, it was noticed that joe strong and his guests were devouring the blazing food itself! the girls and young men put portion after portion of the blazing viands into their mouths! chapter xxi ham is missing surprise and astonishment held the audience silent and spellbound for a moment. then a woman screamed, and, ready for this emergency and fearing a panic, than which nothing is more dreaded by circus men, jim tracy cried: "sit still! keep your seats! there is no danger! this is all part of the show. we are merely showing you how to eat your meals in case any of you ever get caught in a blazing volcano. watch the ladies and gentlemen eat their stuff hot--right off the fire!" there was a laugh at this sally, and a laugh was what the ringmaster wanted more than anything else just then. he knew the tide of fear had been changed to one of wondering admiration. and so, sitting on the stage in sight of the thrilled audience, joe strong and his guests, in the shape of pretty girls and manly young fellows fancifully attired, continued to eat the blazing food. the very pieces of bread seemed to be on fire, there was a dancing flame over the butter, and each bit of meat or other food joe and the performers lifted on their forks was alive with leaping fire. then the daring feature of the act was borne home to the audience and the applause broke forth--applause loud and long. there were yells and whistles from the younger and more enthusiastic portion of the circus crowd. and then the fires died away. the table seemed emptied of victuals, and the young men and women, imitating joe's example, leaned back in their chairs as though well satisfied with their hot meal. "there you are, ladies and gentlemen!" declaimed the ringmaster. "they have come to no harm from eating living fire. if any of you are tired of cold victuals, kindly step forward and you will be treated to a free, hot lunch by professor strong." "not any in mine, thank you," murmured a man, and that seemed to be the general opinion. as joe and his new associates arose to bow to the renewed applause, the ringmaster made an announcement. "a blazing banquet, such as you have just witnessed, will take place at each and every performance," he declared. "come and bring your friends! nothing like it ever seen before on any stage or in any circus in the world! "remember, you will see the same and identical act at each and every performance and all for the price of one admission. professor strong and his gifted salamander associates will eat fire as they did just now, at each and every show in the big tent. i thank you!" "well, joe, it went all right!" said jim tracy when the performers had left the stage and the young fire-eater was alone on the platform. "it went like a house afire!" "yes," said joe, "it seemed to. i guess it went better than if we had made a lot of preliminary notices. the suddenness of it took them by surprise." "but we can advertise it big now," said the ringmaster. "we don't need to specify exactly what it is. of course those who have seen it will tell their friends who are coming and who haven't seen it. but the big majority of the audiences will be as much surprised as this one was. it went big." "yes," agreed joe, "it did. and i'm glad of it. this is the sensation i was planning, but i didn't want to go into details until i was sure it would work. i had to engage my helpers in the dark, so to speak, and i didn't even tell you what i was planning until the last minute." "no, you didn't," said jim. helen morton came slowly across the arena. her act was over, and she had seen the blazing banquet and joe's part in it. her cheeks were unusually red as she approached holding out her hand, and there was a rather misty look about her eyes as she said: "will you forgive me, joe?" "for what?" he asked tantalizingly. "oh, you know perfectly well!" she exclaimed. "it was very silly of me, but--" "i know, helen. i did tease you a bit," he said. "i suppose i might have told you that the pretty girls were those i had engaged to help in the banquet scene, together with the young fellows. we had only a few rehearsals in my tent, and i didn't want to spread the news too generally, even among the circus crowd, for fear of a leak. but i suppose i might have told you." "it would have saved me from acting so silly, if you had," she murmured. "then it is i who should ask forgiveness," said joe. "but it's all right now. and may i come to lunch with you, or would you rather that i should go with--one of the pretty girls?" "if you do i'll never forgive you!" declared helen, blushing more than ever. and so the little quarrel ended. as joe had intimated, he had engaged his banquet helpers secretly, and they had met him at the city where the circus was to remain three days and nights. ham logan had been instrumental in getting the performers for joe, since the old circus man knew the best theatrical agency at which to apply. so joe had hired the young men and women to act the part of guests at the "banquet." he had guessed that helen's actions denoted her jealousy, but he could not forbear teasing her. "but did they actually eat the fire?" helen asked, when she and joe were together again. "of course i know they didn't," she went on. "it's silly of me to ask such a question. but it was very realistic." "i'm glad of that," said joe. "no, they didn't actually 'eat' the fire, any more than i eat it. and i may say that i had quite a little trouble in getting them to put it near enough their mouths to make it seem as if they did. "but the 'food' was only very thin paper of a peculiar kind, which ham logan and i worked out together. it can be made to look like almost any food, and yet it is treated chemically so as to burn easily and quickly. the flames go out as soon as they come near enough our mouths to feel the effects of certain chemicals that are on our faces. i can't tell you all the secrets, but that is enough to show you how we worked it. "there was no more danger than there is when i 'eat' fire, and the trick is done in much the same way. ham logan is getting to be an invaluable helper. i hope he stays with me. i never could have done this trick without him." the blazing banquet was the talk of that and other cities. as jim tracy had said, the feat was shown at each and every performance, joe cutting out some of his less sensational acts. the circus made a longer stay than usual in the city where the fiery food was first "eaten," and played to record-breaking business. "and the best of it is that we haven't seen a bogus ticket!" said the treasurer, much elated. joe, as one of the chief owners of the circus, was able to hire the "fire-eaters" unknown to any of his associates until the last minute, and thus the surprise was all the greater. joe's fire tricks were now the talk of the theatrical and circus worlds, and he received many offers to leave sampson brothers' show and star by himself. but he refused them all, saying he wanted to build up his own show to a point never before reached. as he had said, ham logan proved a valuable helper. the man, a fire-eater of the old school, knew many valuable secrets, and he held himself under such obligation to joe that he revealed many of them to the young magician. "have you learned anything more about who left that bottle of powerful acid in among my things?" asked joe of ham, one afternoon when the fire banquet had been unusually successful. "no, not exactly," was the answer. "but i'm on the trail, i think i am working along the right lines, but it is too early to make any statement." "well, take your time," said joe. "only i don't want to get mixed up with any of the deadly stuff." "don't worry. i'm on the watch," declared the old performer. that night, when the time for joe to prepare for his acts, including the fire tricks, came, he did not see ham in the dressing tent, where the assistant was usually to be found. "have you seen him?" asked joe of harry loper. "yes, about half an hour ago," was the answer. "he said he was going in to town." "going in to town--and so near performing time?" cried joe. "i wonder what for! he ought to be here!" joe was worried, and when his signal for going on came ham logan was still missing. joe strong shook his head dubiously. it had been found necessary to get another man to help with the act. "i don't like this," he murmured. "i don't like it for a cent!" chapter xxii a sudden warning only the fact that he had strong nerves and that he possessed the ability of concentrating his mind on whatever was uppermost at the time, enabled the young circus man to get through his various circus acts with credit at that performance. he began with the worry over ham logan's disappearance before him. and he was actually worried--a bad state of affairs for one whose ability to please and deceive critical audiences depends on his snappy acting, his quickness of hand and mind, and his skill. but, as has been said, joe possessed the ability to concentrate on the most needful matter, and that, for the time being, was his box trick, his fire-eating, and his slide on his head down the slanting wire through the blazing hoops. then came the blazing banquet, and this created the usual furor in the audience. joe managed to get through it with credit, though his rather strange manner was noticed and commented on afterward by the young people associated with him. "i wonder what's bothering the boss?" asked one of the young fire-eaters of another. "he nearly made a slip when he was lifting up that fake fried oyster." "maybe the circus is losing money and he's got to cut out this act--let some of us go--can't pay our salaries," was the reply. "don't you believe it!" declared the other. "the circus is making more money than it ever did--more even when the fake tickets are worked off on it." "well, it's none of our affair." "i wouldn't like my salary to be cut off." "oh, neither would i." "fake tickets? i hadn't heard of them." "oh, yes," explained the first speaker, and he went into the details of the affair. "but there's surely something worrying the boss," commented still another of the young men, and his associates, including the "pretty girls," agreed with him. and what really was worrying joe was speculation over the fate of ham logan. not since joe had first taken the old and broken circus actor into his employ had ham been away more than a few hours at a time, and then joe knew where he was. this time ham had left no word, save the uncertain one that he was going into the city, on the outskirts of which the circus was at the time showing. "but don't you think he'll come back?" asked jim tracy, when, after the performance, joe had spoken of the missing ham. "i wish i could think so," was the reply. "i sure will hate to lose him. i depend a lot on him in my fire tricks." "what makes you think you will lose him?" asked tracy curiously. "well, his going off this way, for one," declared joe. "what i'm really afraid of is that he may have gone back to his bad habits. you know how it is. a man starts to reform, and he keeps the pledges he makes until he meets some of his boon companions who used to help him on the downward road. they invite him to come along for a good time, and he goes." "and you think that's what's happened to ham?" "i'm afraid so. i'm going down town and see if i can get any trace of him." and this joe did as soon as he was relieved of his duties in the circus. the show was to remain in town over night, and this gave him just the chance he wanted. it was an unpleasant errand, but joe went through with it. he had to call at many places that were distasteful to him, but in none of them did he get a trace of ham logan. joe saw in the more brilliant parts of the city a number of the circus men, including some of the chief performers. they were taking advantage of the two-days' stay, and were meeting old friends and making some new acquaintances. of these joe inquired for news of ham, but no one had seen him. the old fire-eater had endeared himself to more than one member of the sampson brothers' show, for he was always ready to do a favor. so more than joe were interested in seeing that ham kept on the good road along which he had started. but all of joe's efforts were of no avail. it was after midnight when he ended his search, and, rather than go back to the sleeping car where the other performers spent their night, joe put up at a hotel, sending word to jim tracy of what he intended to do. "i want to find ham," joe wrote in the note he sent to the ringmaster by a messenger boy, "and i've asked the police to be on the quiet lookout for him. if i stay at the hotel i can help him more quickly, in case he's found, than if i am away out at the railroad siding where the circus train is. i'll see you in the morning." but joe's night at the hotel was spent in vain, for there was no word of ham logan, and the morning which joe put in, making inquiries, was equally fruitless. "i guess ham is gone for good," sighed joe, and his regret was genuine, and almost as much for the sake of the man himself as for his own loss of a good assistant. for ham logan was that and more to joe. the former tramp had much valuable information regarding the old style fire-eating tricks, and though he was not up to the task of doing them himself, he gave joe good advice. it was by his help and advice that joe had staged the blazing banquet scene, which was such a success and which the newspapers mentioned constantly. true, joe did not actually need ham to go on with his acts. he could break in another man to help him, to hand him the proper article at just the right time, to see to the mixing of the fire-resisting chemicals and to the preparation of the viands that seemed to be composed of fire itself. "and that's what i'll have to do," mused joe, when he became convinced some days later that ham was not to be found. he wished that helen was able to act as his assistant in the fire scenes, as she did in the box trick and the vanishing lady act. but she could spare no more time from her own act with rosebud, since she was billed as one of the "stars." then, too, helen had a fear of fire, and though she had succeeded in overcoming part of it, still she would not have made the proper sort of assistant in those acts. besides, she would not have been able to mix the chemicals joe required to render himself immune from such fire as he actually came in contact with, though momentarily. "i've got to train in a new man," decided joe. he mentally considered various circus employees, rejecting one after another, and finally selected one of the young men who acted in the blazing banquet scene. this youth was a bright, manly fellow, and had introduced some new "business" in the act which made it more interesting. "i'll train him in," decided joe, "with the understanding that if ham comes back he'll get his old place. if he comes back! i wonder if he ever will, and if he'll be in a condition to help me." joe shook his head dubiously. the circus moved on. it had played to good business, and there was more good business in prospect. mr. moyne, the treasurer, was on the anxious seat much of the time, fearing another flood of bogus tickets, but the efforts mentioned, on the part of the swindlers, following the use of new paper, was all they had to complain of so far. "either the detectives are too close to the trail of the cheats to allow them to work in safety, or they've given it up altogether," decided the treasurer. "i hope so," said joe. "still it won't do to relax our vigilance. i wrote to the detective firm, as i said i would, jacking them up a bit. maybe they are ready to make an arrest, and that would stop the swindlers." the young man joe had picked out to act as his chief assistant in the fire scenes was ted brown. ted was about eighteen years old, and this was his first position with a circus. but he was making good, and he had not yet been afflicted with the terrible disease known as "swelled head," something which ruins so many performers. ted learned rapidly, and joe felt that it would be safe to trust him with some of the secrets of the tricks--the mixing of the fire-resisting chemicals and the like. joe's choice seemed to be a good one, for ted did well, and his part in the banquet scene was made even better by his knowledge of the inner workings of the material used. but though joe did not lose materially by the desertion of ham, if that was what it was, since he could now depend on ted, the young circus man many times found himself wondering if he would ever see the old fire-eater again. the circus opened one afternoon in a large city--one in which lived many thousands of men employed in a large ship-building plant. "there'll be big crowds here," said mr. moyne, as he walked toward the ticket wagon in preparation for the rush. "and it's here we'll have to look out for bogus coupons." "why?" asked joe, who was getting ready for his acts. "because in every other case the swindlers have worked their game where there was a big plant engaging many men of what you might call rough and ready character--ready to take a chance on scalped admission tickets, and rough enough to fight if they were discovered. so i'm going to be on the watch." "it's just as well to be," decided joe. he turned back into the tent which was his combined dressing room and a storage place for his various smaller bits of apparatus and the chemicals he used in his fire act. before giving his last act joe always washed his hands and face and rinsed his mouth out with a chemical preparation that would, for a time, resist the action of fire. it was a secret compound, rather difficult to handle and make, and joe had taught ted brown how to do it. the young fellow was handing joe this mixture, some of which was also used by all who took part in the blazing banquet scene, when the flap of the tent was suddenly pushed aside and harry loper entered. "stop!" he cried, raising a restraining hand. "don't use that solution, mr. strong! it's doped! don't use it!" joe, who had been about to apply some of the stuff to his hands, turned in surprise. he was alarmed at the strange look on the face of the youth who acted as his helper in the high wire and in some of the trapeze acts. "don't use that stuff!" cried harry. "it's doped!" and then he sank down on a chair and, burying his face in his hands, burst into tears. chapter xxiii a strange summons joe strong looked from the sobbing harry loper to the amazed ted brown. the latter's face showed his great surprise. for an instant joe had an ugly suspicion that his new assistant had played him false--that, because of jealousy or from some other motive, he had mixed the chemicals in some way to make them ineffective. this would spoil the illusion, or it might even cause injury. "look here, harry! what's the matter?" cried joe, purposely using a rough voice, so as to stop, if possible, the display of emotion on the part of the youth. "act like a man, can't you! if you've done some mean trick tell me about it. what do you mean when you say this mixture is doped?" "just that!" exclaimed harry, looking up with haggard face. "i can't stand it any longer. i promised not to tell, but i've got to. i--i can't see any harm come to you." "harm!" cried joe. "do you mean this is poison?" "no, not that. he said it wouldn't do you any harm--that it would only make the act turn out wrong--that you, nor anybody, would not be hurt. but i don't believe him. i believe he wants to harm you, and i'm going to tell all i know. i can't stand it any longer." "look here, harry!" said joe sternly, "are you perfectly sober? do you know what you're saying?" "yes, i know that, all right, mr. strong," whined the lad. "i won't say i haven't been drinking, for i have. i did it to try to forget, but it wouldn't work. i'm plenty sober enough to know what i'm saying." "and you tell me this chemical preparation will work harm to me and those who help me in the fire acts?" "i don't know as to that, mr. strong. he told me that it wouldn't harm you. but i don't believe him! i won't trust him any more." "who do you mean?" asked joe. "do you know anything about this?" he demanded sternly of ted brown. "you prepared this mixture, didn't you?" "yes, mr. strong, i did. i made it just the way you told me. if you think--" "no, he doesn't know anything about it," murmured harry, who seemed to have recovered some of his composure, now that the worst of his confession was over. "he didn't have a hand in it. i'm to blame. if i hadn't let him into your tent he couldn't have doped the stuff. oh, i'm sorry! i was a fool to believe him, but he promised me a lot of money just to keep still, and i've done it up to now. but i'm through with him!" "look here!" cried joe. "how long has this been going on? was this mixture ever doped, as you call it, before?" "oh, no, not that i know," was the answer. joe knew this much, at least, was true. the mixture had always worked perfectly before, and if it had been tampered with that would not have been the case. "then what do you mean?" cried the young magician. "speak up, can't you? be a man! if you haven't done anything really wrong you won't be punished. i'm after the person back of you. speak up! who is he?" he realized that harry loper was but a weak tool in the hands of some one else, and many things that had seemed strange came back to joe with a sudden rush now. he might be able to learn who it was that had such enmity against him and the circus. "are you going to tell me?" demanded joe. "yes! yes! i'll tell you everything!" was the answer. "i can't stand it any longer. i can't eat in comfort any more, and i can't sleep! first he promised to pay me for letting him come to your tent when you were out. then he threatened to kill me if i told. but i'm going to tell. i don't care what he does!" "but if this is the first time my chemical mixture has been doped, what do you mean about 'him,' whoever he is, coming to my tent at other times?" asked joe. "what other times were they?" "don't you remember when the bottle of acid was found?" asked the abashed youth. "yes! was that some of your doings too?" cried joe hotly. "no, i didn't do it. he did. but i--i looked the other way when he did it. and then there was the time when the trapeze wire broke. it was acid that did that. he put it on." "who is this mysterious person you call 'he' all the while?" asked joe. "i want to get after him." "i'll tell you!" promised harry. "but you'll protect me, won't you, mr. strong?" "as far as i can with decency, yes. now tell me!" but there came another interruption. a man thrust his head into the tent and exclaimed: "mr. tracy wants to know if you can advance the fire scenes about ten minutes, mr. strong. one of the men acrobats has sprained his wrist and they've got to cut out his act. can you go on ten minutes sooner than usual?" "guess i'll have to," said joe. "quick, ted, make up some new solution. i'll help you. as for you, harry, you stay right here. i'll talk to you later. haven't time now. and i'm going to have some one stay with you, to make sure you don't weaken and run away. it is as much for your own sake as mine. if you've decided to leave the man who got you to help in this work i'll stand by you. but i want to be sure your repentance is genuine. so stay right here, and we'll talk about this later. don't say anything outside," he cautioned ted. "i won't," was the answer. "say, i hope you don't think i had any hand in this?" "no," joe answered, "i don't. i'm trusting you--that's my best evidence." "thank you," said the young fellow, and he breathed a sigh of relief. quick work was needed on the part of joe and his new helper to get ready for the act. new chemicals had to be mixed, to render it safe to handle fire. this was in the acts where joe seemed to swallow flames and where he and the others "dined" on blazing food. in the other acts, where joe juggled on the slack wire with the flaming torches, where he slid down the wire through the blazing hoops, and where he jumped into the tank of water with his garments apparently in flames, no change was needed. in these feats joe's costume was fireproofed, and, as they had been treated some time before, he knew there was only a remote possibility that they had been tampered with. still he was taking no chances, and while he was waiting for ted to complete the mixing of the fire-resisting chemical mixture, joe tested his garments with a blazing bit of paper. they did not catch fire, which assured him of safety during his sensational acts. "how about you, joe?" asked jim tracy, thrusting his head into the tent a little later. "are you going to be able to make it?" "oh, sure. i'll be there!" "sorry to have to make the change," went on the ringmaster. "but baraldi is hurt, and his act had to be cut out completely. so i had to move you up." "oh, that's all right," joe assured him. "hello, what are you doing here--and what's the matter with you?" cried jim, seeing harry loper sitting dejectedly in a chair. "why aren't you out fixing the trapezes? you know mr. strong goes on them soon." "i--i--he told me to stay here," loper stammered, indicating joe. "yes," supplemented joe strong, "there's something doing, jim. i'll tell you later. i want some one to stay in here with harry. some one we can trust," he added significantly. "i'll send paddy flynn," promised the ringmaster. as he went out he looked curiously at harry. "how's the stuff coming on, ted?" asked joe, when the doctored mixture had been thrown away and new made. "all right, i guess. i'll try it." he put some on one finger, thrust the member into the flame of a candle, and held it there longer than usual. "look out!" joe warned him. "you can't be too familiar with fire." "the stuff's all right," was the answer. "it's better than the last we used." "good! well, let's get busy!" in spite of the strain of what he had gone through in listening to the partial confession of harry loper, joe did some of his best work in the fire acts that day. the blazing banquet was most effective. having changed to his costume for his magical box and other tricks, and learning that harry was still safe under the watchful eye of paddy flynn, joe hurried out to his stage, where mr. tracy was already making the ten thousand dollar offer. as joe hurried across the arena one of the tent men thrust into his hand a scrap of paper. "what is it?" asked joe. "i don't know," was the reply. "a boy just brought it and told me to give it to you." joe had a half minute to wait while the ringmaster was talking. quickly he read the note--it was really a scrawl. but it said: "please forgive me and still believe in me. i am suffering! i can't come to you in the condition i'm in now. but i have something to tell you if you could come to me. the boy will bring you." the note was signed "hamilton logan." "whew!" whistled joe. "worse and more of it!" chapter xxiv the trap is set pausing only long enough to tell the man who had given him the note to be sure and detain the boy who had brought it, joe strong hurried over to the stage to begin his box trick. that was to be followed by the "disappearing lady" act. and here again joe had to use all his reserve nerve to enable him to go on with the performance as smoothly as he usually did. he had to dismiss from his mind, for the time being, all thoughts of ham logan, and he steeled himself not to think of what the strange summons might mean. "if ham is in trouble i'm going to help him--that's all!" declared joe. following the usual announcement by jim tracy, joe got into the box. it was locked and roped and then helen took her place, as did the fireman with his gleaming ax. joe worked unusually quickly that night in getting out of the box. he knew this haste would not spoil the illusion of the trick. in fact it really heightened it. for he was out of the heavy box in much shorter time than it had taken the volunteer committee to lock him in. and joe was glad no one came forward at this performance to claim the ten thousand dollars. that would have taken up time, and time, just then, was what joe wanted most. "evidently none of you know how the trick is done," commented the ringmaster, when his offer of ten thousand dollars was not taken advantage of. "we will now proceed to the next illusion, that of causing a beautiful lady to disappear and vanish into thin air before your very eyes. there is no reward offered for the solution of this mystery." helen then took her place on the trick chair over the trap in the stage. the silk shawl was placed over her, and, in due time, the chair was shown empty. the usual applause followed and joe was glad his acts were over for the time. bowing to acknowledge the fervor of the audience, joe started toward his dressing apartment. "i want to see you as soon as i can," he quickly told helen. "but i have to go away. it's about ham," he added. "i've heard from him." "where is he?" "i don't know. just a scrawled note. the messenger who brought it is going to take me to him." "oh, joe, i'm so glad you've heard from him. i liked him." "i did too. i hope i can continue to like him. but i'm afraid, from the tone of his note, that he's broken his pledge. however, we can't expect too much. don't go away for an hour or so. i'll be back as soon as i can and i'll tell you all about it." "i'll wait for you," promised helen. as joe hurried across the arena he saw the tent man who had given him the note. "where's the boy?" he asked. "i took him to your tent. paddy flynn is there and loper. is anything the matter, mr. strong?" "oh, nothing that can't be made right, i hope." joe found a red-haired boy sitting on the edge of a folding chair in the dressing tent. the lad was looking wonderingly about the place. "did you bring this note?" asked joe, showing the crumpled paper. "sure i did! and say, i wish i could see the show!" "you can to-night after you take me to mr. logan," replied joe. "you know where he is, don't you?" "sure i do! didn't he give me the note to bring youse?" "where is he?" "down in kelly's joint. i live next door." "what is kelly's joint?" "a saloon," answered the red-haired boy. "de name on de winders is café, but they don't pronounce it that way--anyhow some of 'em don't. it oughter be cave i guess. it sure is a joint!" "is mr. logan there?" asked joe. "sure he is. upstairs in one of de rooms. he's been on a terrible spree he said, but he's sober now and sick--gee, mister, but he sure was sick. me mudder helped take care of him." "i'm glad of that," said joe. "we'll go to him at once. where is kelly's--er--café?" "down by de river near de shipyards," answered the red-haired lad. for an instant joe hesitated, but only for an instant. the district named, as he well knew, was a bad one. it was also dangerous. but it was still afternoon, though growing late. it would not be dark for some time, however, and joe felt that he would be safe enough in going alone. at night he would have taken some one with him. but there were two reasons why he did not want to do this now. one was that no one whom he felt he could trust to be discreet could be taken away from the circus, which was not yet over, though joe's acts were finished. another reason was that he did not want the possible degradation of logan seen by any of his former associates. possibly he might come back to the show, and he would always have a feeling of shame if he knew that those with whom he worked had seen him recovering from a "spree," as the red-haired lad called it. "i've got to go away," said joe to paddy flynn. joe and the lad had talked at one side of the tent and in low tones, so the young circus man knew their voices had not been overheard by paddy and the man he was guarding, harry loper. "i'll be back as soon as i can," went on the young fire-eater. "meanwhile you stay here, loper. paddy will take care of you, and when i come back i'll have a talk with you." "all right," assented the other wearily. "i feel better now i've told you." joe and micky donlon, which the red-haired boy said was his name, though probably michael was what he had been christened, were soon on their way toward the river and the location of one of the shipyards. "are youse sure i can see de show to-night?" asked micky eagerly, as they walked along. "positive," said joe. "here's a reserved seat ticket now. two, in fact, in case you want to take some one." "i'll take me mudder," declared the lad. "i got a girl, but she's goin' wit another feller. he bought two tickets, but dey wasn't reserved seats. i didn't have the dough--dat's why she shook me, i guess. but when i flash dese on her--say, maybe she won't want to shine up at me again! but nothin' doin'! i'll take me mudder. she needs a change after waitin' on dat guy what's been on a spree." "how long has mr. logan been ill?" asked joe. "oh, he's been in kelly's joint for a week." "he must have been waiting for the circus to arrive," thought joe. "he knew we were booked for here. poor fellow!" joe was glad it was still light when he entered the district where kelly's café, or saloon, to be more exact, was situated. for the place was most disreputable in appearance, and the character of men loitering about it would have made it a place to stay away from after dark. suspicious eyes looked at joe as he entered the place with his young guide. "he's come to see de sick guy," micky explained to the bartender. "well, i hope he's come to pay what's owin'," was the surly comment. "i'll settle any bills that mr. logan may owe for board or lodging," said joe. "board! he don't owe much for _board_!" sneered the barkeeper. "he hasn't eaten enough to keep a fly alive. but he does owe for his room." "i'll pay that," offered joe. then he was guided upstairs to a squalid room. "come in!" called a weak voice, and joe, pushing back the door, saw, lying on a tumbled bed, the form of the old fire-eater. it was a great change ham logan was in even worse condition than when he had applied to joe for work. he was utterly disreputable. but in spite of that there was something about his face and eyes that gave joe hope. the man was sober--that was one thing. as joe looked at him, ham turned his face away. "i--i'm ashamed to have you see me," he murmured. "i fought it off as long as i could, but i just had to see you. 'tisn't for my own sake!" he added quickly. "i know you're through with me. but it's for your own--and the good of the show. i've got something to tell you, and, when i've done that, you can go away again and forget me. that's all i'm fit for--to be forgotten!" a dry sob shook his emaciated frame. "son, here's a quarter," said joe to the red-haired micky. "you go out and get yourself an ice-cream soda and come back in half an hour." and after he had thus delicately removed a witness to the sad scene joe closed the door, and, going over to the bed, held out both his hands to the man. and then tears--tears to which he had long been stranger--coursed down the sunken cheeks of hamilton logan. just what joe said to the man whom he had befriended and who had gone back to his old ways and what ham logan said to his young benefactor will never be known. neither would tell, and no one else knew. as a matter of fact, it did not matter. afterward, though, following some sensational happenings which did become known, joe told his closest friends enough of ham's story to make clear the trend of events. punctually on the time agreed, micky donlon was back at his post. joe was coming out of the room. "are you engaged for the rest of the day?" asked the young circus performer of his guide. "engaged?" "i mean have you anything to do?" "not so's you could notice! me mudder's goin' to dress up to see de show, but me--i'm all ready!" "good! then you can help me. i'll pay you for your time. can we get an automobile in this part of the city?" "gee, no, mister! dere's jitney buses about two blocks up, though." "well, perhaps they'll do for a time. i've got a lot to do, and you can help me." "i sure will, mister!" cried micky. "are youse in de circus--i mean does youse ride a horse or jump over de elephants?" "well, something like that--yes," answered joe with a smile. "you'll see to-night if you come." "oh, i'll be dere! don't forgit dat!" joe and his guide took a jitney to the nearest public hack stand, where a number of automobiles were waiting, and joe entered one of these with micky. "gee, if me girl could see me _now_!" murmured the red-haired lad, as he sank back in the deep seat. joe was too preoccupied to more than smile at the lad. there was much that remained to be done. the circus was to remain in this city two days more, over saturday night, in fact, leaving on sunday for a distant city. "there's time enough to trap them!" mused joe. "time enough to trap them!" and, getting back to the show lot, he dismissed the automobile, and, taking micky with him, sought out jim tracy, mr. moyne, and some of the other circus executives. and then the trap was set. chapter xxv a blaze of glory "well," remarked joe, after having talked rapidly and said considerable to his friends, "what do you think of my news?" "great!" declared the ringmaster. "i didn't think things would take just that turn, but after loper's confession and what ham told you, i believe it all. that scoundrel ought to be sent away for life." "he'll go for a long time if i have anything to say," declared the treasurer. "did you know we spotted more bogus tickets to-day?" he asked joe. "no." "well, we did. i found it out just after you left. there were only a few. the rush will come to-night." "unless we stop it," put in jim tracy. "we'll stop it!" decided joe. "that's why i wanted to get things started in a hurry. the trap is all ready to spring. the detectives will be here at eight o'clock, just when the rush is at its height at the ticket wagon." "are you going to bring ham back?" asked jim, when the conference was over. "i certainly am," was the answer. "i think he's been on his last spree. and he wouldn't have gone on this one only that he was tempted by some person. put this tempter out of the way, and it will mean ham's safety. now we've got to work." there was an exceedingly busy time at the circus from then on, and very little of it concerned the show itself. the performance was delayed half an hour that night to enable the trap to be sprung. joe and jim tracy met a certain train that came in from a large city, and saw alight from it two quiet, unassuming men. "there they are," said joe. "now things will move!" and he and the ringmaster were soon in conversation with the two new arrivals. a little later the four entered joe's dressing tent at the circus grounds. and some time after that four men, whose faces were black from the smudge of machine oil and grease and whose clothes carried like marks, left joe's quarters. "down near the shipyards when the last of the day shift comes off will be the time and place," said one of the four smudge-faced men. "right!" declared another. from the big shipyard poured hundreds of men. as they began to emerge from the gate the four soiled-faced individuals who had come from joe's dressing tent mingled with them. they heard some one ask: "are you sure the tickets'll be good?" "sure," was the answer. "this fellow and his pal are part of the show. he sells 'em this way so there won't be such a crowd at the wagon, and that's why he makes such a big discount. it sort of guarantees a pretty big crowd, too. oh, the tickets are good, all right. there's the ticket guy now." the crowd of men turned down a side street, and the four smutty-countenanced men went with them. one of the four said: "wait till he sells a few tickets and then nab him." "there's two of 'em," said another voice. "nab 'em both! they work together." soon the men from the shipyard surrounded the two men, one of whom had been designated by the sentence: "there's the ticket guy now." money began to change hands, and tickets were passed around. the four men who had kept together shoved their way through the crowd of ship workers. "how much are the tickets?" one asked. "thirty-five cents," was the answer. "they'll cost you fifty or seventy-five at the wagon. the only reason we sell 'em this way is to avoid the rush. then, too, you're really buying 'em at wholesale." "i'll take four," said the man of the quartette. "here you are! four." there was another clink of money and a rustle of slips of paper. then the man who had passed over the tickets, said: "here's your change. that was a five you gave me, wasn't it? take your change." "and you take yours, bill carfax!" suddenly cried one of the four. "it's quite a sudden change, too!" there was a flash of something bright, a metallic click--two of them, in fact--and the ticket seller tried to break away. but he was held by the handcuffs on his wrists, one of the four grasping them by the connecting chain. "get the other!" cried a sharp voice. there was a scuffle, another flash of something bright, two more clicks, and one of the four cried: "that'll be about all from you, jed lewis, _alias_ inky jed." the two handcuffed men seemed to know that the game was up. they shrugged their shoulders, looked at each other, and grew quiet suddenly. the set trap had been successfully sprung. "hey! what's the big idea?" "what's it all about?" "don't we get our tickets?" thus cried the men from the shipyards. "you don't want these tickets," said joe strong, for as bill carfax looked more closely at one of the four he recognized him as the young circus man. "you don't want any tickets these men could sell you." "why not?" demanded a man who had bought one. "because they're counterfeit," was joe's answer. "this man, bill carfax," and he nodded toward the one first handcuffed, "used to work with the sampson show. he was discharged--ask him to tell you why--and soon after that we began to be cheated by the use of counterfeit tickets. we have been trying ever since to find out who sold them, and now we have." "you think you have!" sneered the man who had been called "inky jed." "we know it," said joe decidedly. "ham logan overheard your plans discussed, and he's told everything." "oh!" exclaimed bill carfax, and there was a world of meaning in that simple interjection. "and who might you guys be?" asked one of the shipyard men. "i'm one of the circus owners," said joe quietly, "and this is the ringmaster," he went on, indicating jim tracy. "these other two gentlemen are detectives who have been working on the case since we discovered the counterfeits. we disguised ourselves in this way in order to trap these two," and he pointed to the handcuffed men. the ship workers nodded. one of them asked: "and aren't they with your show, and can't they sell tickets at reduced prices?" "never!" exclaimed joe. "you might get in on the tickets you bought from them, but it would be illegally. the counterfeits are clever ones," he said, holding up four he had bought for evidence. "but we can detect the difference by means of the serial numbers. and now, if you men really want to see the show, go up to the lot and get your tickets from the wagon, or buy them at one of the authorized agencies." there were many questions fired at joe and his friends by the shipyard men, but they had time to answer only a few. "we've got to get back to the performance," said joe to the detectives. "you can take them with you," and he nodded toward bill carfax and his crony. "jim and i will see you later." "oh, we'll take them with us all right!" laughed one of the detectives. "move lively, boys!" he added to the two prisoners. "the jig is up!" and the two counterfeiters seemed to know it. "what does it all mean?" asked helen of joe, when he got back a little before the time to go on with his acts. he had washed his face and changed to his circus costume. the two prisoners had been locked up. "well, it means we killed two birds with one stone," said joe. "we got rid of the men who have been making us lose money my means of the counterfeit tickets, and we have also under lock and key bill carfax, who tried several times to injure me, or at least to spoil my act, by means of acid on the trapeze rope and by changing the fireproof mixture." "oh, i'm so glad!" cried helen. "then you were in danger?" "i suppose so--danger of injury, perhaps, but hardly death. i think carfax, desperate as he was, would stop at that." "how did you find out about him and the other man?" "i'll just have time to tell you before my first act," said joe. "it was harry loper who gave me the first idea. when he broke down it was because of what he had done, and on account of what bill carfax wanted him to do again. it was bill who got into the tent once and put acid on my trapeze wire. and it was because he bribed poor loper that he was able to do it. bill pretended it was only a trick to make me slip, because he wanted to get even with me for discharging him. so poor, weak harry let him sneak into the tent, disguised so none of our men would know him. bill climbed up, put acid on the wire, and the fiery stuff did the rest. "well, that preyed on harry's mind, but he kept putting it away. but finally, knowing the hold he had on him, bill came back and gave him a bottle of acid to work some further harm to me or my apparatus. but ham discovered that in time. "bill was provoked over his failure, and, when he wasn't helping inky jed get out the bogus tickets, he followed the show and tried to prevail on harry to play another trick on me. just what it was harry doesn't know. he refused to do it, and then he came and confessed to me. so much for harry. he's a sorry boy, and i think he'll turn over a new leaf. "now about ham. just as i feared, he got to drinking again. but it was because bill met him when poor ham's nerves were on edge, and bill induced him to take liquor. then ham went all to pieces and started on a spree which lasted until now. he managed to get from place to place, always under bill's eye, and at last he landed here, very weak and ill. mrs. donlon looked after him. "and it was here that ham first heard bill and his crony plotting about the bogus circus tickets. the two counterfeiters planned to make a big strike here with the shipyard workers. then ham sent the warning to me. i called on him, learned the plans of bill and jed, and we sent for the detectives. the latter, we learned, were about to make an arrest anyhow, but it was of the men who really printed the bogus tickets. they hadn't a clew, as yet, to bill and jed, who were the real backers of the game. the detectives came on, disguised themselves with us, and we caught the scoundrels in the very act. now they're locked up." "oh, joe, it's wonderful!" exclaimed helen. "i'm so glad it's all over. and are you going to bring ham back to the show?" "just as soon as he's able to travel. micky donlon wants to join too, and i may give him a chance later. well, our troubles seem to be over for a time, but i suppose there'll be more." "oh, look on the bright side!" exclaimed helen. "why be a fire-eater if you can't look on the bright side?" she laughed. "that's so," agreed her admirer. "well, i've got to get ready to eat some fire right now." as joe had said, everything was cleared up. bill carfax was at the bottom of most of the personal troubles of the young circus man, and his acts were actuated by a desire for vengeance. as to the ticket trick, bill was only a sort of agent in that. jed lewis, alias inky jed, was an expert counterfeiter. he had already served time in prison for trying to make counterfeit money, and when he fell in with bill, and heard the latter tell of some of his circus experiences, the more skillful scoundrel became impressed with the chance of making money by selling spurious tickets. they had some printed and worked the scheme among crowds of men coming from factories, just as they were doing when they were caught. as ham told joe, the old fire-eater had overheard the plots and saw his chance to do joe a favor. carfax, it was surmised, hoped to get ham logan under his influence through drink, so that he might use him in order to injure joe, after having failed with harry loper. it developed, afterward, that the paper mills had, innocently enough, furnished the swindlers with the paper for the counterfeit tickets. the material was secured through a trick, and inky jed knew an unscrupulous printer who did the work for him. it was bill carfax who had sent the man who so nearly exposed joe's box trick. but fortune was with the young circus man. the music played, the horses trotted about, clowns made laughter, and helen performed graceful feats on rosebud. joe did some magical tricks, walked the wire, slid down on his head, and then prepared for the blazing banquet. in order to show what he could do, ted brown had introduced some novelties. after joe and the guests had devoured the blazing food there was a pause, and then, suddenly, from the center of the table spouts of red fire burst out, so that the banquet ended in a blaze of glory. joe's new helper had used some fireworks effectively. in due time bill and his crony were tried, convicted, and sent away to prison for long terms. harry loper changed his rather loose and weak ways and became one of joe's best friends. ted brown was continued as an "assistant assistant," for in a few weeks ham logan was able to rejoin the show, and he again became joe's chief helper. "well, what are you going to spring next on the unsuspecting public as a sensation?" asked helen, when the show had reached a city where two days were to be spent. "have you other acts as good a the fire-eating?" "well, perhaps i can think up some," was the answer. and so, with joe strong thinking what the future might hold for him and the circus, we will take our leave for a time. the end memoirs of a midget by the same author the three mulla-mulgars _illustrated by dorothy p. lathrop._ "the story concerns the adventures of three monkeys of royal blood ... a tale of strange creatures and strange landscapes, of adventures and misadventures in faery forests. one of those rare books that everyone will love. "miss lathrop's illustrations have placed her, at a bound, in the first rank of american imaginative illustrators." --_chicago evening post._ _boxed, $ . net at all bookshops_ _new york: alfred a. knopf_ memoirs _of a_ midget _by_ walter _de la_ mare [illustration: logo] new york mcmxxi alfred a. knopf copyright, , by walter de la mare _published, january, _ _set up and printed by the veil-ballon co., binghamton, n. y._ _paper furnished by w. f. etherington & co., new york, n. y._ _bound by the plimpton press, norwood, mass._ manufactured in the united states of america to the memory of my mother _a wild beast there is in Ægypt, called orix, which the Ægyptians say, doth stand full against the dog starre when it riseth, looketh wistly upon it, and testifieth after a sort by sneesing, a kind of worship...._ philemon holland. '_did'st thou ever see a lark in a cage? such is the soul in the body: this world is like her little turf of grass; and the heaven o'er our heads, like her looking-glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge of the small compass of our prison...._' john webster. '_provoke them not, fair sir, with tempting words; the heavens are gracious...._' thomas kyd. contents introduction lyndsey beechwood wanderslore lyme regis london monks' house wanderslore lyndsey memoirs of a midget introduction a few introductory and explanatory remarks are due, i think, to the reader of the following memoirs. the memoirs themselves will disclose how i became acquainted with miss m. they also refer here and there to the small part i was enabled to take in straightening matters out at what was a critical juncture in her affairs, and in securing for her that independence which enabled her to live in the privacy she loved, without any anxiety as to ways and means. at the time, it is clear that she considered me a dilatory intermediary. i had not realized how extreme was her need. but she came at last to take a far too generous view of these trifling little services--services as generously rewarded, since they afforded me the opportunity of frequently seeing her, and so of becoming, as i hope, one of her most devoted friends. one of the duties devolving on me as her sole executor--certain unusual legal proceedings having been brought to completion--was the examination of her letters and papers. amongst these were her memoirs--which i found sealed up with her usual scrupulous neatness in numerous small, square, brown-paper packages, and laid carefully away in a cupboard in her old nursery. they were accompanied by a covering letter addressed to myself. miss m.'s handwriting was even more minute than one might naturally, though not perhaps justifiably, have anticipated. her manuscript would therefore have been difficult enough for aging eyes to decipher, even if it had not been almost inextricably interlined, revised and corrected. literary composition to this little woman-of-letters was certainly no "primrose path." the packages were therefore handed over to a trustworthy typist; and, at my direction, one complete and accurate copy was made of their contents. after careful consideration, and after disguising the names of certain persons and places to preclude every possibility of giving offence--even mrs percy maudlen, for instance, if she ever scans these pages, may blush unrecognized!--i concluded that though i was under no absolute obligation to secure the publication of the memoirs, this undoubtedly had been miss m.'s intention and wish. at the same time, and for similar reasons, i decided that their publication should not take place until after my death. instructions have therefore been left by me to this effect. here then my editorial duties begin and end. nothing has been altered; nothing suppressed. even if such a task were within my province, i should not venture to make any critical estimate of miss m.'s work. i am not a writer: and, as a reader, have an inveterate preference to be allowed to study and enjoy my authors with as little external intervention as possible. the perusal of the memoirs has afforded me the deepest possible pleasure. the serious-minded may none the less dismiss a midget's lucubrations as trifling; and no doubt--it could hardly be otherwise--a more practised taste than mine will discover many faults, crudities, and inconsistencies in them, though certain little prejudices on miss m.'s side may not be so easily detectable. whatever their merits or imperfections may be, i should be happy to think that the following pages may prove as interesting to other readers--however few--as they have been to myself. my own prejudices, i confess, are in miss m.'s favour. indeed, she herself assured me in the covering letter to which reference has been made, that a chance word of mine had been her actual incentive to composition--the remark, in fact, that "the _truth_ about even the least of things--_e. g._, your self, miss m.!--may be a taper in whose beam one may peep at the truth about everything." i cannot recall the occasion, or this little apophthegm. indeed, only with extreme reluctance would i have helped to launch my small friend on her gigantic ordeal. as a matter-of-fact, she had a little way of carrying off scraps of the conversation of the "common-sized," as a bee carries off a drop of nectar, and of transforming them into a honey all her own. as characteristic of her is the fact that during the whole time she was engaged on her writing (and there is ample evidence in her manuscript that, whether in fatigue, disinclination, or despair, she sometimes left it untouched for weeks together) she never made the faintest allusion to it. authors, i believe--if i may take the elder disraeli for my authority--are seldom so secretive concerning their activities. no less characteristically, her letter to me was dated february th. her memoirs were to be my valentine. "'little drops of water ...' my dear sir walter," she wrote; "you know the rest. nevertheless, if only i had been given but one sharp spark of genius, what 'infinite pains' i should have been spared. yet what is here concerns only my early days, and chiefly one long year of them. i might have written on--almost _ad infinitum_. but i did not, because i feared to weary us both--of myself. the years that have followed my 'coming of age' have been outwardly uneventful; and other people's thoughts, i find, are not so interesting as their experiences. there's much to forgive in what i have written--the rawness, the self-consciousness, the vanity, the folly. i am older now; but am i wiser--or merely not so young? "just as it stands, then, i shall leave my story to, and for, you.... again and again, as i have pored over the scenes of my memory, i have asked myself: what can life be about? what does it mean? what was my true course? where my compass? how many times, too, have i vainly speculated what _inward_ difference being a human creature of my dimensions really makes. what is--deep, deep in--at variance between man and midget? _you_ may discover this; even if _i_ never shall. for after all, life's beads are all on one string, however loosely threaded they may seem to be. "i have tried to tell nothing but the truth about myself. but i realize that it cannot be the whole truth. for while so engaged (just as when one peers into a looking-glass in the moonlight) a something has at times looked out of some secret den or niche in me, and then has vanished. supposing, then, my dear sir w., my story convinces you that all these years you have unawares been harbouring in your friendship not a woman, scarcely a human being, but an asp! oh dear, and oh dear! well, there are three and-thirty ingredients (ingrediments as i used to call them, when i was a child) in that sovran antidote, venice treacle. scatter a pennyweight of it upon my tombstone; and so lay my in-fi-ni-te-si-mal ap-pa-ri-ti-on! "maybe though, there are not so very many vital differences between 'midgets' and people of the common size; no more, perhaps, than there are between them and 'the great.' even then it is possible that after reading my small, endless story you may be very thankful that you are not a midget too. "whether or not, i have tried to be frank, if not a warning. keep or destroy what i have written, as you will. but please show it to nobody until nobody would mind. and now, good-bye. "m." there was a tacit compact between miss m. and myself that i should visit her at lyndsey about once a month. business, indisposition, advancing age, only too frequently made the journey impracticable. but in general, i would at such intervals find myself in her company at her old house, stonecote; drinking tea with her, gossiping, or reading to her, while she sat in her chair beside my book, embroidering her brilliant tiny flowers and beetles and butterflies with her tiny needle, listening or day-dreaming or musing out of the high window at the prospect of chizzel hill. at times she was an extremely quiet companion. at others she would rain questions on me, many of them exceedingly unconventional, on a score of subjects at once, scarcely pausing for answers which i was frequently at a loss to give. in a mixed company she was, perhaps, exaggeratedly conscious of her minute stature. but in these quiet talks--that shrill-sweet voice, those impulsive little gestures--she forgot it altogether. not so her visitor, who must confess to having been continually convicted in her presence of a kind of clumsiness and gaucherie--and that, i confess, not merely physical. to a stranger this experience, however wholesome, might be a little humiliating. when interested, miss m. would sit perfectly still, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, her eyes fixed with a piercing, yet curiously remote, scrutiny. in complete repose, her features lost this keenness, and she became an indescribably beautiful little figure, in her bright-coloured clothes, in the large quiet room. i can think of no comparison that would not seem fanciful. her self is to some extent in her book. and yet that unique volatile presence, so frail, yet so vigorous, "so very nearly nothing," in her own whimsical phrase, is only fitfully manifest. naturally enough, she loved solitude. but i am inclined to think she indulged in it to excess. it was, at any rate, in solitude that she wrote her book; and in solitude apparently that her unknown visitor found her, in the following mysterious circumstances. the last of our reunions--and one no less happy than the rest--was towards the end of the month of march. on the morning of the following th of april i received a telegram summoning me to lyndsey. i arrived there the same afternoon, and was admitted by mrs bowater, miss m.'s excellent, but somewhat dickensian, housekeeper, then already a little deaf and elderly. i found her in extreme distress. it appeared that the evening before, about seven o'clock, mrs bowater had heard voices in the house--miss m.'s and another's. friendly callers were infrequent; unfamiliar ones extremely rare; and mrs bowater confessed that she had felt some curiosity, if not concern, as to who this stranger might be, and how he had gained admission. she blamed herself beyond measure--though i endeavoured to reassure the good woman--for not instantly setting her misgivings at rest. hearing nothing more, except the rain beating at the basement window, at half-past seven she went upstairs and knocked at miss m.'s door. the large, pleasant room--her old nursery--at the top of the house, was in its usual scrupulous order, but vacant. nothing was disarranged, nothing unusual, except only that a slip of paper had been pinned to the carpet a little beyond the threshold, with this message: "i have been called away.--m." this communication, far from soothing, only increased mrs bowater's anxiety. she searched the minute sheraton wardrobe, and found that a garden hat and cape were missing. she waited a while--unlike her usual self--at a loss what to be doing, and peering out of the window. but as darkness was coming on, and miss m. rarely went out in windy or showery weather, or indeed descended the staircase without assistance, she became so much alarmed that a little before eight she set out to explore the garden with a stable lantern, and afterwards hurried off to the village for assistance. as the reader will himself discover, this was not the first occasion on which miss m. had given her friends anxiety. the house, the garden, the surrounding district, her old haunts at wanderslore were repeatedly submitted at my direction to the most rigorous and protracted search. watch was kept on the only gipsy encampment in the neighbourhood, near the heath. advertisement failed to bring me any but false clues. at length even hope had to be abandoned. miss m. had been "called away." by whom? i ask myself: on what errand? for what purpose? so clear and unhurried was the writing of her last message as to preclude, i think, the afflicting thought that her visitor had been the cause of any apprehension or anxiety. an even more tragic eventuality is out of the question. after the events recorded in her last chapter not only had she made me a certain promise, but her later life at lyndsey had been, apparently, perfectly serene and happy. only a day or two before she had laughed up at her housekeeper, "why, mrs bowater, there's not _room_ enough in me for all that's there!" nor is it to be assumed that some "inward" voice--her own frequent term--had summoned her away; for mrs bowater immovably maintains that its tones reached her ear, though she herself was at the moment engaged in the kitchen referred to in the first chapter of the memoirs. walter dadus pollacke. brunswick house, beechwood. lyndsey chapter one some few years ago a brief account of me found its way into one or two country newspapers. i have been told, that it reappeared, later, in better proportion, in the metropolitan press! fortunately, or unfortunately, very little of this account was true. it related, among other things, that i am accustomed to wear shoes with leaden soles to them to keep me from being blown away like thistledown in the wind, that as a child i had narrowly escaped being scalded to death in a soup tureen, that one of my ancestors came from poland, that i am an expert painter of miniatures, that i am a changeling and can speak the fairy tongue. and so on and so forth. i think i can guess where my ingenuous biographer borrowed these fables. he meant me no harm; he was earning his living; he made judicious use of his "no doubts" and "it may be supposed"; and i hope he amused his readers. but by far the greater part of his account was concerned with mere _physical_ particulars. he had looked at me in fancy through spectacles which may or may not have been rosy, but which certainly minified. i do not deserve his inches and ounces, however flattering his intentions may have been. it is true that my body is among the smaller works of god. but i think he paid rather too much attention to this fact. he spared any reference not only to my soul (and i am not ungrateful for that), but also to my mind and heart. there may be too much of all three for some tastes in the following pages, and especially, perhaps, of the last. that cannot be helped. finally, my anonymous journalist stated that i was born in rutlandshire--because, i suppose, it is the smallest county in england. that was truly unkind of him, for, as a matter of fact, and to begin at the (apparent) beginning, i was born in the village of lyndsey in _kent_--the prettiest country spot, as i believe, in all that county's million acres. so it remains to this day in spite of the fact that since my childhood its little church with its decaying stones and unfading twelfth--or is it thirteenth?--century glass has been "restored," and the lord of the manor has felled some of its finest trees, including a grove of sweet chestnuts on bitchett heath whose forefathers came over with the romans. but he has not yet succeeded in levelling the barrow on chizzel hill. from my window i looked out (indeed, look out at this moment) to the wave-like crest of this beloved hill across a long straggling orchard, and pastures in the valley, where cattle grazed and sheep wandered, and unpolled willows stooped and silvered in the breeze. i never wearied of the hill, nor ever shall, and when, in my girlhood, my grandfather, aware of this idle, gazing habit of mine, sent me from geneva a diminutive telescope, my day-dreams multiplied. his gift, as an old kentish proverb goes, spread butter on bacon. with his spyglass to my eye i could bring a tapping green woodpecker as close as if it were actually laughing at me, and could all but snuff up the faint rich scent of the cowslips--paggles, as we called them, in meadows a good mile away. my father's house, stonecote, has a rather ungainly appearance if viewed from across the valley. but it is roomy and open and fairly challenges the winds of the equinoxes. its main windows are of a shallow bow shape. one of them is among my first remembrances. i am seated in a bright tartan frock on a pomatum pot--a coloured picture of mr shandy, as i remember, on its lid--and around me are the brushes, leather cases, knick-knacks, etc., of my father's dressing table. my father is shaving himself, his chin and cheeks puffed out with soapsuds. and now i look at him, and now at his reflection in the great looking-glass, and every time _that_ happens he makes a pleasant grimace at me over his spectacles. this particular moment of my childhood probably fixed itself on my mind because just as, with razor uplifted, he was about to attack his upper lip, a jackdaw, attracted maybe by my gay clothes, fluttered down on the sill outside, and fussing and scrabbling with wing and claw pecked hard with its beak against the glass. the sound and sight of this bird with its lively grey-blue eyes, so close and ardent, startled me. i leapt up, ran across the table, tripped over a hairbrush, and fell sprawling beside my father's watch. i hear its ticking, and also the little soothing whistle with which he was wont to comfort his daughter at any such mishap. then perhaps i was five or six. that is a genuine memory. but every family, i suppose, has its little pet traditions; and one of ours, relating to those early years, is connected with our kitchen cat, miaou. she had come by a family of kittens, and i had crept, so it was said, into her shallow basket with them. having, i suppose, been too frequently meddled with, this old mother cat lugged off her kittens one by one to a dark cupboard. the last one thus secured, she was discovered in rapt contemplation of myself, as if in debate whether or not it was her maternal duty to carry me off too. and there was i grinning up into her face. such was our cook's--mrs ballard's--story. what i actually remember is different. on the morning in question i was turning the corner of the brick-floored, dusky passage that led to the kitchen, when miaou came trotting along out of it with her blind, blunt-headed bundle in her mouth. we were equally surprised at this encounter, and in brushing past she nearly knocked me over where i stood, casting me at the same moment the queerest animal look out of her eyes. so truth, in this case, was not so strange as mrs ballard's fiction. my father was then a rather corpulent man, with a high-coloured face, and he wore large spectacles. his time was his own, for we were comfortably off on an income derived from a half-share in the small fortune amassed by my grandfather and his partner in a paper mill. he might have been a more successful, though not perhaps a happier, man if he had done more work and planned to do less. but he only so far followed his hereditary occupation as to expend large quantities of its best "handmade" in the composition of a monograph: _the history of paper making_. this entailed a vast accumulation of books and much solitude. i fancy, too, he believed in the policy of sleeping on one's first thoughts. since he was engaged at the same time on similar compilations with the hop and the cherry for theme, he made indifferent progress in all three. his papers, alas, were afterwards sold with his books, so i have no notion of what became of them or of their value. i can only hope that their purchaser has since won an easy distinction. these pursuits, if they achieved little else but the keeping of "the man of the house" quiet and contented, proved my father, at any rate, to be a loyal and enthusiastic man of kent; and i have seen to it that a fine morello cherry-tree blossoms, fruits, and flourishes over his grave. my father was something of a musician too, and could _pizzicato_ so softly on his muted fiddle as not to jar even my too sensitive ear. he taught me to play chess on a little board with pygmy men, but he was apt to lose interest in the game when it went against him. whereas it was then that our old friend, dr grose, played his hardest. as my father's hands were rather clumsy in make, he took pains to be gentle and adroit with me. but even after shaving, his embrace was more of a discipline than a pleasure--a fact that may partly account for my own undemonstrativeness in this direction. his voice, if anything, was small for his size, except when he discussed politics with dr grose; religion or the bringing up of children with my godmother, miss fenne; or money matters with my mother. at such times, his noise--red face and gesticulations--affected one of his listeners, as eager as possible to pick up the crumbs, far more than ever thunder did, which is up in the clouds. my only other discomfort in his company was his habit of taking snuff. the stench of it almost suffocated me, and at tap of his finger-nail on the lid of his box, i would scamper off for shelter like a hare. by birth he came of an old english family, though no doubt with the usual admixtures. my mother's mother was french. she was a daundelyon. the blood of that "sweet enemy" at times burned in her cheek like a flag; and my father needed his heaviest guns when the stormy winds did blow, and those colours were flying. at such moments i preferred to hear the engagement from a distance, not so much (again) because the mere discord grieved me, as to escape the din. but usually--and especially after such little displays--they were like two turtle-doves, and i did my small best to pipe a decoy. my father had been a man past forty when he married my mother. she about fifteen years younger--a slim, nimble, and lovely being, who could slip round and encircle him in person or mind while he was pondering whether or not to say bo to a goose. seven years afterwards came i. friends, as friends will, professed to see a likeness between us. and if my mother could have been dwindled down to be of my height and figure, perhaps they would have been justified. but in hair and complexion, possibly in ways, too, i harked back to an aunt of hers, kitilda, who had died of consumption in her early twenties. i loved to hear stories of my great-aunt kitilda. she sang like a bird, twice ran away from her convent school, and was so fond of water that an old gentleman (a friend of mr landor's, the poet) who fell in love with her, called her "the naiad." my mother, in her youth at tunbridge wells, had been considered "a beauty," and had had many admirers--at least so mrs ballard, our cook, told pollie: "yes, and we know who might have turned out different if things hadn't been the same," was a cryptic remark she once made which filled two "little pitchers" to overflowing. among these admirers was a mr wagginhorne who now lived at maidstone. he had pocketed his passion but not his admiration; and being an artist in the same sense that my father was an author, he had painted my mother and me and a pot of azaleas in oils. how well i remember those interminable sittings, with the old gentleman daubing along, and cracking his beloved jokes and kentish cobbs at one and the same time. whenever he came to see us this portrait was taken out of a cupboard and hung up in substitution for another picture in the dining-room. what became of it when mr wagginhorne died i could never discover. my mother would laugh when i inquired, and archly eye my father. it was clear, at any rate, that author was not jealous of artist! my mother was gentle with me, and had need to be; and i was happier in her company than one might think possible in a world of such fleetingness. i would sit beside her workbox and she would softly talk to me, and teach me my lessons and small rhymes to say; while my own impulse and instinct taught me to sing and dance. what gay hours we shared. sewing was at first difficult, for at that time no proportionate needles could be procured for me, and i hated to cobble up only coarse work. but she would give me little childish jobs to do, such as arranging her silks, or sorting her beads, and would rock me to sleep with her finger to a drone so gentle that it might have been a distant bee's. yet shadows there were, before the darkness came. child that i was, i would watch gather over her face at times a kind of absentness, as if she were dreaming of something to which she could give no name, of some hope or wish that was now never to be fulfilled. at this i would grow anxious and silent, doubting, perhaps, that i had displeased her; while, to judge from her look, i might not have been there at all. or again, a mischievousness and mockery would steal into her mood. then she would treat me as a mere trivial plaything, talking _small_ things to me, as if our alphabet consisted of nothing but "little o"--a letter for which i always felt a sort of pity: but small affection. this habit saddened my young days, and sometimes enraged me, more than i can say. i was _always_ of a serious cast of mind--even a little priggish perhaps; and experience had already taught me that i could share my mother's thoughts and feelings more easily than she could share mine. chapter two when precisely i began to speculate _why_ i was despatched into this world so minute and different i cannot say. pretty early, i fancy, though few opportunities for comparison were afforded me, and for some time i supposed that all young children were of my stature. there was adam waggett, it is true, the bumpkin son of a village friend of mrs ballard's. but he was some years older than i. he would be invited to tea in the kitchen, and was never at rest unless stuffing himself out with bread-and-dripping or dough-cake--victuals naturally odious to me; or pestering me with his coarse fooling and curiosity. he was to prove useful in due season; but in those days i had a distaste for him almost as deep-rooted as that for "hoppy," the village idiot--though i saw poor hoppy only once. whatever the reason may be, except in extremely desperate moments, i do not remember much regretting that i was not of the common size. still, the realization was gradually borne in on me that i was a disappointment and mischance to my parents. yet i never dared to let fall a question which was to be often in my young thoughts: "tell me, mamma, are you _sorry_ that your little daughter is a midget?" but then, does any one ask questions like that until they cannot be answered? still, cross-examine her i did occasionally. "where did i come from, mamma?" "why, my dear, i am your mother." "just," i replied, "like pollie's mother is _her_ mother?" she cast a glance at me from eyes that appeared to be very small, unless for that instant it was mine that i saw reflected there. "yes, my dear," she replied at length. "we come and we go." she seemed tired with the heat of the day, so i sate quietly, holding her finger, until she was recovered. only, perhaps, on account of my size was there any occasion for me to be thoroughly ashamed of myself. otherwise i was, if anything, a rather precocious child. i could walk a step or two at eleven months, and began to talk before the christmas following the first anniversary of my birthday, august th. i learned my letters from the big black capitals in the book of genesis; and to count and cipher from a beautiful little abacus strung with beads of silver and garnets. the usual ailments came my way, but were light come, light go. i was remarkably sinewy and muscular, strong in the chest, and never suffered from snuffling colds or from chilblains, though shoes and gloves have always been a difficulty. i can perfectly recall my childish figure as i stood with endless satisfaction surveying my reflection in a looking-glass on the christmas morning after my ninth birthday. my frock was of a fine puffed scarlet, my slippers loose at heel, to match. my hair, demurely parted in the middle, hung straight on my narrow shoulders (though i had already learned to plait it) and so framed my face; the eyebrows faintly arched (eyebrows darker and crookeder now); the nose in proportion; the lips rather narrow, and of a lively red. my features wore a penetrating expression in that reflection because my keen look was searching them pretty close. but if it was a sharp look, it was not, i think, a bold or defiant; and then i smiled, as if to say, "so this is to be my companion, then?" it was winter, and frost was on the window that day. i enjoyed the crisp air, for i was packed warm in lamb's-wool underneath. there i stood, my father's round red face beaming on one side of the table, my mother's smiling but enigmatic, scrutinizing my reflection on the other, and myself tippeting this way and that--a veritable miniature of vanity. who should be ushered at this moment into the room, where we were so happy, but my godmother, miss fenne, come to bring my father and mother her christmas greetings and me a little catechism sewn up in a pink silk cover. she was a bent-up old lady and a rapid talker, with a voice which, though small, jangled every nerve in my body, like a pencil on a slate. being my godmother, she took great liberties in counselling my parents on the proper way of "managing" me. the only time, indeed, i ever heard my father utter an oath was when miss fenne was just beyond hearing. she peered across at me on this christmas morning like a bird at a scorpion: "caroline, caroline," she cried, "for shame! the shrimp! you will turn the child's head." _shrimp!_ i had seen the loathsome, doubled-up creatures (in their boiled state) on a kitchen plate. my blood turned to vinegar; and in rage and shame i fell all of a heap on the table, hiding from her sight my face and my hands as best i could under my clothes, and wishing that i might vanish away from the world altogether. my father's voice boomed out in protest; my mother took me into her arms to soothe and scold me; but long after the ruffled old lady had taken her departure i brooded on this affront. "away, away!" a voice seemed to cry within; and i listened to it as if under a spell. all that day i nursed my wounded vanity, and the same evening, after candle light, i found myself for a moment alone in the kitchen. pollie had gone to the wood-shed to fetch kindling, leaving the door into the garden ajar. the night air touched my cheek. half beside myself with desire of i know not what, i sprang out from the doorstep into an inch or so of snow, and picking myself up, ran off into the darkness under the huge sky. it was bitterly cold. frost had crusted the virgin surface of the snow. my light footsteps can hardly have shattered its upper crystals. i ran on and on into the ghostly world, into this stiff, marvelous, gloating scene of frozen vegetation beneath that immense vacancy. a kind of stupor must have spread over my young mind. it seemed i was transported out of myself under the stars, in the mute presence of the watchman of heaven. i stood there lost in wonder in the grey, luminous gloom. but my escapade was brief and humiliating. the shock of the cold, the excitement, quickly exhausted me. i threw myself down and covered my face with my hands, trying in vain to stifle my sobs. what was my longing? where its satisfaction? soft as wool a drowsiness stole over my senses that might swiftly have wafted me off on the last voyage of discovery. but i had been missed. a few minutes' search, and pollie discovered me lying there by the frozen cabbage stalks. the woeful mænad was carried back into the kitchen again--a hot bath, a hot posset, and a few anxious and thankful tears. the wonder is, that, being an only child, and a sore problem when any question of discipline or punishment arose, i was not utterly spoiled. one person at least came very near to doing so, my grandfather, monsieur pierre de ronvel. to be exact, he was my step-grandfather, for my mother's charming mother, with her ringlets and crinoline, after my real grandfather's death, had married a second time. he crossed the english channel to visit my parents when i was in my tenth year--a tall, stiff, jerky man, with a sallow face, speckled fur-like hair that stood in a little wall round his forehead, and the liveliest black eyes. his manners were a felicity to watch even at my age. you would have supposed he had come _courting_ my mother; and he took a great fancy to me. he was extremely fond of salad, i remember: and i very proud of my mustard and cress--which i could gather for him myself with one of my own table-knives. so copiously he talked, with such a medley of joys and zests and surprises on his face, that i vowed soon to be mistress of my stepmother tongue. he could also conjure away reels and thimbles, even spoons and forks, with a skill that precluded my becoming a materialist for ever after. i _worshipped_ my grandfather--and yet without a vestige of fear. to him, indeed--though i think he was himself of a secular turn of mind--i owe the story of my birthday saint, st rosa of lima in peru, the only saint, i believe, of the new world. with myself pinnacled on his angular knee, and devouring like a sweetmeat every broken english word as it slipped from his tongue, he told me how pious an infant my saint had been; how, when her mother, to beautify her, had twined flowers in her hair, she had _pinned_ them to her skull; how she had rubbed quicklime on her fair cheeks to disenchant her lovers ("_ses prétendants_"), and how it was only veritable showers of roses from heaven that had at last persuaded pope clement to make her a saint. "perhaps, _bon papa_," said i, "i shall dig and sow too when i am grown up, like st rosa, to support _my_ mamma and papa when _they_ are very old. do you think i shall make enough money? papa has a very good appetite?" he stared at me, as if in consternation. "_dieu vous en garde, ma p'tite_," he cried; and violently blew his nose. so closely i took st rosa's story to heart that, one day, after bidding my beauty a wistful farewell in the glass, i rubbed my cheek too, but with the blue flowers of the--_brook_lime. it stained them a little, but soon washed off. in my case a needless precaution; my _prétendants_ have been few. it was a mournful day when my grandfather returned to france never to be seen by me again. yet he was to remember me always; and at last when i myself had forgotten even my faith in his fidelity. nearly all my personal furnishings and belongings were gifts of his from france, and many of them of his own making. there was my four-post bed, for instance; with a flowered silk canopy, a carved tester and half a dozen changes of linen and valance. there were chairs to match, a wardrobe, silk mats from persia, a cheval glass, and clothes and finery in abundance, china and cutlery, top-boots and sabots. even a silver-hooped bath-tub and a crystal toilet set, and scores of articles besides for use or ornament, which it would be tedious to mention. my grandfather had my measurements to a nicety, and as the years went by he sagaciously allowed for growth. i learned to tell the time from an eight-day clock which played a sacred tune at matins and vespers; and later, he sent me a watch, the least bit too large for me to be quite comfortable, but an exquisite piece of workmanship. as my birthdays (and his) drew near, i could scarcely sleep for thinking what fresh entrancing novelty the festive morning would bring. the only one of his gifts--by no means the least ingenious--which never, after the first flush of excitement, gave me much pleasure, was a two-chambered thatched summer-house, set up on a pole, and reached by a wide, shallow ladder. the roof opened, so that on very hot days a block of ice could be laid within, the water from its slow melting running out by a gutter. but i loved sunshine. this was a plaything that ridiculously amused chance visitors; it attracted flies; i felt silly up in it: and gladly resigned it to the tits, starlings, and sparrows to quarrel over as they pleased. my really useful furniture--of plain old sheraton design--was set out in my bedroom. in one half of the room slept pollie, a placid but, before her marriage, rather slow-witted creature about six years my senior. the other half was mine and had been made proportionate to my needs by a cabinet-maker from london. my father had had a low stone balcony built on beyond my window. this was fenced with fine trellis work to screen it from the colder winds. with its few extremely dwarf trees set along in green nankin tubs, and the view it commanded, i could enjoy this eyrie for hours--never wearied of it in my youth, nor shall if i live to be a hundred. i linger over these early recollections, simply because they are such very happy things to possess. and now for out-of-doors. either because my mother was shy of me, or because she thought vulgar attention would be bad for me, she seldom took me far abroad. now and then pollie carried me down to the village to tea with _her_ mother, and once or twice i was taken to church. the last occasion, however, narrowly escaped being a catastrophe, and the experiment was not repeated. instead, we usually held a short evening service, on sundays, in the house, when my father read the lessons, "like a miner prophet," as i wrote and told miss fenne. he certainly dug away at the texts till the words glittered for me like lumps of coal. on week-days more people were likely to be about, and in general i was secluded. a mistake, i think. but fortunately our high, plain house stood up in a delightful garden, sloping this way and that towards orchard and wood, with a fine-turfed lawn, few "cultivated" flowers, and ample drifts of shade. if kent is the garden of england, then this was the garden of kent. i was forbidden to be alone in it. but pollie would sometimes weary of her charge (in which i encouraged her) and when out of sight of the windows she would stray off to gossip with the gardener or with some friend from the village, leaving me to myself. to judge from the tales which i have read or have been told about children, i must have been old for my age. but perhaps the workings of the mind and heart of a girl in her teens are not of general interest. let me be brief. a stream of water ran on the southern side all the length of the garden, under a high, rocky bank (its boundary) which was densely overhung with ash and willow, and hedges of brier and bramble looped with bindweed, goose-grass, and traveller's joy. on the nearer bank of this stream which had been left to its wild, i would sit among the mossy rocks and stones and search the green tops of my ambush as if in quest of paradise. when the sun's rays beat down too fiercely on my head i would make myself an umbrella of wild angelica or water parsnip. caring little for playthings, and having my smallest books with me chiefly for silent company, i would fall into a daydream in a world that in my solitude became my own. in this fantastic and still world i forgot the misadventure of my birth, which had now really begun to burden me, forgot pride, vanity, and chagrin; and was at peace. there i had many proportionate friends, few enemies. an old carrion crow, that sulked out a black existence in this beauty, now and then alarmed me with his attentions; but he was easily scared off. the lesser and least of living things seemed to accept me as one of themselves. nor (perhaps because i never killed them) had i any silly distaste for the caterpillars, centipedes, and satiny black slugs. mistress snail would stoop out at me like a foster-mother. even the midges, which to his frenzy would swarm round my father's head like swifts round a steeple, left me entirely unmolested. either i was too dry a prey, or they misliked the flavour of my blood. my eyes dazzled in colours. the smallest of the marvels of flowers and flies and beetles and pebbles, and the radiance that washed over them, would fill me with a mute, pent-up rapture almost unendurable. butterflies would settle quietly on the hot stones beside me as if to match their raiment against mine. if i proffered my hand, with quivering wings and horns they would uncoil their delicate tongues and quaff from it drops of dew or water. a solemn grasshopper would occasionally straddle across my palm, and with patience i made quite an old friend of a harvest mouse. they weigh only two to the half-penny. this sharp-nosed furry morsel would creep swiftly along to share my crumbs and snuggle itself to sleep in my lap. by-and-by, i suppose, it took to itself a wife; i saw it no more. bees would rest there, the panniers of their thighs laden with pollen: and now and then a wasp, his jaws full of wood or meat. when sunbeetles or ants drew near, they would seem to pause at my whisper, as if hearkening. as if in their remote silence pondering and sharing the world with me. all childish fancy, no doubt; for i proved far less successful with the humans. but how, it may be asked, seeing that there must have been a shrill piping of birds and brawling of water among the stones, how could mademoiselle's delicate ear endure _that_ racket? perhaps it is because the birds being loose in the hollow of space, it carried away into its vacancy their cries. it is, too, the harsh, rather than the shrill, that frets me. as for the noise of the water, it was so full and limpid, yet made up of such infinitely entangled chimings and drummings, that it would lull me into a kind of trance, until to a strange eye i must have appeared like a lifeless waxen mammet on my stone. what may wholly have been another childish fancy was that apart from the silvery darting flies and the rainbow-coloured motes in the sunbeams, fine and airy invisible shapes seemed to haunt and hover around me when all was still. most of my fellow creatures to my young nose had an odour a good deal denser than the fainter scented flowers, and i can fancy such a fog, if intensified, would be distressing to beings so bodiless and rare. whereas the air i disturbed and infected with my presence can have been of but shallow volume. fairies i never saw--i had a kind of fear and distaste for them even in books. nor for that matter--perhaps because the stream here was too tumbling and opaque--a kingfisher. but whatever other company may have been mine, i had the clouds and the water and the insects and the stones--while pimpernel, mousetail, tormentil, the wild strawberry, the feathery grasses seemed to have been made expressly for my delight. ego-centric midget that i was! chapter three not that in an existence so passive riddles never came my way. as one morning i brushed past a bush of lads' love (or maidens' ruin, as some call it), its fragrance sweeping me from top to toe, i stumbled on the carcass of a young mole. curiosity vanquished the first gulp of horror. holding my breath, with a stick i slowly edged it up in the dust and surveyed the white heaving nest of maggots in its belly with a peculiar and absorbed recognition. "ah, ha!" a voice cried within me, "so this is what is in wait; this is how things are"; and i stooped with lips drawn back over my teeth to examine the stinking mystery more closely. that was a lesson i have never unlearned. one of a rather different kind had another effect. i was sitting in the garden one day watching in the distance a jay huffling and sidling and preening its feathers on a bit of decrepit fencing. suddenly there fell a sharp crack of sound. in a flash, with a derisive chattering, the jay was flown: and then i saw adam waggett, half doubled up, stealing along towards the place. i lay in wait for him. with catapult dangling in one hand, the other fist tight shut, he came along like a thief. and i cried hollowly out of my concealment, "adam, what have you there?" such a picture of foolish shame i have never seen. he was compelled none the less to exhibit his spoil, an eye-shut, twinkle-tailed, needle-billed jenny wren crumpled up in his great, dirty paw. fury burnt up in me like a fire. what i said to him i cannot remember, but it was nothing sweet; and it was a cowed adam waggett that loafed off as truculently as he could towards the house, his catapult and victim left behind him. but that was his lesson rather than mine, and one which _he_ never forgot. when in my serener moods pollie's voice would be heard slyly hallooing for me, i would rouse up with a shock to realize again the little cell of my body into which i had been confined. then she and i would eat our luncheon, a few snippets of biscuit, a cherry or two, or slice of apple for me, and for her a hunch of bread and bacon about half my size in length and thickness. i would turn my back on her, for i could not endure to see her gobble her meal, having an abhorrence of cooked flesh, and a dainty stomach. still, like most children i could be greedy, and curious of unfamiliar foods. to a few forbidden black currants which i reached up and plucked from their rank-smelling bush, and devoured, skin and all, i owe lesson number . this one, however, had to be repeated. childhood quickly fleets away. those happy, unhappy, far-away days seem like mere glimpses of a dragon-fly shimmering and darting over my garden stream, though at the actual time they more closely resembled, perhaps, a continuous dream broken into bits of vivid awakening. as i grew older, my skirts grew longer, my desire for independence sharper, and my wits more inquiring. on my seventeenth birthday i put up my hair, and was confirmed by a bishop whom my godmother persuaded to officiate in the house. it was a solemn occasion; but my mother was a good deal concerned about the lunch, and i with the ballooning lawn sleeves and the two square episcopal finger-tips disposed upon my head. the experience cast a peaceful light into my mind and shook my heart, but it made me for a time a little self-conscious of both my virtue and my sins. i began to brood not only on the deplorable state of my own soul, but also on pollie's and mrs ballard's, and became for a time a diminutive miss fenne. i suppose innocence is a precarious bliss. on the other hand, if one's mind is like a dead mole's belly, it is wise, i think, to examine it closely but not too often, and to repeat that confirmation for one's self every morning and evening. as a young child i had been, of course, as naturally religious as a savage or an angel. but even then, i think, i never could quite believe that paradise was a mere fenne-land. once i remember in the midst of my multiplication table i had broken out unannounced with, "then _god_ made the world, mamma?" "yes, my dear." "and all things in the forests and the birds in the sky and--and moles, and this?" i held down my limp, coral-coloured arithmetic. "yes," said she. i wondered a while, losing myself, as if in wanderings like ariel's, between the clouds. "what, mamma, did he make them of?" my voice interrupted me. "he made them," said my mother steadily, "of his power and love." rapidly i slid back into her company. "and can we, can i, make things of _my_ power and love?" "i suppose, my dear," replied my mother reflectively and perhaps thinking of my father in his study, over his paper and hops, "it is only _that_ in life that is really worth doing." "then," i said sagely, "i _suspects_ that's how mullings does the garden, mamma." long before miss fenne's and the bishop's visitation my mother had set about teaching me in earnest. a governess--a miss perry--was our first experiment. alas, apart from her tendency to quinsy, it was i who was found wanting. she complained of the strain on her nerves. my mother feared that quinsy was catching; and miss perry had no successor. reading was always a difficulty. my father bought me as tiny old books as could be found, including a dwarf bible, a midget pickering shakespeare, and a grammar (with a menagerie for frontispiece) from which i learned that "irony is a figure which intends the reverse of what it speaks, and under the masque of praise, conceals the most biting satyr"; and the following stanza:-- hail energeia! hail my native tongue concisely full, and musically strong; thou with the pencil hold'st a glorious strife, and paint'st the passions equal to the life. my mother agreed that _strung_ would be preferable to "_strong_," and explained that "the passions" did not signify merely ill-temper; while, if i pecked over-nicely at my food, my father would cry "hail energeia!" a challenge which rarely failed to persuade me to set to. my grandfather sent me other pygmy books from paris, including a minute masterpiece of calligraphy, _une anthologie de chansons pour une minuscule aimante et bien-aimée par p. de r_. these i could easily carry about with me. i soon learned to accustom my arms and shoulders to bulkier and more cumbrous volumes. my usual method with a common-sized book was to prop it up towards the middle of the table and then to seat myself at the edge. the page finished, i would walk across and turn over a fresh leaf. thus in my solitude i studied my lessons and read again and again my nursery favourites, some of them, i gather, now undeservedly out of fashion. perhaps even better than fiction or folk-tales, i liked books of knowledge. there were two of these in particular, _the observing eye; or lessons to children on the three lowest divisions of animal life--the radiated, articulated, and molluscous_, and _the childhood of the world_. even at nine i remarked how nimbly the anonymous author of the former could skip from st paul to the lobster; and i never wearied of brooding on mr clodd's frontispiece. this depicts a large-headed and seemingly one-legged little girl in a flounced frock lying asleep under a wall on which ivy is sprawling. for pillow for herself and her staring doll there lies on the ground a full-sized human skull, and in the middle distance are seen the monoliths of stonehenge. beyond these gigantic stones, and behind the far mountains, rises with spiky rays an enormous sun. _i_ was that child; and mine her sun that burned in heaven, and he a more obedient luminary than any lamp of man's. i would wonder what she would do when she awoke from sleep. the skull, in particular, both terrified and entranced me--the secret of all history seemed to lie hidden in the shadows beneath its dome. indeed i needed no reminder from mr clodd that "children (and some grown-up people too) are apt to think that things are wonderful only when they are big, which is not true." i knew already, out of nowhere, that "the bee's waxen cell is more curious than the chimpanzee's rough hut" (though i should have dearly liked to see the latter); and that "an ant is more wonderful than the huge and dull rhinoceros." such is childishness, however: i pitied the poor rhinoceros his "dull." over such small things as a nut, a shell, a drop of rain-water in a buttercup, a frond of frost (for there were cold winters at lyndsey in those days), i would pore and pore, imbibing the lesson that the eye alone if used in patience will tell its owner far more about an object than it can merely see. among my few framed pictures i cannot resist mentioning one by a painter of the name of bosch. below the middle of it kneeled naked adam and eve with exquisite crimped hair on their shoulders; and between them stood god. all above and beneath them, roamed the animals, birds, insects, and infinitesimals of eden, including a long-tailed monkey on an elephant, a jerboa, a dancing crocodile, and--who but our cat miaou, carrying off a mouse! an astonishing, inexhaustible piece of thoughtfulness. i loved mynheer bosch. shameful dunce miss m. may remain, but she did in her childhood supremely enjoy any simple book about the things of creation great or small. but i preferred my own notions of some of them. when my father of a dark, clear night would perch me up at a window to see the stars--charles's wain and the chair; and told me that they were huge boiling suns, roaring their way through the vast pits of space, i would shake my head to myself. i was grateful for the science, but preferred to keep them just "stars." and though i loved to lave my hands in a trickle of light that had been numberless years on its journey to this earth, that of a candle also filled me with admiration, and i was unfeignedly grieved that the bleak moon was naught but a sheer hulk, sans even air or ice or rain or snow. how much pleasanter it would be to think that her shine was the reflection of our cherry orchards, and that her shadows were just kentish hay-ricks, barns, and oast-houses. it was, too, perhaps rather tactless of my father to beguile me with full-grown authors' accounts of the lives of the little. accomplished writers they may be, but--well, never mind. as for the lives of the great, i could easily adjust monsieur bon papa's spyglass and reduce them to scale. my father taught me also to swim in his round bath; and on a visit to canterbury purchased for me the nimblest little dun shetland pony, whom we called mopsa. i learned to become a fearless rider. but hardy though her race may be, perhaps i was too light a burden to satisfy mopsa's spirit. in a passing fit of temper she broke a leg. though i had stopped my ears for an hour before the vet came, i heard the shot. my mother's lessons were never very burdensome. she taught me little, but she taught it well--even a morsel of latin. i never wearied of the sweet oboe-like nasal sound of her french poems, and she instilled in me such a delight in words that to this day i firmly believe that things are at least twice the better and richer for being called by them. apart from a kind of passionate impatience over what was alien to me--arithmetic, for instance, and "analysis"--and occasional fits of the sulks, which she allowed to deposit their own sediment at leisure, i was a willing, and, at times, even a greedy scholar. apparently from infancy i was of a firm resolve to match my wits with those of the common-sized and to be "grown-up" some day. so much for my education, a thing which it seems to me is likely to continue--and specially in respect of human nature--as long as i keep alive. with so little childish company, without rivalry, i was inclined to swell myself out with conceit and complacency. "it's easy holding down the latchet when nobody pulls the string." but whatever size we may be, in soul or body, i have found that the world wields a sharp pin, and is pitiless to bubbles. though inclined to be dreamy and idle when alone, i was, of course, my own teacher too. my senses were seven in number, however few my wits. in particular i loved to observe the clustering and gathering of plants, like families, each of a shape, size, and hue, each in their kind and season, though tall and lowly were intermingled. now and then i would come on some small plant self-sown, shining and flourishing, free and clear, and even the lovelier for being alone in its kind amid its greater neighbours. i prized these discoveries, and if any one of them was dwarfed a little by its surroundings i would cosset it up and help it against them. how strange, thought i, if men so regarded each other's intelligence. if from pitying the dull-witted the sharp-witted slid to mere toleration, and from toleration to despising and loathing. what a contest would presently begin between the strong-bodied stupid and the feeble-bodied clever, and how soon there would be no strong-bodied stupid left in the world! they would dwindle away and disappear into time like the mammoth and the woolly bear. and then i began to be sorry for the woolly bear and to wish i could go and have a look at him. perhaps this is putting my old head on those young shoulders, but when i strive to re-enter the thoughts of those remote days, how like they seem to the noisy wasting stream beside which they flowed on, and of whose source and destination i was unaware. all this egotism recalls a remark that mrs ballard once made apropos of some little smart repartee from miss m. as she sat beside her pasteboard and slapped away at a lump of dough, "well _i_ know a young lady who's been talking to the young man that rubbed his face with a brass candlestick." chapter four in the midst of my eighteenth year fortune began to darken. my mother had told me little of the world, its chances and changes, cares and troubles. what i had learned of these came chiefly from books and my own speculations. we had few visitors and from all but the most familiar i was quickly packed away. my mother was sensitive of me, for both our sakes. but i think in this she was mistaken, for when my time came, life found me raw, and it rubbed in the salt rather vigorously. my father had other views. he argued for facing the facts, though perhaps those relating to fruit and paper are not very intimidating. but he seldom made his way against my mother, except in matters that concerned his own comfort. he loved me fondly but throughout my childhood seems to have regarded me as a kind of animated marionette. when he came out from his mills and pockets it amused him to find me nibbling a raspberry beside his plate. he'd rub his round stubbly head, and say, "well, mamma, and how's trot done this morning?" or he would stoop and draw ever so heedfully his left little finger down my nose to its uttermost tip, and whisper: "and so to land's end, my love." now and then i would find his eyes fixed on me as if in stupefaction that i was actually his daughter. but now that i was getting to be a young woman and had put up my hair, and the future frowned near, this domestic problem began seriously to concern him. my mother paled at the very mention of it. i remember i had climbed up on to his writing desk one morning, in search of a pair of high boots which i had taken off in his study the evening before. we had been fishing for sticklebacks. concealed from view, while the wind whined at the window, i heard a quarrel between my father and mother about me which i will never repeat to mortal ear. it darkened my mind for days, and if ... but better not. at this time anxiety about money matters must have begun its gnawing in my poor father's brains. and i know what _that_ means. he had recommended to others and speculated himself in some experiment in the cultivation of the trees from which the chinese first made paper, and had not only been grossly cheated, but laughed at in the press. _the kentish courier_--i see his ears burning now--had referred to him as "the ingenious mr tapa"; and my mother's commiseration had hardly solaced him: "but, my dear, you couldn't have gone to canton by yourself. we must just draw in our horns a little." the ingenious mr tapa patted the hand on his shoulder, but his ears burned on. "besides," my mother added, with a long, sighing breath, as she seated herself again, "there are the books." he plucked his spectacles off, and gazed vaguely in her direction: "oh, yes, yes, there are the books." nor was he long daunted by this attack. he fell in love with some notion of so pickling hop-poles that they would last for ever. but the press was no kinder to his poles than to his mulberries. and then befell the blackest misfortune of my life. i had been ill; and for a few days had been sleeping in one of the spare bedrooms in a cot beside my mother, so that she should be near me if i needed her. this particular evening, however, i had gone back to my own room. we cannot change the past, or foresee the future. but if only pollie had not been a heavy sleeper; if only i had escaped that trivial ailment--how tangled is life's skein! it was the may after my eighteenth birthday and full moonlight. troubled in mind by my illness and other worries and mortifications, my mother, not fully aroused perhaps, got up in the small hours and mounted the stone staircase in order to look in on me. i was awake, and heard the rustling of her nightdress and the faint touch of her slippered feet ascending from stone to stone. i guessed her errand, and in my folly thought i would pretend to be asleep and give her a "surprise." i drew my curtains and lay motionless on my back as if i were dead. with eyes closed, listening, i smilingly waited. then suddenly i heard a muffled, gasping cry; and all was utterly, icily still. i flung aside the silk curtains and leapt out of bed. the moonlight was streaming in a lean ray across the floor of my room. i ran down this luminous pathway into the dusk at the open door. at the stair-head beyond, still and silent, i saw my poor dear. on through the cold dark air i ran, and stood in her loosened hair beside her head. it lay unstirring, her cheek colourless, her hand stretched out, palm upward, on the stone. i called into her ear, first gently and pleadingly, then loud and shrill. i ran and chafed her fingers, then back again, and stooped, listening with my cheek to her lips. she exhaled a trembling sigh. i called and called; but my shrillness was utterly swallowed up in the vast night-hung house. then softly in the silence her lids unsealed and her eyes, as if wonderful with a remote dream, looked up into my face. "my dear," she whispered, wakefulness gathering faintly into her gaze, "my dear, is it you?" there was an accent in her voice that i had never heard before. perhaps her tranceful eyes had magnified me. then once more the lids closed down and i was alone. i fell on my knees beside her and crouched, praying into her heedless ear. it was my first acquaintance with calamity, and physically powerless to aid her, i could think of nothing for a moment but to persuade her to speak to me again. then my senses returned to me. to descend that flight of stairs--down which hitherto i had always been carried--would waste more precious time than i could spare. there seemed to be but one alternative--to waken pollie. i ran back into my bedroom and tugged violently at the slack of her bedclothes. a mouse might as well have striven to ring great paul. she breathed on with open mouth, flat on her back, like a log. then a thought came to me. there was a brass-bound box under my bed, a full fifteen inches long, though shallow, in which my grandfather had lately sent me some gowns and finery from paris. with some little difficulty i lugged and pushed this all across the room, and out on to the staircase. my strength seemed to be superhuman. one moment i flew to my mother, but now she lay in a profound sleep indeed, her cheek like marble. with a last effort i edged my box on its side between the balusters, and at some risk of falling after it, shoved it over into the moon-silvered dusk below. the house echoed with its resounding brazen clatter as it pitched from stair to stair. then quiet. clutching with either hand the baluster i leaned over, listening. then a voice cried sleepily: "hah!" then a call, "caroline!" and a moment afterwards i discerned my father ascending the staircase.... for weeks i lay desperately ill. the chill, the anguish, and horror of that night had come upon a frame already weakened. life was nothing but an evil dream, a world of terrifying shadows and phantoms. but our old friend dr grose was familiar with my constitution, and at last i began to mend. pollie, stricken with remorse, nursed me night and day, giving my small bed every hour she could spare in a house stricken and disordered. i was never told in so many words that my mother was dead. in my extreme weakness i learned it of the air around me, of every secret sound and movement in the house. morning and evening appeared my father's great face in the doorway, his eyebrows lifted high above his spectacles. to see his misery i almost wished that i might die to spare him more. when dr grose gave him permission, he sat down beside my bed and stooping low, told me that my mother had remembered our last speech together on the staircase, and he gave me her last message. a thousand and one remembrances of her patience and impulsiveness, of our long hours of solitude together, of her fits of new life as if she were a tree blossoming in the spring, of her voice, her dignified silence with miss fenne, her sallies with my grandfather, her absent musings--these all return to me. alas, that it was never in my power, except perhaps at that last moment, to be to her a true comfort and companion, anything much better, in fact, than a familiar and tragic playmate. worse beyond words; how little i had done for her that i might have done! but regret must not lead me into extremes. that is not the whole truth. there were occasions, i think, when she almost forgot my disabilities, when we were just two quiet, equal spirits in the world and conversed together gravely and simply, not as children, but as fellow-women. it is these i treasure dearest, while thanking her for all. why, in the whirligig of time, if my authorities are trustworthy, and my life had fallen out differently, the problem might now have been reversed! i myself might have had natural-sized children and they a pygmy mother. the strangeness of the world. out of the listlessness of convalescence my interests began to renew themselves. across the gulf that separated us i could still commune with my mother's quiet spirit. her peace and the peace of her forgiveness began to descend on me; and her grave in my imagination has now no more sorrow than the anticipation of my own. from my windowsill loggia i could command a full "hundred" of kent. up there on the barrowed hill-top it was said that on fine days a keen eye could descry the sea to north and south; though dr grose dismissed it as a piece of local presumption. now that my mother was gone the clouds were stranger, the birds more sweetly melancholy, the flowers more fleeting. something of youth had passed away to return no more. half my thoughts were wasted in futile resentment at my incapacities. yet it was a helplessness that in part was forced on me from without. still less now could my father take me seriously. we shared our silent meals together. he would sit moping, pushing his hand over his whitening hair, or staring over his spectacles out of the window to the low whistling of some endless, monotonous tune that would haunt him for days together and fret me to distraction. now and again he would favour me with a serious speech, and then, with a glance, perhaps hurry away to his study before i could answer. to his half-completed dissertations on hop, cherry, and paper, i learned he had added another, on the oyster. many of his letters were now postmarked whitstable. he even advertised in his old enemy, the _courier_, for information: and would break out into furious abuse at the stupidity of his correspondents. meanwhile his appetite increased; he would nod in his chair; his clothes grew shabby; his appearance neglected. poor dear, he missed my mother. but i made a struggle to take her place. every morning pollie would carry me off to the kitchen for a discussion with mrs ballard over the household affairs of the day. with her fat, floury hand, she would hide her mouth and gravely nod her head at my instructions. but i knew she was concealing her amusement. "oh, these men!" she once exclaimed at some new caprice of "the master's," "they are never happy unless they can be where they bain't." with my own hand i printed out for her a list of my father's favourite dishes. i left off my black and wore bright colours again, so that he might not be constantly reminded of the past. but when after long debate i took courage one day to propose myself as his housekeeper--i shall never forget the facial expression which he quickly rubbed off with his hand. he fetched out of his trousers pocket a great bunch of keys, and jangled them almost ferociously in the air at me for a full minute together with tears of amusement in his eyes. then he tossed down the last gulp or two of his port and went off. a moment after he must have realized how cruel a blow he had dealt my vanity and my love. he returned, seated himself heavily in his chair, and looked at me. then stretching out his hand he dropped his face on to his arm. a horrible quietness spread over the room. for the first time i looked with a kind of terror at the hairy fingers and whitening head, and could not stir. how oddly chance repeats itself. the door opened and once more, unannounced, miss fenne appeared in our midst. my father hastily rose to greet her, pretending that nothing was amiss. but when she held out her clawlike hand to me to be kissed, i merely stared at her. she screwed up her countenance into a smile; mumbled that i was looking pale and peaked again; and, with difficulty keeping her eyes from mine, explained that she had come for a business talk with my father. a few days afterwards i was standing up at the window of my mother's little sewing-room--always a favourite refuge of mine, for there the afternoon sun and the colours of evening used to beat into the corner. and i saw a small-sized woman with a large black bonnet come waddling up the drive. she was followed by a boy wheeling a square box on a two-wheeled trolley. it was mrs sheppey come to be housekeeper to the widower and his daughter. mrs sheppey proved to be a harassed and muddling woman, and she came to a harassed home. my father's affairs had gone from bad to worse. he was gloomy and morose. a hunted look sometimes gleamed in his eyes, and the spectacled nose seemed to grow the smaller the more solemn its surroundings were. he spent most of the day in his dressing-gown now, had quarrelled with dr grose, and dismissed mrs ballard. the rooms were dirty and neglected. pollie would maunder about with a broom, or stand idly staring out of the window. she was in love. at least, so i realize now. at the time i thought she was merely lumpish and stupid. only once in my recollection did mrs sheppey pay my own quarters a visit. i was kneeling on my balcony and out of sight, and could watch her unseen. she stood there--tub-shaped, a knob of dingy hair sticking out from her head, her skirts suspended round her boots--passively examining my bed, my wardrobe, and my other belongings. her scrutiny over, she threw up her hands and the whites of her eyes as if in expostulation to heaven, turned about in her cloth boots, and waddled out again. pollie told me, poor thing, that her children had been thorns in her side. i brooded over this. had i not myself, however involuntarily, been a thorn in _my_ mother's side? i despised and yet pitied mrs sheppey. she was, if anything, frightened of me, and of my tongue, and would address me as "little lady" in a cringing, pursed-up fashion. but i am thankful to say she never attempted to touch me or to lift me from the floor. her memory is inextricably bound up with a brown, round pudding with a slimy treacle sauce which she used to send to table every tuesday, thursday, and saturday. my father would look at it with his nose rather than with his eyes; and after perhaps its fiftieth appearance, he summoned mrs sheppey with a violent tug at the bell. she thrust her head in at the door. "take it away," he said, "take it away. eat it. devour it. hide it from god's sight, good woman. don't gibber. take it away!" his tone frightened me out of my wits and mrs sheppey out of the house. then came the end. at the beginning of august in my twentieth year, my father, who had daily become stranger in appearance and habits, though steadfastly refusing to call in his old friend, dr grose, was found dead in his bed. he was like a boy who never can quite succeed in pleasing himself or his masters. he had gone to bed and shut his eyes, never in this world to open them again. chapter five am i sorry that almost beside myself with this new affliction, and bewildered and frightened by the incessant coming and going of strangers in the house, i refused to be carried down to bid that unanswering face good-bye? no, i have no regret on that score. the older i grow the more closely i seem to understand him. if phantoms of memory have any reality--and it is wiser, i think, to remember the face of the living rather than the stony peace of the dead--he has not forgotten his only daughter. double-minded creature i was and ever shall be; now puffed up with arrogance at the differences between myself and gross, common-sized humanity; now stupidly sensitive to the pangs to which by reason of these differences i have to submit. at times i have been tempted to blame my parents for my shortcomings. what wicked folly--they did not choose their only child. after all, too, fellow creatures of any size seem much alike. they rarely have _nothing_ to blame providence for--the length of their noses or the size of their feet, their bones or their corpulence, the imbecilities of their minds or their bodies, the "accidents" of birth, breeding, station, or circumstance. yet how secure and perhaps wholesome is man's self-satisfaction. to what ideal does he compare himself but to a self-perfected abstraction of his own image? even his venus and apollo are mere flattering reflections of his own he- or she-shapes. and what of his anthropomorphic soul? as for myself, dame nature may some day take a fancy to the dwarf. "what a pretty play it would be"--i have clean forgotten where i chanced on this amusing passage--"what a pretty play it would be if, from the next generation onwards, the only humans born into the world should be of mere pygmy stature. fifty years hence there would remain but few of the normal-sized in the land. imagine these aged few, miserably stalking through the dwarfed streets, picking up a scanty livelihood in city or country-side, where their very boots would be a public danger, their very tread would set the bells in the steeples ringing, and their appetites would be a national incubus. house, shop, church, high road, furniture, vehicles abandoned or sunken to the pygmy size; wars and ceremonies, ambitions and enterprises, everything but prayers, dwindled to the petty. would great-grandfather be venerated, cherished, admired, a welcome guest, a lamented emigrant? would there be as many mourners as sextons at his funeral, as many wreaths as congratulations at his grave?" and so on and so forth--like jonathan swift. but i must beware. partly from fatigue and partly from dislike of the version of miss m. that stared out of his picture at me, i had begun, i remember, to be a little fretful when old mr wagginhorne was painting my portrait. and i complained pertly that i thought there were far too many azaleas on the potted bush. "ah, little miss finical," he said, "take care, if you please. once there was a diogenes whom the gods shut up in a tub and fed on his own spleen. he died.... he died," he repeated, drawing his brush slowly along the canvas, "of dyspepsia." he popped round, "think of that." i can think of that to better purpose now, and if there is one thing in the world whose company i shall deplore in my coffin, that thing is a cynic. that is why i am trying as fast as i can to put down my experiences in black and white before the black predominates. but i must get back to my story. my poor father had left his affairs in the utmost disorder. his chief mourners were his creditors. apart from these, one or two old country friends and distant relatives, i believe, attended his funeral, but none even of them can have been profoundly interested in the hop, the oyster, or the cherry, at least in the abstract. dr grose, owing to ill-health, had given up his practice and was gone abroad. but though possibly inquiry was made after the small creature that had been left behind, i stubbornly shut myself away in my room under the roof, listening in a fever of apprehension to every sinister movement in the house beneath. yet if a friend in need is a friend indeed, then i must confess that my treatment of miss fenne was the height of ingratitude. in my grief and desolation, the future seemed to be only a veil beyond the immediate present, which i had neither the wish nor the power to withdraw. miss fenne had no such illusions. i begged pollie to make any excuse she could think of to prevent her from seeing me. but at last she pushed her way up, and doubtless, the news and the advice she brought were the best tonic that could have been prescribed for me. as a child i had always associated my godmother with the crocodile (though not with mr bosch's charming conception of it, in his picture of the creation). yet there were no tears in her faded eyes when she explained that of my father's modest fortune not a pittance remained. in a few days the house, with everything in it except my own small sticks of furniture, was to be sold by auction. i must keep my door locked against intruders. all that would be left to me was a small income of about £ per annum, derived from money bequeathed to me by a relative of my mother's whom i had never seen. "i fancy your father knew nothing about it," she concluded, "at least so your dear _mother_ seemed to imply. but there! it's a sad business, a sad business. and that tapa scandal; a lamentable affair." having thus prepared the way, my godmother proposed that i should take up my residence in her house, and commit my future entirely to her charge. "you cannot be an expensive guest," she explained, "and i am sure you will try to be a grateful one. no truly _conscientious_ godparent, my dear child, _ever_ relinquishes the soul committed to her care. i sometimes wonder whether your poor dear mother realized this." but it was my soul, if that is brother to the spirit and can be neighbour to pride, that revolted against her proposition. i had to shut my eyes at the very remembrance of miss fenne's prim and musty drawing-room. every intimation, every jerk of her trembling head, every pounce of her jewelled fingers only hardened my heart. poor miss fenne. her resentment at my refusal seemed to increase her shortness of sight. looking in on her from my balcony, i had the advantage of her, as she faced me in the full light in her chair, dressed up in her old lady's clothes like a kind of human alp among my pygmy belongings. i tried to be polite, but this only increased her vexation. one smart tap of the ivory ball that topped her umbrella would have been my _coup de grâce_. she eyed me, but never administered it. at last she drew in her lips and fell silent. then, as may happen at such moments, her ill-temper and chagrin, even the sense of her own dignity drooped away, and for a while in the quietness we were simply two ill-assorted human beings, helpless in the coils of circumstance. she composed her mouth, adjusted her bonnet strings, peered a moment from dim old eyes out of the window, then once more looked at me. "it must be, then, as god wills," she said in a trembling voice. "the spirit of your poor dear mother must be judge between us. she has, we may trust, gone to a better world." for a moment my resolution seemed to flow away like water, and i all but surrendered. but a rook cawed close overhead, and i bit my lip. little more was said, except that she would consider it her duty to find me a comfortable and god-fearing home. but she admonished me of the future, warned me that the world was a network of temptations, and assured me of her prayers. so we parted. i bowed her out of my domain. it was the last time we met. two days afterwards i received her promised letter:-- "my dear godchild,--mr ambrose pellew, an old _clergyman_ friend of mine, in whose discretion and knowledge of the world i have every confidence, has spoken for you to an old married, respectable servant of his now living a few miles from london--a mrs bowater. for the charge of thirty shillings a week she has consented to give you board, lodging, and _reasonable_ attendance. in all the circumstances this seems to me to be a moderate sum. mr pellew assures me that mrs b. is clean, honest, and a _practising_ christian. when this dreadful sale is over, i have arranged that pollie shall conduct you safely to what will in future be your _home_. i trust that you will be as happy there as providence permits, though i cannot doubt that your poor dear mother and your poor father, too, for that matter, would have wished otherwise--that the roof of her old friend who was present at your baptism and _insisted_ on your confirmation, should have been your refuge and asylum now that you are absolutely alone in the world. "however, you have rejected this proposal, and have _chosen your own path_. i am not your legal guardian, and i am too deeply _pained_ to refer again to your obstinacy and ingratitude. rest assured that, in spite of all, i shall remember you in my prayers, and i trust, d. v., that you will escape the temptations of this wicked world--a world in which it has pleased god, in spite of self-sacrificing and anxious friends, to place you at so distressing a disadvantage. but in his sight all men are equal. let that be your continual consolation. see amos vii. ; prov. xxxi. - ; eccles. xii. . "i remain, your affectionate godmother, "emma e. fenne. "ps.--i reopen this letter to explain that your _financial_ affairs are in the hands of messrs harris, harris, and harris, respectable solicitors of gray's inn. they will remit you on every quarter day--christmas day, lady day, june th and september th--the sum of £ s. d. of this you will pay £ s. _at once_ to mrs bowater, who, i have no doubt, will advise you on the expenditure of what remains on wearing apparel, self-improvement, missions, charity, and so on. it _grieves_ me that from the wreckage of your father's affairs you must not anticipate a further straw of assistance. all his money and property will be swallowed up in the dreadful storm that has broken over what we can only _trust_ is a tranquil resting place. r. i. p.--e. e. f." so sprawling and straggling was my godmother's penmanship that i spelled her letter out at last with a minifying glass, though rather for forlorn amusement's sake than by necessity. not that this diminishment of her handwriting in any sense lessened the effect upon me of the sentiments it conveyed. they at once daunted me and gave me courage. for a little i hesitated, then at last i thought _out_ in my heart that god might be kinder to me than miss fenne wished. indeed i was so invigorated by the anticipation of the "wicked world," that i all but called her a crocodile to her phantasmal face. couldn't i--didn't i--myself "mean well" too? what pictures and prospects of the future, of my journey, of mrs bowater and the "network" pursued each other through my brain. and what a darkness oppressed me when a voice kept repeating over in my mind--_harris and harris and harris_, as if it were a refrain to one of my grandfather's _chansons_. _messrs harris and harris and harris_--i _saw_ all three of them (dark men with whiskers), but trusted profoundly they would never come to see _me_. nor from that day to this, through all my giddying "ups" and sobering "downs" have i ever for a moment regretted my decision--though i might have conveyed it with a little better grace. my body, perhaps also my soul, would have been safer in the seclusion of my godmother's house. but my spirit? i think it would have beaten itself to death there like a wasp on a window-pane. whereas--well, here i am. chapter six those last few days of august dragged on--days of a burning, windless heat. yet, as days, i enjoyed them. on some upper branch of my family tree must have flourished the salamander. indeed i think i should have been a denizen of venus rather than of this colder, darker planet. i sat on my balcony, basking in the hot sunshine, my thoughts darting hither and thither like flies under a ceiling--those strange, winged creatures that ever seem to be attempting to trace out in their flittings the starry "square of pegasus." in spite of my troubles and forebodings, and fleeting panics, my inward mind was calm. i carefully packed away my few little valuables. the very notion of food gave me nausea, but that i determined to conquer, since of course to become, at either extreme, a slave to one's stomach, is a folly. the noise and tramplings of the men in the rooms beneath never ceased, until night brought quiet. the sale lasted for two days. a stale and clouded air ascended even into my locked bedroom from the human beings (with their dust and tobacco and perfumes and natural presences) collected together in the heat of the great dining-room. a hum, a murmur, the scuffling of feet toiling downstairs with some heavy and cumbrous burden, the cries of the auctioneer, the coarse voices and laughter, the tinkle of glass--the stretching hours seemed endless; and every minute of them knelled the fate of some beloved and familiar object. i was glad my father couldn't hear the bidding, and sorry that perhaps he did not know that the most valuable of his curios--_how_ valuable i was to learn later--was safely hidden away in an upper room. so passed my birthday--the twentieth--nor tapped me on the shoulder with, "ah, but, my dear, just you wait till i come again!" none the less i thought a good deal about birthdays that afternoon, and wondered how it was that we human beings can bear even to go on living between two such mysteries as the beginning and the end of life. where was my mother now? where was i but two-and-twenty years ago? what was all this "past," this "history," of which i had heard so much and knew so little? just a story? better brains than mine have puzzled over these questions, and perhaps if i had studied the philosophers i should know the answers. in the evenings, wrapped up in a shawl, pollie carried me downstairs, and we took a sober whispering walk in the hush and perfumes of the deserted garden. loud rang the tongues of the water over the stones. the moths were fluttering to their trysts, and from some dark little coign the cricket strummed me a solo. standing up there in the starry night the great house looked down on me like an elder brother, mute but compassionate. by the second day after the conclusion of the sale, the removers' vans and carts should have gutted the rooms and be gone. it had, therefore, been arranged that pollie should as usual share my bedroom the last night, and that next day we should set off on our journey. after luncheon--the flavour of its sliced nectarine (or is it of one that came later?) is on my tongue at this moment--all the rest of the house being now hollow and vacant, pollie put on her hat, thrust the large door key into her pocket, and went off to visit her mother in the village and to fetch a clean nightdress. she promised to return before dark. her shoes clattered down the stone stairs, the outer door boomed like a gun. i spread out my hands in the air, and as if my four-poster could bear witness, cried softly, "i am alone." marvel of marvels, even as i sit here to-day gazing at my inkpot, there in its original corner stands that same old four-poster. pollie is living down in the village with her husband and her two babies; and once more: i am alone. is there anything in life so fascinating, so astonishing, as these queer, common little repetitions? perhaps on the last day--but i anticipate. i read a little; wrote on the flyleaf of my diminutive johnson, "september st, lyndsey for the last time.--m."; arranged my morrow's clothes on a chair, then sat down in my balcony to do nothing, to be nothing, merely to dream. but nature decreed otherwise. soon after six by my grandfather's clock--it struck the hour out of its case, as if out of a sepulchre--a storm, which all the afternoon had been steadily piling its leaden vapours into space, began to break. chizzel hill with its prehistoric barrow was sunk to a green mound beneath those lowering cloudy heights, pooling so placid and lovely a blue between them. the very air seemed to thicken, and every tree stood up as if carved out of metal. of a sudden a great wind, with heavy plashing drops of rain, swept roaring round the house, thick with dust and green leaves torn from the dishevelled summer trees. there was a hush. the darkness intensified, and then a vast sheet of lightning seemed to picture all kent in my eyes, and the air was full of water. one glance into the obscure vacancy of the room behind me persuaded me to remain where i was, though the rain drove me further and further into the corner of my balcony. cold, and a little scared by the glare and din, yet not unhappy, i cowered close up against the glass, and, shading my eyes as best i could from the flames of the lightning, i watched the storm. how long i sat there i cannot say. the clamour lulled and benumbed my brain into a kind of trance. my only company was a blackbird which had flown or been blown into my refuge, and with draggled feathers stared black-eyed out of the greenery at me. it was gathering towards dark when the rain and lightning began to abate, and the sullen thunder drew away into the distance, echoing hollowly along the furthest horizons. at last, with teeth chattering, and stiff to my bones, i made my way into the room again, and the benighted blackbird went squawking to his nest. slipping off my gown and shoes, and huddling myself in the blankets and counterpane of my bed, i sat there pondering what next was to be done. it would soon be night; and pollie seemed unlikely to appear until all this turmoil was over. i was not only alone, but forsaken and infinitely solitary, a mere sentient living speck in the quiet sea of light that washed ever and again into the gloomiest recesses of the room. and that familiar room itself seemed now almost as cold and inhospitable as a neglected church. i could hear the dark, vacant house beneath echoing and murmuring at every prolonged reverberation of thunder, and sighing through all its crannies and keyholes. my bedhangings softly shook in the air. gone beyond recovery were my father and mother: and i now realized how irrevocably. i was no longer a child; and the responsibilities of life were now wholly on my own shoulders. yet i was not utterly forlorn. the great scene comforted me, and now and then i prayed, almost without thinking and without words, just as a little tune will keep recurring in the mind. and now, darkness being spread over the garden, in the east the moon was rising. moreover, a curious sight met my eyes; for as the storm settled, heavy rain in travelling showers was still occasionally skirting the house; and when, between the heaped-up masses of cloud, the distant lightning gleamed a faint vaporous lilac, i saw motionless in the air, and as if suspended in their falling between earth and sky, the multitudinous glass-clear, pear-shaped drops of water. at sight of these jewels thus crystalling the dark air i was filled with such a rapture that i actually clapped my hands. and presently the moon herself appeared, as if to be my companion. serene, remote, she glided at last from cover of an enormous bluff of cloud into the faint-starred vault of space, seemed to pause for an instant in contemplation of the dark scene, then went musing on her way. beneath her silver all seemed at peace, and it was then that i fell asleep. and while i slept, i dreamed a dream. my dreams often commit me to a quiet and radiant life, as if of a reality less strange to me than that of waking. others are a mere uneasiness and folly. in the old days i would sometimes tell my dreams to mrs ballard; and she would look them up in a frowsy book she kept in the dresser drawer, a brown, grease-stained volume entitled _napoleon's book of fate_. then she would promise me a prince for a husband, or that i would be a great traveller across the sea, or that i must beware of a red-haired woman, and nonsense of that kind. but this particular dream remains more vividly in my memory than any. well, i dreamed that i was walking in a strange garden--an orchard. and, as it seemed, i was either of the common human size, or this was a world wherein of human beings i was myself of the usual stature. the night was still, like the darkest picture, yet there must have been light there, since i could see as i walked. the grasses were coarse and deep, but they did not encumber my feet, and presently i found myself standing beneath a tree whose branches in their towering sombre heaviness seemed to be made of iron. dangling here and there amid the pendulous leaves hung enormous fruits--pears stagnant and heavy as shaped lumps of lead or of stone. why the sight of these fruits in the obscure luminosity of the air around them laid such a spell upon me, i cannot say. i stood there in the dew-cold grass, gazing up and up into those monstrous branches as if enchanted, and then of a sudden the ground under my feet seemed faintly to tremble as if at a muffled blow. one of the fruits in my dream, now come to ripeness, had fallen stone-like from above. then again--thud! realization of the dreadful danger in which i stood swept over me. i turned to escape, and awoke, shivering and in a suffocating heat, to discover in the moonlight that now flooded my room where in actuality i was. yet still, as it seemed, the dying rumour of the sound persisted, and surely, i thought, it must be poor, careless pollie, her key forgotten, come back in the darkness after the storm, and hammering with the great knocker on the door below. hardly a minute had passed indeed before the whole house resounded again with her thumping. one seldom finds courage keeping tryst on the outskirts of sleep, and there was a vehemence in the knocking as if pollie was in an extremity of fear at finding herself under the vacant house alone in the night. the thought of going to her rescue set my teeth chattering. i threw back the bedclothes and gazed at the moon, and the longer i sat there the more clearly i realized that i must somehow descend the stairs, convey to her that i was safe, and, if possible, let her in. three steep stone flights separated us, stairs which i had very rarely ascended or descended except in her arms. i thrust my foot out; all was still; i must go at once. but what of light? the moon was on this side of the house. it might be pitch dark on the lower landings and in the hall. on the stool by her bedside stood pollie's copper candlestick, with an inch or two of candle in it and a box of matches. it was a thick-set tallow candle and none too convenient for me to grasp. with this alight in my hand, the stick being too cumbersome, i set out on my errand. the air was cool; the moon shone lustily. just waked from sleep my mind was curiously exalted. i sallied out into the empty corridor. a pace or two beyond the threshold my heart seemed to swell up in my body, for it seemed that at the head of the staircase lay stretched the still form of my mother as i had found her in the cold midnight hours long ago. it was but a play of light, a trick of fantasy. i recovered my breath and went on. to leap from stair to stair was far too formidable a means of progression. i should certainly have dashed out my brains. so i must sit, and jump sitting, manipulating my candle as best i could. in this sidling, undignified fashion, my eyes fixed only on the stair beneath me, i mastered the first flight, and paused to rest. what a medley of furtive sounds ascended to my ear from the desolate rooms below: the heavy plash of raindrop from the eaves, scurry and squeak of mouse, rustle of straw, a stirring--light as the settling of dust, crack of timber, an infinitely faint whisper; and from without, the whistle of bat, the stony murmur of the garden stream, the hunting screech of some predatory night-fowl over the soaked and tranquil harvest fields. and who, who?--that shape?... i turned sharply, and the melted tallow of the guttering candle welled over and smartly burned the hand that held it. the pain gave me confidence. but better than that, a voice from below suddenly broke out, not pollie's but adam waggett's, hollaing in the porch. adam--the wren-slaughterer--prove me a coward? no, indeed. all misgiving gone, i girded my dressing-gown tighter around me, and continued the descent. it was a jolting and arduous business, and as i paused on the next landing, i now looked into the moon-bathed vacancy of my father's bedroom. dismantled, littered with paper and the fragments of wood and glass of a picture my mother had given him, a great hole in the plaster, a broken chair straddling in the midst--a hideous spectacle it was. an immense moth with greenly glowing eyes, lured out of its roosting place, came fluttering round my candle, fanning my cheek with its plumy wings. i shaded the flame and smiled up at the creature which, not being of a kind that is bent on self-slaughter, presently wafted away. the lower i descended the filthier grew my journey. my stub of candle was fast wasting; and what use should i be to pollie's messenger? when indeed in the muck and refuse left by the sale, i reached the door, it was too late. he was now beating with his fists at the rear of the house; and i must needs climb down the last flight of the back wooden staircase used by the servants. when at last the great stagnant kitchen came into view, it was my whole inward self that cried out in me. its stone flags were swarming with cockroaches. these shelled, nocturnal, sour-smelling creatures are among the few insects that fill me with horror. by comparison the devil's coachman may be worse-tempered, but he is a gentleman. the very thought of one of them rearing itself against my slippered foot filled me with disgust; and the males were winged. they went scurrying away into hiding, infants seemingly to their mothers, whisper, whisper--i felt sick at the sight. there came a noise at the window. peering from round my candle flame i perceived adam's dusky face, with its long nose, staring in at me through the glass. at sight of the plight i was in, he burst into a prolonged guffaw of laughter. this enraged me beyond measure. i stamped my foot, and at last he sobered down enough to yell through the glass that pollie's mother had sent him to see that i was safe and had forgotten to give him the house-key. pollie herself would be with me next morning. i waved my candle at him in token that i understood. at this the melted grease once more trickled over and ran scalding up my arm. the candle fell to the floor, went out; the pale moonshine spread through the air. i could see adam's conical head outlined against the soft light of the sky; though he could no longer see me. horror of the cockroaches returned on me. instantly i turned tail, leaving the lump of tallow for their spoil. how, in that dark, high house, i managed to remount those stairs, i cannot conceive. youth and persistency, i suppose. i doubt if i could do it now. utterly exhausted and bedraggled i regained my bedroom at last without further misadventure. i sponged the smoke and grime from face and hands in my washbowl, hung my dressing-gown where the morning air might refresh it, and was soon in a dead sleep, from which i think even the angel gabriel would have failed to arouse me. chapter seven when i awoke, the morning sky was gay with sunshine, there was a lisping and gurgling of starlings on the roof, the roar of the little river in flood after the rains shook the air at my window, and there sat pollie, in her outdoor clothes, the rest of the packing done and she awaiting breakfast. unstirringly from my pillow i scrutinized the plump, red-cheeked face with its pale-blue prominent eyes dreaming out of the window; and sorrow welled up in me at the thought of the past and of how near drew our separation. she heard me move, and kneeling and stooping low over my bed, with her work-roughened finger she stroked the hand that lay on my coverlet. a pretty sight i must have looked--after my night's experiences. we whispered a little together. she was now a sedater young woman, but still my pollie of the apples and novelettes. and whether or not it is because early custom is second nature, she is still the only person whom my skin does not a little creep against when necessity calls for a beast of burden. her desertion of me the night before had been caused by the untimely death of one of her father's three alderney cows--a mild, horned creature, which i had myself often seen in the meadows cropping among the buttercups, and whose rich-breathed nose i had once had the courage to ask to stroke with my hand. this ill-fated beast at first threat of the storm, had taken shelter with her companions under an oak. scarcely had the lightnings begun to play when she was struck down by a "thunderbolt." it was a tragedy after pollie's heart. she had (she said) fainted dead off at news of it--and we bemoaned the event in concert. in return i told her my dream of the garden. nothing would then content her but she must fetch from under her mattress _napoleon's book of fate_, a legacy from mrs ballard. "but, pollie," i demurred; "a dream is only a dream." "honest, miss," she replied, thumbing over the pages, "there's some of 'em means what happens and comes true, and they'll tell secrets too if they be searched about. more'n a month before mrs ballard fell out with master she dreamed that one of the speckled hens had laid an egg in the kitchen dresser. there it was clucking among the crockery. and to dream of eggs, the book says, is to be certain sure of getting the place you are after, and which she wrote off to a friend in london and is there now!" what more was there to say? so presently pollie succeeded in turning to "pears" in the grease-grimed book, and spelled out slowly:-- "pears.--to dream of pears is in-di-ca-tive of great wealth (which means riches, miss); and that you will rise to a much higher spear than the one you at present occupy. to a woman they denote that she will marry a person far above her in rank (lords and suchlike, miss, if you please), and that she will live in great state. to persons in trade they denote success and future prosperity and eleviation. they also indi- indicate constancy in love and happiness in the marriage state." her red cheeks grew redder with this exertion of scholarship, and i burst out laughing. "ah, miss," she cried in confusion, "laugh you may, and that's what sarah said to the angel. but mark my words if something of it don't hap out like what the book says." "then, pollie," said i, "there's nothing for it but to open a butcher's shop. for live in great state i can't and won't, not if the prince of wales himself was to ask me in marriage." "lor, miss," retorted pollie in shocked accents, "and him a married man with grown-up sons and all." but she forgave me my mockery. as for the dream book, doubtless young bonaparte must often have dreamed of pears in corsica; and no less indubitably have i lived in "great state"--though without much eleviation. but the day was hasting on. my toilet must be made, and the preparations for our journey completed. now that the dawn of my new fortunes was risen, expectancy filled my mind, and the rain-freshened skies and leaves of the morning renewed my spirits. our train--the first in my experience--was timed to leave our country railway station at . p.m. by one o'clock, all the personal luggage that i was to take with me had been sewn up in a square of canvas, and corded. the rest of my belongings--my four-poster, etc.--were to be stowed in a large packing-case and sent after me. first impressions endure. no great store of sagacity was needed to tell me that. so i had chosen my clothes carefully, determined to show my landlady that i meant to have my own way and not be trifled with. my dear mrs bowater!--she would be amused to hear that. pollie bustled downstairs. i stood in the midst of the sunlit, dismantled room, light and shadow at play upon ceiling and walls, the sun-pierced air a silvery haze of dust. a host of memories and thoughts, like a procession in a dream, traversed my mind. a strangeness, too--as if even this novel experience of farewell was a vague recollection beyond defined recall. pollie returned with the new hat in the paper bag in which she had brought it from home: and i was her looking-glass when she had put it on. then from top to basement she carried me through every room in the house, and there on the kitchen floor, mute witness of the past, lay the beetle-gnawn remnant of my candle-stub. we wandered through the garden, glinting green in the cool flocking sunbeams after the rain; and already vaunting its escape from man. pollie was returning to lyndsey--i not! my heart was too full to let me linger by the water. i gazed at the stones and the wild flowers in a sorrowful hunger of farewell. trifles, soon to be dying, how lovely they were. the thought of it swallowed me up. what was the future but an emptiness? would that i might vanish away and be but a portion of the sweetness of the morning. even pollie's imperturbable face wore the appearance of make-believe; for an instant i surprised the whole image of me reflected in her round blue eye. the waggetts' wagonette was at the door, but not--and i was thankful--not _my_ adam, but the old adam, his father. my luggage was pushed under the seat. i was set up, to be screened as far as possible from the wind, beside pollie and behind mr waggett--no stranger to me with his neat, dark whiskers, for in the old days, at dinner parties, he would wait at table. i see him now--as gentlemanlike as a devil's coachhorse--entering the kitchen with his little black bag. only once i swiftly turned my head over my shoulder toward the house. then we were outside the iron gates, and bumping along through the puddles between the bowery hedges towards the station. i thought of my father and mother lying side by side, beyond the sullen drift of nettles, under the churchyard wall. miss fenne had taken me there many weeks before in her faded barouche with the gaunt white mare. not a word had i breathed to her of my anguish at sight of the churchyard. the whole afternoon was a nightmare. she regaled the journey with sentiments on death and the grave. throughout it, i was in danger of slipping out of her sight; for the buttons on the sage-green leather seat were not only a discomfort but had failed to aid me to sit upright; and nothing would have induced me to catch at the trimmings of her dolman to save myself from actually falling off into the pit of her carriage. there sat her ancient coachman; clutter-clutter plodded the hoofs; what a monstrous, monstrous world--and she cackling on and on--like a hen over its egg. but now the novelty of this present experience, the flowery cottages, mr waggett's square, sorrel nag, the ballooning northwesterly clouds, the aromatic rusty hedgerows, the rooks in the cornfields--all these sights and sounds called joy into my mind, and far too soon the bright-painted railway station at the hill-bottom hove into sight, and our drive was over. i was lifted down into pollie's arms again. then followed a foolish chaffering over the tickets, which mr waggett had volunteered to purchase for us at the rounded window. the looming face beyond had caught sight of me, and the last words i heard bawled through for any to hear were: "lor, mr waggett, i'd make it a _quarter_ for 'ee if it was within regulations. but 'tain't so, the young lady's full natural size in the eye of the law, and i couldn't give in to 'ee not even if 'twas a honeymooning you was after." no doubt it was wholesome to learn as quickly as possible how easy a butt i was to be for the jests of the good-humoured. on that occasion it was a bitter pill. i felt even pollie choke down a laugh into her bosom. my cheek whitened, but i said nothing. an enormous din at the moment shattered around me, ten thousand times harsher to my nerves than any mere witticism could be. my first "steam-monster" was entering the station. all but stunned by its clatter, i barely had the presence of mind to thank mr waggett for the little straw basket of three greengages, and the nosegay of cherry-pie which he had thrust into my arms. my canvas-wrapped package was pushed in under the seat, the door was slammed to, the guard waved his green flag, mr waggett touched his hat: and our journey was begun. fortunately pollie and i found ourselves in an empty carriage. the scream of the whistle, the grinding jar of the wheels, the oppressive odour of mr waggett's bouquet--i leaned back on her to recover my wits. but the cool air blowing in on my face and a far-away sniff from a little glass bottle with which her mother had fortified her for the journey, quickly revived me, and i was free to enjoy the novelties of steam-travel. my eyes dizzied at the wide revolving scene that was now spread out beneath the feathery vapours. how strange it was to see the green country world--meadow and stream and wooded hill--thus wheel softly by. if pollie and i could have shared it alone, it would have been among my pleasantest memories. but at the next stopping places other passengers climbed into the carriage; and five complete strangers soon shared the grained wood box in which we were enclosed. there was a lady in black, with her hair smoothed up under her bonnet, and a long pale nose; and up against her sat her little boy, a fine fair, staring child of about five years of age. a black-clothed, fat little man with a rusty leather bag, over the lock of which he kept clasped his finger and thumb, quietly seated himself. he cast but one dark glance about him and immediately shut his eyes. in the corner was an older man with a beard under his chin, gaiters, and a hard, wide-brimmed hat. besides these, there was a fat countrywoman on the same side as pollie and i, whom i could hear breathing and could not see, and a dried-up, bird-eyed woman opposite in a check shawl, with heavy metal ear-rings dangling at her ears. she sat staring blankly and bleakly at things close as if they were at a distance. my spirit drank in this company. so rapt was i that i might have been a stock of wood. gathered together in this small space they had the appearance of animals, and, if they had not been human, what very alarming ones. as long as i merely sat and watched their habits i remained unnoticed. but the afternoon sun streamed hot on roof and windows: and the confined air was soon so dense with a variety of odours, that once more my brain dizzied, and i must clutch at pollie's arm for support. at this movement the little boy, who had more than once furtively glanced at me, crouched wriggling back against his mother, and, edging his face aside, piped up into her ear, "mamma, is that alive?" the train now stood motionless, a fine array of hollyhocks and sunflowers flared beyond the window, and his voice rang out shrill as a bird in the quiet of afternoon. tiny points of heat broke out all over me, as one by one my fellow passengers turned their astonished faces in my direction. even the man with the leather bag heard the question. the small, bead-brown eyes wheeled from under their white lids and fixed me with their stare. "hush, my dear," said the lady, no less intent but less open in her survey; "hush, look at the pretty cows!" "but she _is_, mamma. it moved. i saw that move," he asseverated, looking along cornerwise at me out of his uptilted face. those blue eyes! a mingling of delight, horror, incredulity, even greed swam in their shallow deeps. i stood leaning close to pollie's bosom, breathless and helpless, a fascinating object, no doubt. never before had i been transfixed like this in one congregated stare. i felt myself gasp like a fish. it was the old farmer in the corner who at last came to my rescue. "alive! _i_ warrant. eh, ma'am?" he appealed to poor pollie. "and an uncommon neat-fashioned young lady, too. off to whipham fair, i'll be bound." the bag-man turned with a creeping grin on his tallowy features and muttered some inaudible jest out of the corner of his mouth to the gipsy. she eyed him fiercely, drawing her lips from her bright teeth in a grimace more of contempt than laughter. once more the engine hooted and we glided on our way. "i _want_ that, mamma," whispered the child. "i _want_ that dear little lady. give that teeny tiny lady a biscuit." at this new sally universal merriment filled the carriage. we were jogging along in fine style. this, then, was miss fenne's "network." a helpless misery and bitterness swept through me, the heavy air swirled; and then--whence, from whom, i know not--self-possession returned to me. why, i had _chosen_ my fate: i must hold my own. my young admirer, much against his mother's inclination, had managed to fetch out a biscuit from her reticule--a star-shaped thing, graced with a cone of rose-tinted sugar. still crouching back like a chick under her wing, he stretched his bribe out at arm's length towards me, in a pink, sweat-sparked hand. all this while pollie had sat like a lump beside me, clutching her basket, a vacant, flushed smile on her round face. i drew myself up, and supporting myself by her wicker basket, advanced with all the dignity at my command to the peak of her knees, and, stretching out my hand in return, accepted the gift. i even managed to make him an indulgent little bow, feigned a nibble at the lump of food, then planted it on the dusty ledge beneath the carriage window. a peculiar silence followed. with a long sigh the child hid his face in his mother's sleeve. she drew him closer and smiled carefully into nothingness. "there," she murmured, "now mother's treasure must sit still and be a good boy. i can't think why papa didn't take--second-class tickets." "but nor did that kind little lady's papa," returned the child stoutly. the kindly old farmer continued to gloat on me, gnarled hands on knees. but i could not bear it. i quietly surveyed him until he was compelled to rub his face with his fingers, and so cover its retreat to his own window. the gipsy woman kept her ferocious, birdlike stare on me, with an occasional stealthy glance at pollie. the bag-man's lids closed down. for the rest of the journey--though passengers came and went--i kept well back, and was left in peace. it was my first real taste of the world's curiosity, mockery, aversion, and flattery. one practical lesson it taught me. from that day forward i never set out on any such journey unless thickly veiled. for then, though the inquisitive may see me, they cannot tell whether or not i see them, or what my feelings may be. it is a real comfort; though, from what i have read, it appears to be the condition rather of a ghost than of a normal young lady. but now the sun had begun to descend and the rays of evening to stain the fields. we loitered on from station to station. to my relief pollie had at last munched her way through the pasties and sweetmeats stowed in her basket. my nosegay of cherry-pie was fainting for want of water. in heavy sleep the bag-man and gipsy sat woodenly nodding and jerking side by side. the lady had delicately composed her face and shut her eyes. the little boy slumbered serenely with his small red mouth wide open. languid and heavy, i dared not relax my vigilance. but in the desolation that gathered over me i almost forgot my human company, and returned to the empty house which seemingly i had left for ever--the shadows of yet another nightfall already lengthening over its flowers and sward. could i not hear the silken rustle of the evening primrose unfolding her petals? soon the cool dews would be falling on the stones where i was wont to sit in reverie beside the flowing water. it seemed indeed that my self had slipped from my body, and hovered entranced amid the thousand jargonings of its tangled lullaby. was there, in truth, a wraith in me that could so steal out; and were the invisible inhabitants in their fortresses beside my stream conscious of its presence among them, and as happy in my spectral company as i in theirs? i floated up out of these ruminations to find that my young pasha had softly awakened and was gazing at me in utter incredulity from sleep-gilded eyes. we exchanged a still, protracted, dwelling smile, and for the only time in my life i actually _saw_ a fellow-creature fall in love! "oh, but mamma, mamma, i do _beseech_ you," he called up at her from the platform where he was taking his last look at me through the dingy oblong window, "please, please, i want her for mine; i want her for mine!" i held up his biscuit in my hand, laughing and nodding. the whistle knelled, our narrow box drew slowly out of the station. as if heartbroken, he took his last look at me, petulantly flinging aside his mother's hand. he had lost me for ever, and pollie and i were alone again. beechwood chapter eight still the slow train bumped on, loath to drag itself away from the happy harvest fields. darkness was near when we ourselves alighted at our destination, mounted into a four-wheeled cab, and once more were in motion in the rain-laid dust. on and on rolled pollie and i and our luggage together, in such ease and concealment after the hard wooden seats and garish light that our journey began to seem--as indeed i wished for the moment it might prove--interminable. one after another the high street lamps approached, flung their radiance into our musty velvet cabin, and went gliding by. ever and again the luminous square of a window beyond the outspread branches of a tree would float on. then suddenly our narrow solitude was invaded by the bright continuous flare flung into it from a row of shops. never before had i been out after nightfall. i gazed enthralled at the splendours of fruit and cakes, silks and sweetmeats packed high behind the glass fronts. wasn't i myself the heiress of £ a year? indeed i was drinking in romance, and never traveller surveyed golden moscow or the steeps of tibet with keener relish than i the liquid amber, ruby, and emerald that summoned its customers to a wayside chemist's shop. twenty--what a child i was! i smile now at these recollections with an indulgence not unmixed with envy. it is moscow survives, not the artless traveller. after climbing a long hill--the wayside houses steadily thinning out as we ascended--the cab came to a standstill. the immense, shapeless old man who had so miraculously found our way for us, and who on this mild august evening was muffled up to his eyes in a thick ulster, climbed down backwards from his box and opened the door. at the same moment, as if by clockwork, opened another door--that of the last house on the hill. i was peering out of the cab, then, at my home; and framed in that lighted oblong stood mrs bowater. all utterly different from what i had foreseen: this much smaller house, this much taller landlady, and--dear me, how fondly i had trusted that she would not for the first time set eyes on her lodger being _carried_ into her house. i had in fancy pictured myself bowing a composed and impressive greeting to her from her own hearthrug. but it was not to be. pollie lifted me out, settled me on her arm, and my feet did not touch _terra firma_ again until she had ascended the five stone steps and we were within the passage. "lor, miss; then here we are," she sighed breathlessly, then returned to the cabman to pay him his fare. even dwarfed a little perhaps by my mourning, there i stood, breathed upon by the warm air of the house, in the midst of a prickly doormat, on the edge of the shiny patterned oilcloth that glossed away into the obscurity from under the gaslight in front of me; and there stood my future landlady. for the first time, with head thrown back, i scanned a countenance that was soon to become so familiar and so endeared. mrs bowater's was a stiff and angular figure. she, too, was in black, with a long, springside boot. the bony hands hung down in their peculiar fashion from her elbows. a large cameo brooch adorned the flat chest. a scanty velvet patch of cap failed to conceal the thin hair sleekly parted in the middle over the high narrow temples. the long dark face with its black, set eyes, was almost without expression, except that of a placid severity. she gazed down at me, as i up at her, steadily, silently. "so this is the young lady," she mused at last, as if addressing a hidden and distant listener. "i hope you are not over-fatigued by your journey, miss. please to step in." to my ear, mrs bowater's was what i should describe as a low, roaring voice, like falling water out of a black cloven rock in a hill-side; but what a balm was its sound in my ear, and how solacing this dignified address to jaded nerves still smarting a little after my victory on the london, chatham, and dover railway. making my way around a grandfather's clock that ticked hollowly beside the door, i followed her into a room on the left of the passage, from either wall of which a pair of enormous antlers threatened each other under the discoloured ceiling. for a moment the glare within and the vista of furniture legs confused my eyes. but mrs bowater came to my rescue. "food was never mentioned," she remarked reflectively, "being as i see nothing to be considered except as food so-called. but you will find everything clean and comfortable; and i am sure, miss, what with your sad bereavements and all, as i have heard from mr pellew, i hope it will be a home to you. there being nothing else as i suppose that we may expect." my mind ran about in a hasty attempt to explore these sentiments. they soothed away many misgivings, though it was clear that mrs bowater's lodger was even less in dimensions than mrs bowater had supposed. _clean_: after so many months of mrs sheppey's habits, it was this word that sang in my head. wood, glass, metal flattered the light of gas and coal, and for the first time i heard my own voice float up into my new "apartment": "it looks _very_ comfortable, thank you, mrs bowater; and i am quite sure i shall be happy in my new abode." there was nothing intentionally affected in this formal little speech. "which being so," replied mrs bowater, "there seems to be trouble with the cabman, and the day's drawing in, perhaps you will take a seat by the fire." a stool nicely to my height stood by the steel fender, the flames played in the chimney; and for a moment i was left alone. "thank god," said i, and took off my hat, and pushed back my hair.... alone. only for a moment, though. its mistress gone, as fine a black cat as ever i have seen appeared in the doorway and stood, green-eyed, regarding me. to judge from its countenance, this must have been a remarkable experience. i cried seductively, "puss." but with a blink of one eye and a shake of its forepaw, as if inadvertently it had trodden in water, it turned itself about again and disappeared. in spite of all my cajoleries, henry and i were never to be friends. whatever pollie's trouble with the cabman may have been, mrs bowater made short work of it. pollie was shown to the room in which she was to sleep that night. i took off my bodice and bathed face, hands, and arms to the elbow in the shallow bowl mrs bowater had provided for me. and soon, wonderfully refreshed and talkative, pollie and i were seated over the last meal we were to share together for many a long day. there were snippets of bread and butter for me, a little omelette, two sizes too large, a sugared cherry or two sprinkled with "hundreds and thousands," and a gay little bumper of milk gilded with the enwreathed letters, "a present from dover." alack-a-day for that omelette! i must have kept a whole family of bantams steadily engaged for weeks together. but i was often at my wits' end to dispose of their produce. fortunately mrs bowater kept merry fires burning in the evening--"ladies of some sizes can't warm the air as much as most," as she put it. so at some little risk to myself among the steel fire-irons, the boiled became the roast. at last i made a clean breast of my horror of eggs, and since by that time my landlady and i were the best of friends, no harm came of it. she merely bestowed on me a grim smile of unadulterated amusement, and the bantams patronized some less fastidious stomach. my landlady was a heavy thinker, and not a copious--though a leisurely--talker. minutes would pass, while with dish or duster in hand she pondered a speech; then perhaps her long thin lips would only shut a little tighter, or a slow, convulsive rub of her lean forefinger along the side of her nose would indicate the upshot. but i soon learned to interpret these mute signs. she was a woman who disapproved of most things, for excellent, if nebulous, reasons; and her silences were due not to the fact that she had nothing to say, but too much. pollie and i talked long and earnestly that first evening at beechwood. she promised to write to me, to send me all the gossip of the village, and to come and see me when she could. the next morning, after a sorrowful breakfast, we parted. standing on the table in the parlour window, with eyes a little wilder than usual, i watched her pass out of sight. a last wave of her handkerchief, and the plump-cheeked, fair-skinned face was gone. the strangeness and solitude of my situation flooded over me. for a few days, strive as she might, mrs bowater's lodger moped. it was not merely that she had become more helpless, but of far less importance. this may, in part, be accounted for by the fact that, having been accustomed at lyndsey to live at the top of a high house and to look down on the world, when i found myself foot to foot with it, so to speak, on beechwood hill, it alarmingly intensified the _sense_ of my small stature. use and habit however. the relative merits of myself and of the passing scene gradually readjusted themselves with a proper respect for the former. soon, too, as if from heaven, the packing-case containing my furniture arrived. mrs bowater shared a whole morning over its unpacking, ever and again standing in engrossed consideration of some of my minute treasures, and, quite unaware of it, heaving a great sigh. but how to arrange them there in a room already over-occupied? chapter nine a carpenter of the name of bates was called in, so distant a relative of mrs bowater's apparently that she never by nod, word, or look acknowledged the bond. mr bates held my landlady in almost speechless respect. "a woman in a thousand," he repeatedly assured me, when we were grown a little accustomed to one another; "a woman in _ten_ thousand. and if things hadn't been what they was, you may understand, they might have turned out different. ah, miss, there's one looking down on us could tell a tale." i looked up past his oblong head at the ceiling, but only a few flies were angling round the chandelier. mrs bowater's compliments were less indirect. "that _bates_," she would say, surveying his day's handiwork after he was gone, "is all thumbs." he was certainly rather snail-like in his movements, and spent most of his time slowly rubbing his hands on the stiff apron that encased him. but i minded his thumbs far less than his gluepot. many years have passed, yet at the very whisper of his name, that inexpressible odour clouds up into my nose. it now occurs to me for the first time that he never sent in his bill. either his memory failed him, or he carpentered for love. level with the wide table in the window recess, strewn over with my small persian mats, whereon i sat, sewed, read, and took my meals, mr bates constructed a broad shelf, curtained off on three sides from the rest of the room. on this wooden stage stood my four-poster, wardrobe, and other belongings. it was my bedchamber. from table to floor he made a staircase, so that i could easily descend and roam the room at large. the latter would have been more commodious if i could have persuaded mrs bowater to empty it a little. if i had _kept on_ looking at the things in it i am sure i should have gone mad. even tact was unavailing. if only there had been the merest tinge of a cromwell in my character, the baubles that would have been removed! there were two simpering plaster figures--a shepherd and shepherdess--nearly half my height on the chimney-piece, whom i particularly detested; also an enlarged photograph in a discoloured frame on the wall--that of a thick-necked, formidable man, with a bush of whisker on either cheek, and a high, quarrelsome stare. he made me feel intensely self-conscious. it was like a wolf looking all day into a sheep-fold. so when i had my meals, i invariably turned my back on his portrait. i went early to bed. but now that the autumnal dusks were shortening, an hour or two of artificial light was necessary. the flare of the gas dazzled and stupefied me, and gave me a kind of hunted feeling; so mrs bowater procured for me a couple of fine little glass candlesticks. in bed i sometimes burned a wax-light in a saucer, a companionable thing for night-thoughts in a strange place. often enough i sat through the evening with no other illumination than that of the smouldering coals, so that i could see out of the window. it was an endless source of amusement to withdraw the muslin curtains, gaze out over the darkened fields beyond the roadway, and let my day-dreams wander at will. at nine o'clock mrs bowater would bring me my supper--some fragments of rusk, or of bread, and milk. my food was her constant anxiety. the difficulty, as she explained, was to supply me with _little_ enough to eat--at least of cooked food: "it dries up in the winking of an eye." so her cat, henry, fared more sumptuously than ever, though the jealous creature continued to reject all my advances, and as far as possible ignored my existence. "simple victuals, by all means, miss," mrs bowater would admit. "but if it don't enjoy, the inside languishes; and you are not yet of an age that can fall back on skin and bone." the question of food presently introduced that of money. she insisted on reducing her charges to twenty shillings a week. "there's the lodging, and there's the board, the last being as you might say all but unmentionable; and honesty the best policy though i have never tried the reverse." so, in spite of all my protestations, it was agreed. and i thus found myself mistress of a round fifty-eight pounds a year over and above what i paid to mrs bowater. messrs harris, harris, and harris were punctual as quarter-day: and so was i. i "_at once_" paid over to my landlady £ and whatever other sum was needful. the "charity" my godmother had recommended began, and, alas, remained at home. i stowed the rest under lock and key in one of my grandfather's boxes which i kept under my bed. this was an imprudent habit, perhaps. mrs bowater advocated the penny bank. but the thought of my money being so handy and _palpable_ reassured me. i would count it over in my mind, as if it were a means to salvation; and became, in consequence, near and parsimonious. occasionally when she had "business" to transact, mrs bowater would be off to london. there she would purchase for me any little trifle required for the replenishment of my wardrobe. needing so little, i could afford the finest materials; my sovereign was worth at least sixty shillings. rather than "fine," mrs bowater preferred things "good"; and for this "goodness," i must confess, she sometimes made rather alarming sacrifices of appearance. still, i was already possessed of a serviceable stock of clothes, and by aid of one of my dear mother's last presents to me, a shiny swiss miniature workbox with an inlaid picture of the lake of geneva on the lid, i soon became a passable needlewoman. i love bright, pure colours, and, my sweeping and dusting and bedmaking over, and my external mourning for my father at an end, a remarkably festive figure would confront me in my cheval glass of an afternoon. the hours i spent in dressing my hair and matching this bit of colour with that. i would talk to myself in the glass, too, for company's sake, and make believe i was a dozen different characters. i was young. i pined for life and companionship, and having only my own--for mrs bowater was rather a faithful feature of the landscape than a fellow being--i made as much, and as many, of myself as possible. another question that deeply engaged my landlady was my health. she mistrusted open windows, but strongly recommended "air." what insidious maladies she spied around me! indeed that september was unusually hot. i sat on my table in the window like a cricket in an oven, sorely missing my high open balcony, the garden, and the stream. once and again mrs bowater would take me for a little walk after sunset. discretion to her was much the better part of valour; nor had i quite recovered from my experiences in the train. but such walks--though solitary enough at that hour of the day--were straggly and irksome. pollie's arm had been a kind of second nature to me; but mrs bowater, i think, had almost as fastidious a disinclination to carrying me as i have to being carried. i languished for liberty. being a light sleeper, i would often awake at daybreak and the first call of the birds. then the hill--which led to tyddlesdon end and love (or loose) lane--was deserted. thought of the beyond haunted me like a passion. at a convenient moment i intimated to mrs bowater how secure was the street at this early hour, how fresh the meadows, and how thirsty for independent outings her lodger. "besides, mrs bowater, i am not a child, and who could see me?" after anxious and arduous discussion, mr bates was once more consulted. he wrapped himself in a veritable blanket of reflection, and all but became unconscious before he proposed a most ingenious device. with mrs bowater's consent, she being her own landlady and amused at the idea, he cut out of one of the lower panels of her parlour door a round-headed opening just of an easy size to suit me. in this aperture he hung a delicious little door that precisely fitted it. so also with the door into the street--to which he added a brahmah lock. by cementing a small square stone into the corner of each of the steps down from the porch, he eased _that_ little difficulty. may heaven bless mr bates! with his key round my neck, stoop once, stoop twice, a scamper down his steps, and i was free--as completely mistress of my goings-out and of my comings-in as every self-respecting person should be. "that's what my father would have called a good job, mr bates," said i cordially. he looked yearningly at me, as if about to impart a profound secret; but thought better of it. "well, miss, what i say is, a job's a _job_; and if it _is_ a job, it's a job that should be made a job _of_." as i dot the i's and cross the t's of this manuscript, i often think--a little ruefully--of mr bates. as soon as daybreak was piercing into my region of the sky, and before mrs bowater or the rest of the world was stirring, i would rise, make my candlelit toilet, and hasten out into the forsaken sweet of the morning. if it broke wet or windy, i could turn over and go to sleep again. a few hundred yards up the hill, the road turned off, as i have said, towards tyddlesdon end and loose lane--very stony and steep. on the left, and before the fork, a wicket gate led into the woods and the park of empty "wanderslore." to the verge of these deserted woods made a comfortable walk for me. if, as might happen, any other wayfarer was early abroad, i could conceal myself in the tussocks of grass and bushes that bordered the path. in my thick veil, with my stout green parasol and inconspicuous shawl, i made a queer and surprising figure no doubt. indeed, from what i have heard, the ill fame of wanderslore acquired a still more piquant flavour in the town by reports that elf-folk had been descried on its outskirts. but if i sometimes skipped and capered in these early outings, it was for exercise as well as suppressed high spirits. to be prepared, too, for the want of such facilities in the future, i had the foresight to accustom myself to mrs bowater's steep steps as well as to my cemented-in "bateses," as i called them. my only difficulty was to decide whether to practice on them when i was fresh at the outset of my walk, or fatigued at the end of it. naturally people grow "peculiar" when much alone: self plays with self, and the mimicry fades. these little expeditions, of course, had their spice of danger, and it made them the more agreeable. a strange dog might give me a fright. there was an old vixen which once or twice exchanged glances with me at a distance. but with my parasol i was a match for most of the creatures which humanity has left unslaughtered. my sudden appearance might startle or perplex them. but if few were curious, fewer far were unfriendly. boys i feared most. a hulking booby once stoned me through the grass, but fortunately he was both a coward and a poor marksman. until winter came, i doubt if a single sunshine morning was wasted. many a rainy one, too, found me splashing along, though then i must be a careful walker to avoid a sousing. the birds renewed their autumn song, the last flowers were blossoming. concealed by scattered tufts of bracken where an enormous beech forked its roots and cast a golden light from its withering leaves, i would spend many a solitary hour. above the eastern tree-tops my kent stretched into the distance beneath the early skies. far to my left and a little behind me rose the chimneys of gloomy wanderslore. breathing in the gentle air, the dreamer within would stray at will. there i kept the anniversary of my mother's birthday; twined a wreath for her of ivy-flowers and winter green; and hid it secretly in a forsaken blackbird's nest in the woods. still i longed for my old home again. mrs bowater's was a stuffy and meagre little house, and when meals were in preparation, none too sweet to the nose. especially low i felt, when a scrawling letter was now and then delivered by the postman from pollie. her spelling and grammar intensified my homesickness. miss fenne, too, had not forgotten me. i pored over her spidery epistles till my head ached. why, if i had been so rash and undutiful, was she so uneasy? even the texts she chose had a parched look. the thought of her spectacling my minute handwriting and examining the proof that i was still a child of wrath, gave my pride a silly qualm. so mrs bowater came to my rescue, and between us we concocted replies to her which, i am afraid, were not more intelligible for a tendency on my landlady's part to express my sentiments in the third person. this little service set her thinking of sunday and church. she was not, she told me, "what you might call a religious woman," having been compelled "to keep her head up in the world, and all not being gold that glitters." she was none the less a regular attendant at st peter's--a church a mile or so away in the valley, whose five bells of a sabbath evening never failed to recall my thoughts to lyndsey and to dip me into the waters of melancholy. i loved their mellow clanging in the lap of the wind, yet it was rather doleful to be left alone with my candles, and only henry sullenly squatting in the passage awaiting his mistress's return. "not that you need making any _better_, miss," mrs bowater assured me. "even a buttercup--or a retriever dog, for that matter--being no fuller than it can hold of what it is, in a manner of speaking. but there's the next world to be accounted for, and hopes of reunion on another shore, where, so i understand, mere size, body or station, will not be noticeable in the sight of the lamb. _not_ that i hold with the notion that only the good so-called will be there." this speech, i must confess, made me exceedingly uncomfortable. "wherever i go, mrs bowater," i replied hastily, "i shall not be happy unless you are there." "d. v.," said mrs bowater, grimly, "i will." still, i remained unconverted to st peter's. why, i hardly know: perhaps it was her reference to its pew rents, or her description of the vicar's daughters (who were now nursing their father at tunbridge wells), or maybe even it was a stare from her husband which i happened at that precise moment to intercept from the wall. possibly if i myself had taken a "sitting," this aura of formality would have faded away. mrs bowater was a little reassured, however, to hear that my father and mother, in spite of miss fenne, had seldom taken me to church. they had concluded that my absence was best both for me and for the congregation. and i told her of our little evening services in the drawing-room, with mrs ballard, the parlourmaid, pollie, and the boy on the sofa, just as it happened to be their respective "sundays in." this set her mind at rest. turn and turn about, on one sunday evening she went to st peter's and brought back with her the text and crucial fragments of mr crimble's sermon, and on the next we read the lessons together and sang a hymn. once, indeed, i embarked upon a solo, "as pants the hart," one of my mother's favourite airs. but i got a little shaky at "o for the wings," and there was no rambling, rumbling chorus from my father. but sunday was not my favourite day on beechwood hill. mrs bowater looked a little formal with stiff white "frilling" round her neck. she reminded me of a leg of mutton. to judge from the gloom and absentmindedness into which they sometimes plunged her, quotations from mr crimble could be double-edged. my real joy was to hear her views on the fashions and manners of her fellow-worshippers. well, so the months went by. winter came with its mists and rains and frosts, and a fire in the polished grate was no longer an evening luxury but a daily need. as often as possible i went out walking. when the weather was too inclement, i danced for an hour or so, for joy and exercise, and went swimming on a chair. i would entertain myself also in watching through the muslin curtains the few passers-by; sorting out their gaits, and noses, and clothes, and acquaintances, and guessing their characters, occupations, and circumstances. certain little looks and movements led me to suppose that, even though i was perfectly concealed, the more sensitive among them were vaguely uneasy under this secret scrutiny. in such cases (though very reluctantly) i always drew my eyes away: first because i did not like the thought of encroaching on their privacy, and next, because i was afraid their uneasiness might prevent them coming again. but this microscopic examination of mankind must cease with dusk, and the candle-hours passed rather heavily at times. the few books i had brought away from lyndsey were mine now nearly by heart. so my eye would often wander up to a small bookcase that hung out of reach on the other side of the chimney-piece. chapter ten one supper-time i ventured to ask mrs bowater if she would hand me down a tall, thin, dark-green volume, whose appearance had particularly taken my fancy. a simple enough request, but surprisingly received. she stiffened all over and eyed the bookcase with a singular intensity. "the books there," she said, "are what they call the dead past burying its dead." spoon in hand, i paused, looking now at mrs bowater and now at the coveted book. "_mr_ bowater," she added from deep down in herself, "followed the sea." this was, in fact, mr bowater's début in our conversation, and her remark, uttered in so hollow yet poignant a tone, produced a romantic expectancy in my mind. "is----" i managed to whisper at last: "i hope mr bowater isn't _dead_?" mrs bowater's eyes were like lead in her long, dark-skinned face. she opened her mouth, her gaze travelled slowly until, as i realized, it had fixed itself on the large yellowing photograph behind my back. "dead, no"; she echoed sepulchrally. "worse than." by which i understood that, far from being dead, mr bowater was still actively alive. and yet, apparently, not much the happier for that. instantaneously i caught sight of a rocky, storm-strewn shore, such as i had seen in my _robinson crusoe_, and _there_ mr bowater, still "following the sea." "never, never," continued mrs bowater in her bible voice, "never to darken these doors again!" i stole an anxious glance over my shoulder. there was such a brassy boldness in the responsive stare that i was compelled to shut my eyes. but mrs bowater had caught my expression. "he was, as some would say," she explained with gloomy pride, "a handsome man. _do_ handsome he did never. but there, miss, things being as they must be, and you in the green of your youth--though hearing the worst may be a wholesome physic if taken with care, as i have told fanny many a time...." she paused to breathe. "what i was saying is, there can be no harm in your looking at the book if that's all there's to it." with that she withdrew the dry-looking volume from the shelf and laid it on the table beside my chair. i got down, opened it in the middle (as my father had taught me, in order to spare the binding), opened it on a page inky black as night all over, but starred with a design as familiar to me as the lines on the palm of my hand. "but oh! mrs bowater!" i cried, all in a breath, running across, dragging back the curtain, and pointing out into the night; "look, look, it's there! it's orion!" there, indeed, in the heavens beyond my window, straddling the dark, star for star the same as those in the book, stood the giant, shaking his wondrous fires upon the air. even mrs bowater was moved by my enthusiasm. she came to the table, compared at my direction chart with sky, and was compelled rather grudgingly to admit that her husband's book was at least true to the facts. stooping low, i read out a brief passage. she listened. and it seemed a look of girlhood came into the shadowy face uplifted towards the window. so the stars came into my life, and faithful friends they have remained to this day. mrs bowater's little house being towards the crest of the hill, with sunrise a little to the left across the meadows, my window commanded about three-fifths of the southern and eastern skies. by day i would kneel down and study for hours the charts, and thus be prepared for the dark. night after night, when the weather was fair, or the windy clouds made mock of man's celestial patternings, i would sit in the glow of the firelight and summon these magic shiners each by name--bellatrix, huge betelgeuse, aldebaran, and the rest. i would look at one, and, while so doing, watch another. this not only isolated the smaller stars, but gradually i became aware that they were one and all furtively signalling to _me_! about a fortnight later my old lyndsey friend, the dogstar, topped the horizon fringe of woodland. i heard myself shout at him across the world. his sudden molten bursts of crimson betwixt his emeralds and sapphires filled me with an almost ridiculous delight. by the middle of december i had mastered all the greater stars in my region, and with my spyglass a few even of the gammas and deltas. but much of the zenith and all the north was closed to me, and--such is human greed--i began to pine beyond measure for a sight of deneb, vega, and the chair. this desire grew unendurable, and led me into a piece of genuine foolhardiness. i determined to await the first clear still night and then to sally out and make my way, by hook or crook, up to my beech-roots, from which i should be able to command a fair stretch of the northern heavens. a quiet spell favoured me. i waited until mrs bowater had gone to her bedroom, then muffled myself up in my thickest clothes and stole out into the porch. at my first attempt, one glance into the stooping dark was enough. at the second, a furtive sighing breath of wind, as i breasted the hill, suddenly flapped my mantle and called in my ear. i turned tail and fled. but never faint heart won fair constellation. at the third i pressed on. the road was deserted. no earthly light showed anywhere except from a lamp-post this side of the curve of the hill. i frisked along, listening and peering, and brimming over with painful delight. the dark waned; and my eyes grew accustomed to the thin starlight. i gained the woods unharmed. rich was my reward. there and then i begged the glimmering polestar to be true to mr bowater. fear, indeed, if in a friendly humour, is enlivening company. instead of my parasol i had brought out a curved foreign knife (in a sheath at least five inches long) which i had discovered on my parlour what-not. the whisperings of space, the calls of indetectable birds in the wastes of the sky, the sudden appearance of menacing or sinister shapes which vanished or melted themselves into mere stocks or stones as i drew near--my heart gave many an anguished jump. but quiet, and the magnificence of night, vanquished all folly at last. it seemed to me that a being whom one may call silence was brooding in solitude where living and human visitants are rare, and that in his company a harmless spirit may be at peace. oblivious of my ungainly knife, yet keeping a firm arm on it, self seemed to be the whole scene there, and my body being so small i was perhaps less a disturber than were most intruders of that solemn repose. why i kept these night-walks secret, i cannot say. it was not apprehension of mrs bowater. she would have questioned my discretion, but would not, i think, have attempted to dissuade me from them against my will. no. it may be that every true astronomer is a miser at heart, and keeps some lambda or mu or lost nebula his eternal friend, named with his name, but unrecorded on any chart. for my part i hoarded the complete north for a while. a fright i got one night, however, kept me indoors for the better part of a week. in my going out the little house door had been carelessly left unlatched. algol and the red planet mars had been my quarry among the floating woolpack clouds. the wind was lightly blowing from the north-west after the calm. i drew down my veil and set off briskly and lightheartedly for home. the sight of the dark-looking hole in the door quickly sobered me down. all was quiet, however, but on entering my room, there was a strangeness in the air, and that not due to my landlady's forlorn trumpetings from above. through the floating vaporous light i trod across to my staircase and was soon in bed. hardly had my eyes closed when there broke out of the gloom around me a dismal, appalling cry. i soon realized that the creeping horror this caused in me was as nothing compared with that of the poor beast, lured, no doubt, into the house by henry, at finding itself beneath a strange roof. "puss, puss," i pleaded shakenly; and again broke out that heart-sick cry. knife in hand, i descended my staircase and edging as far as possible from the baleful globes greenly burning beneath a mahogany chair, i threw open both doors and besought my unwelcome visitor to take his departure. the night wind came fluttering; there was the blur of a scuttering, shapeless form, and in the flash of an eye i was sprawling on the floor. a good deal shaken, with a nasty scratch on my thigh, but otherwise unharmed, i waved my hand after the fugitive and returned to bed. the blood soon ceased to flow. not daring to send my blood-stained nightgown to the wash, i concealed it behind my dresses in the wardrobe, and the next fine morning carried it off with me and buried it as deeply as i could in a deserted rabbit-burrow in the woods. such is an evil conscience that, first, i had the fancy that during my digging a twig had inexplicably snapped in the undergrowth; and next, for "burnt offering," i made mrs bowater the present of an oval handglass set in garnets (one of my grandfather's gifts). this she took down to a local jeweller's to be mounted with a pin, and wore it on sundays in place of her usual cameo depicting the three graces disporting themselves under a palm-tree beside a fountain. meanwhile i had heard a little more about the "fanny" whom mrs bowater had mentioned. my landlady was indeed a slow confider. fanny, i gathered, had a post as mistress at a school some forty miles away. she taught the little boys "english." the fleeting miss perry returned to mind, and with a faint dismay i heard that fanny would soon be returning home for the christmas holidays. mrs bowater's allusions to her were the more formidable for being veiled. i dreaded the invasion. would she not come "between us"? then by chance i found hidden in my star-book the photograph of an infant in arms and of a pensive, ringleted woman, who, in spite of this morsel in her lap, seemed in her gaze out of nowhere to be vaguely afraid. on the back was scrawled in pencil: "f.: six weeks"--and an extremely cross six weeks "f." looked. for some inexplicable reason i pushed back this lady's photograph into the book, and said nothing about it. the suspicion had entered my mind that fanny was only a daughter by marriage. i sank into a kind of twilight reflection at this. it seemed, in an odd fashion, to make mrs bowater more admirable, her husband more formidable, and the unknown fanny more mysterious and enigmatical. at the first opportunity i crept my way to the subject and asked my landlady if she could show me a portrait of her daughter. the photograph she produced from upstairs had in fading almost become a caricature. it had both blackened and greyed. it depicted herself many years younger but hardly less grim in appearance in full flounced skirts, fanny as a child of about five or six standing at her knee, and mr bowater leaning with singular amenity behind her richly-carved chair, the fingers of his left hand resting disposedly on her right shoulder. i looked anxiously at the child. it was certainly crosspatch "f.", and a far from prepossessing little creature with that fixed, level gaze. mr bowater, on the other hand, had not yet adopted the wild and rigid stare which dominated the small parlour. mrs bowater surveyed the group with a lackadaisical detachment. "fractious!--you can see the tears on her cheeks for all what the young man could do with his woolly lamb and grimaces. it was the heyday." _what_ was the heyday, i wondered. "was mr bowater--attached to her?" seemed a less intrusive question. "doted," she replied, polishing the glass with her apron. "but not to much purpose--with an eye for every petticoat." this seemed a difficult conversation to maintain. "don't you think, mrs bowater," i returned zealously, "there is just the faintest tinge of _mr_ bowater in the _chin_? i don't," i added candidly, "see the faintest glimpse of _you_." mrs bowater merely tightened her lips. "and is she like that now?" i asked presently. mrs bowater re-wrapped frame and photograph in their piece of newspaper. "it's _looks_, miss, that are my constant anxiety: and you may be thankful for being as you might say preserved from the world. what's more, the father will out, i suppose, from now till day of judgment." how strangely her sentiments at times resembled my godmother's, and yet how different they were in effect. my thoughts after this often drifted to mrs bowater's early married life. and so peculiar are the workings of the mind that her husband's star-chart, his sleek appearance as a young father, the mysterious reference to the petticoats, awoke in me an almost romantic interest in him. to such a degree that it gradually became my custom to cast his portrait a satirical little bow of greeting when i emerged from my bedroom in the morning, and even to kiss my hand to his invisible stare when i retired for the night. to all of which advances he made no reply. my next bout of star-gazing presaged disaster. i say star-gazing, for it is true that i stole out after honest folk are abed only when the heavens were swept and garnished. but, as a matter of fact, my real tryst was with another self. had my lot been different, i might have sought that self in terra del fuego or malay, or in a fine marriage. mine was a smaller world. bo-peep i would play with shadow and dew-bead. and if ulysses, as my father had read me, stopped his ears against the sirens, i contrariwise unsealed mine to the ethereal airs of that bare wintry solitude. the spectral rattle of the parched beechleaves on the saplings, the faintest whisper in the skeleton bracken set me peeping, peering, tippeting; and the invisibles, if they heeded me, merely smiled on me from their grave, all-seeing eyes. as for the first crystal sparking of frost, i remember in my folly i sat down (bunched up, fortunately, in honest lamb's-wool) and remained, minute by minute, unstirring, unwinking, watching as if in my own mind the exquisite small fires kindle and flit from point to point of lichen and bark, until--out of this engrossment--little but a burning icicle was left to trudge along home. it was december rd. i remember that date, and even now hardly understand the meaning or intention of what it brought me. love for the frosty, star-roofed woods, that was easy. and yet what if--though easy--it is not enough? i had lingered on, talking in my childish fashion--a habit never to leave me--to every sudden lovely morsel in turn, when, to my dismay, i heard st peter's clock toll midnight. was it my fancy that at the stroke, and as peacefully as a mother when she is alone with her sleeping children, the giant tree sighed, and the whole night stilled as if at the opening of a door? i don't know, for i would sometimes pretend to be afraid merely to enjoy the pretending. and even my small bowater astronomy had taught me that as the earth has her poles and equator, so these are in relation to the ecliptic and the equinoctial. so too, then, each one of us--even a mammet like myself--must live in a world of the imagination which is in everlasting relation to its heavens. but i must keep my feet. i waved adieu to the woods and unseen wanderslore. as if out of the duskiness a kind of reflex of me waved back; and i was soon hastening along down the hill, the only thing stirring in the cold, white, luminous dust. instinctively, in drawing near, i raised my eyes to the upper windows of mrs bowater's crouching house. to my utter confusion. for one of them was wide open, and seated there, as if in wait for me, was a muffled figure--and that not my landlady's--looking out. all my fine boldness and excitement died in me. i may have had no apprehension of telling mrs bowater of my pilgrimages, but, not having told her, i had a lively distaste of being "found out." stiff as a post, i gazed up through the shadowed air at the vague, motionless figure--to all appearance completely unaware of my presence. but there is a commerce between minds as well as between eyes. i was perfectly certain that i was being _thought_ about, up there. for a while my mind faltered. the old childish desire gathered in me--to fly, to be gone, to pass myself away. there was a door in the woods. better sense, and perhaps a creeping curiosity, prevailed, however. with a bold front, and as if my stay in the street had been of my own choosing, i entered the gate, ascended my "bateses," and so into the house. then i listened. faintly at last sounded a stealthy footfall overhead; the window was furtively closed. doubt vanished. in preparation for the night's expedition i had lain down in the early evening for a nap. evidently while i had been asleep, fanny had come home. the english mistress had caught her mother's lodger playing truant! chapter eleven if it was the child of wrath in me that hungered at times after the night, woods, and solitude to such a degree that my very breast seemed empty within me; it was now the child of grace that prevailed. with girlish exaggeration i began torturing myself in my bed with remorse at the deceit i had been practising. now conscience told me that i must make a full confession the first thing in the morning; and now that it would be more decent to let fanny "tell on me." at length thought tangled with dream, and a grisly night was mine. what was that? it was day; mrs bowater was herself softly calling me beyond my curtains, and her eye peeped in. always before i had been up and dressed when she brought in my breakfast. through a violent headache i surveyed the stooping face. something in my appearance convinced her that i was ill, and she insisted on my staying in bed. "but, mrs bowater...." i expostulated. "no, no, miss; it was in a _butt_ they drowned the sexton. here you stay; and its being christmas eve, you must rest and keep quiet. what with those old books and all, you have been burning the candle at both ends." early in the afternoon on finding that her patient was little better, my landlady went off to the chemist's to get me some physic; i could bear inactivity no longer, and rose and dressed. the fire was low, the room sluggish, when in the dusk, as i sat dismally brooding in my chair, the door opened, and a stranger came in with my tea. she was dressed in black, and was carrying a light. with that raised in one hand, and my tea-tray held between finger and thumb of the other, she looked at me with face a little sidelong. her hair was dark above her clear pale skin, and drawn, without a fringe, smoothly over her brows. her eyes were almost unnaturally light in colour. i looked at her in astonishment; she was new in my world. she put the tray on my table, poked the fire into a blaze, blew out her candle at a single puff from her pursed lips, and seating herself on the hearthrug, clasped her hands round her knees. "mother told me you were in bed, _ill_," she said, "i hope you are better." i assured her in a voice scarcely above a whisper that i was quite well again. she nestled her chin down and broke into a little laugh: "my! how you startled me!" "then it _was_ you," i managed to say. "oh, yes; it was me, it was me." the words were uttered as if to herself. she stooped her cheek over her knees again, and smiled round at me. "i'm not _telling_," she added softly. her tone, her expression, filled me with confusion. "but please do not suppose," i began angrily, "that i am not my own mistress here. i have my own key----" "oh, yes, your own mistress," she interrupted suavely, "but you see that's just what i'm _not_. and the key! why, it's just envy that's gnawing at the roots. i've never, never in my life seen anything so queer." she suddenly raised her strange eyes on me. "what were you doing out there?" a lie perched on my lip; but the wide, light eyes searched me through. "i went," said i, "to be in the woods--to see the stars"; then added in a rather pompous voice, "only the southern and eastern constellations are visible from _this_ poky little window." there was no change in the expression of the two eyes that drank me in. "_i_ see; and you want them all. that's odd, now," she went on reflectively, stabbing again at the fire; "they have never attracted me very much--angels' tin-tacks, as they say in the sunday schools. fanny bowater was looking for the moon." she turned once more, opened her lips, showing the firm row of teeth beneath them, and sang in a low voice the first words, i suppose, of some old madrigal: "'_she enchants me._' and if _i_ had my little key, and my little secret door.... but never mind. 'tell-tale tit, her tongue shall be slit.' it's safe with me. i'm no sneak. but you might like to know, miss m., that my mother thinks the very world of you. and so do i, for that matter; though perhaps for different reasons." the calm, insolent words infuriated me, and yet her very accents, with a curious sweet rasp in them, like that in a skylark's song when he slides his last twenty feet from the clouds, were an enchantment. ever and always there seemed to be two fannies; one visible, her face; the other audible, her voice. but the enchantment was merely fuel for the flames. "will you please remember," i broke out peremptorily, "that neither myself nor what i choose to do is any affair of yours. mrs bowater is an excellent landlady; you can tell her precisely what you please; and--and" (i seemed to be choking) "i am accustomed to take my meals alone." the sidelong face grew hard and solemn in the firelight, then slowly turned, and once more the eyes surveyed me under lifted brows--like the eyes of an angel, empty of mockery or astonishment or of any meaning but that of their beauty. "there you are," she said. "one talks like one human being to another, and i should have thought you'd be grateful for that; and this is the result. facts are facts; and i'm not sorry for them, good or bad. if you wish to see the last of me, here it is. i don't thrust myself on people--there's no need. but still; i'm not telling." she rose, and with one light foot on my fender, surveyed herself for a moment with infinite composure in the large looking-glass that spanned the chimney-piece. and i?--i was exceedingly tired. my head was burning like a coal; my thoughts in confusion. suddenly i lost control of myself and broke into an angry, ridiculous sobbing. i simply sat there, my face hidden in my dry, hot hands, miserable and defeated. and strange fanny bowater, what did she do? "heavens!" she muttered scornfully, "i gave up snivelling when i was a baby." then voice, manner, even attitude suddenly changed--"and there's mother!" when mrs bowater knocked at my door, though still in my day-clothes, i was in bed again, and my tea lay untasted on a chair beside it. "dear, dear," she said, leaning anxiously over me, "your poor cheeks are red as a firebrand, miss. those chemists daren't put a nose outside their soaps and tooth powders. it must be dr phelps to-morrow if you are no better. and as plump a little christmas pudding boiling for you in the pot as ever you could see! tell me, now; there's no _pain_ anywhere--throat, limbs, or elsewhere?" i shook my head. she sprinkled a drop or two of eau de cologne on my sheet and pillow, gently bathed my temples and hands, kindled a night-light, and left me once more to my own reflections. they were none too comfortable. one thing only was in my mind--fanny bowater, her face, her voice, every glance and intonation, smile, and gesture. that few minutes' talk seemed now as remote and incredible as a nightmare. the stars, the woods, my solitary delights in learning and thinking were all suddenly become empty and meaningless. she despised me: and i hated her with a passion i cannot describe. yet in the midst of my hatred i longed for her company again, distracting myself with the sharp and clever speeches i might have made to her, and picturing her confounded by my contempt and indifference. but should i ever see her alone again? at every sound and movement in the house, which before had so little concerned me, i lay listening, with held breath. i might have been a mummy in a pyramid hearkening after the fluttering pinions of its spirit come back to bring it life. but no tidings came of the stranger. when my door opened again, it was only to admit mrs bowater with my supper--a bowl of infant's gruel, not the customary old lady's rusk and milk. i laughed angrily within to think that her daughter must have witnessed its preparation. even at twenty, then, i had not grown used to being of so little consequence in other people's eyes. yet, after all, who ever quite succeeds in being that? my real rage was not that fanny had taken me as a midget, but as _such_ a midget. yet can i honestly say that i have _ever_ taken her as mere fanny, and not as _such_ a fanny? the truth is she had wounded my vanity, and vanity may be a more fractious nursling even than a wounded heart. tired and fretful, i had hardly realized the flattering candour of her advances. even her promises not to "tell" of my night-wanderings, implied that she trusted in my honour not to tell of her promise. i thought and thought of her. she remained an enigma. cold and hard--no one had ever spoken to me like that before. yet her voice--it was as if it had run about in my blood, and made my eyes shine. a mere human sound to set me sobbing! more dangerous yet, i began to think of what miss bowater must be thinking of me, until, exhausted, i fell asleep, to dream that i was a child again and shut up in one of mrs ballard's glass jars, and that a hairy woman who was a kind of mixture of mrs bowater and miss fenne, was tapping with a thimbled finger on its side to increase my terror. next morning, thank heaven, admitted me to my right mind again. i got out of bed and peered through the window. it was christmas day. a thin scatter of snow was powdering down out of the grey sky. the fields were calm and frozen. i felt, as i might say, the hunger in my face, looking out. there was something astonishingly new in my life. everything familiar had become a little strange. over night, too, some one--and with mingled feelings i guessed who--must have stolen into my room while i lay asleep. laid out on a bedside chair was a crimson padded dressing-jacket, threaded with gold, a delicate piece of needlework that would have gladdened my grandfather. rolled up on the floor beside it was a thick woollen mat, lozenged in green and scarlet, and just of a size to spread beside my bed. these gifts multiplied my self-reproaches and made me acutely homesick. what should i do? beneath these thoughts was a quiet fizz of expectation and delight, like water under a boat. pride and common sense fought out their battle in my mind. it was pride that lost the day. when mrs bowater brought in my breakfast, she found her invalid sitting up in fanny's handsome jacket, and the mat laid over the bedrail for my constant contemplation. nor had i forgotten mrs bowater. by a little ruse i had found out the name and address of a chemist in the town, and on the tray beside my breakfast was the fine bottle of lavender water which i had myself ordered him to send by the christmas eve post. "well there, miss, you did take me in that time," she assured me. "and more like a valentine than a christmas present; and its being the only scent so-called that i've any nose for." clearly this was no occasion for the confessional, even if i had had a mind to it. but i made at least half a vow never to go star-gazing again without her knowledge. my looks pleased her better, too, though not so much better as to persuade her to countermand dr phelps. her yellowish long hand with its worn wedding-ring was smoothing my counterpane. i clutched at it, and, shame-stricken, smiled up into her face. "you have made me very happy," i said. at this small remark, the heavy eyelids trembled, but she made no reply. "did," i managed to inquire at last, "did she have any breakfast before she went for the doctor?" "a cup of tea," said mrs bowater shortly. a curious happiness took possession of me. "she is very young to be teaching; not much older than i am." "the danger was to keep her back," was the obscure reply. "we don't always see eye to eye." for an instant the dark, cavernous face above me was mated by that other of birdlike lightness and beauty. "isn't it funny?" i observed, "i had made quite, quite a different picture of her." "looks are looks, and brains are brains; and between them you must tread very wary." about eleven o'clock a solemn-looking young man of about thirty, with a large pair of reddish leather gloves in his hand, entered the room. for a moment he did not see my bed, then, remarking circumspectly in a cheerful, hollow voice, "so this is our patient," he bade me good-morning, and took a seat beside my bed. a deep blush mounted up into the fair, smooth-downed cheeks as he returned my scrutiny and asked me to exhibit my tongue. i put it out, and he blushed even deeper. "and the pulse, please," he murmured, rising. i drew back the crimson sleeve of fanny's jacket, and with extreme nicety he placed the tip of a square, icy forefinger on my wrist. once more his fair-lashed eyelids began to blink. he extracted a fine gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, compared beat with beat, frowned, and turned to mrs bowater. "you are not, i assume, aware of the--the young lady's _normal_ pulse?" "there being no cause before to consider it, i am not," mrs bowater returned. "any _pain_?" said dr phelps. "headache," replied mrs bowater on my behalf, "and shoots in the limbs." at that dr phelps took a metal case out of his waistcoat, glanced at it, glanced at me, and put it back again. he leaned over so close to catch the whisper of my breathing that there seemed a danger of my losing myself in the labyrinth of his downy ear. "h'm, a little fever," he said musingly. "have we any reason to suppose that we can have taken a chill?" the head on the pillow stirred gently to and fro, and i think its cheek was dyed with an even sprightlier red than had coloured his. after one or two further questions, and a low colloquy with mrs bowater in the passage, dr phelps withdrew, and his carriage rolled away. "a painstaking young man," mrs bowater summed him up in the doorway, "but not the kind i should choose to die under. you are to keep quiet and warm, miss; have plenty of light nourishment; and physic to follow. which, except for the last-mentioned, and that mainly water, one don't have to ride in a carriage to know for one's self." but "peace and goodwill": i liked dr phelps, and felt so much better for his skill that before his wheels had rolled out of hearing i had leapt out of bed, dragged out the trunk that lay beneath it, and fetched out from it a treasured ivory box. on removal of the lid, this ingenious work disclosed an oriental temple, with a spreading tree, a pool, a long-legged bird, and a mountain. and all these exquisitely tinted in their natural colours. it had come from china, and had belonged to my mother's brother, andrew, who was an officer in the navy and had died at sea. this i wrapped up in a square of silk and tied with a green thread. during the whole of his visit my head had been so hotly in chase of this one stratagem that it is a marvel dr phelps had not deciphered it in my pulse. when mrs bowater brought in my christmas dinner--little but bread sauce and a sprig of holly!--i dipped in the spoon, and, as innocently as i knew how, inquired if her daughter would like to see some really fine sewing. the black eyes stood fast, then the ghost of a smile vanished over her features; "i'll be bound she would, miss. i'll give her your message." alone again, i turned over on my pillow and laughed until tears all but came into my eyes. all that afternoon i waited on, the coals of fire that i had prepared for my enemy's head the night before now ashes of penitence on my own. a dense smell of cooking pervaded the house; and it was not until the evening that fanny bowater appeared. she was dressed in a white muslin gown with a wreath of pale green leaves in her hair. "i am going to a party," she said, "so i can't waste much time." "mrs bowater thought you would like to see some _really_ beautiful needlework," i replied suavely. "well," she said, "where is it?" "won't you come a little closer?" that figure, as nearly like the silver slip of the new moon as ever i have seen, seemed to float in my direction. i held my breath and looked up into the light, dwelling eyes. "it is this," i whispered, drawing my two hands down the bosom of her crimson dressing-jacket. "it is only, thank you, i wanted to say." in a flash her lips broke into a low clear laughter. "why, _that's_ nothing. really and truly i hate that kind of work; but mother often wrote of you; there was nothing better to do; and the smallness of the thing amused me." i nodded humbly. "yes, yes," i muttered, "midget is as midget wears. i know that. and--and here, miss bowater, is a little christmas present from me." voraciously i watched her smooth face as she untied the thread. "a little ivory box!" she exclaimed, pushing back the lid, "and a buddhist temple, how very pretty. thank you." "yes, miss bowater, and, do you see, in the corner there? a moon. 'she enchants' you." "so it is," she laughed, closing the box. "i was supposing," she went on solemnly, "that i had been put in the corner in positively everlasting disgrace." "please don't say that," i entreated. "we _may_ be friends, mayn't we? i am better now." her eyes wandered over my bed, my wardrobe, and all my possessions. "but yes," she said, "of course"; and laughed again. "and you believe me?" "believe you?" "that it was the stars? i thought mrs bowater might be anxious if she knew. it was quite, quite safe, really; and i'm _going_ to tell her." "oh, dear," she replied in a cold, small voice, "so you are still worrying about that. i--i envied you." with a glance over her shoulder, she leaned closer. "next time you go," she breathed out to me, "we'll go together." my heart gave a furious leap; my lips closed tight. "i could tell you the names of some of the stars now," i said, in a last wrestle with conscience. "no, no," said fanny bowater, "it isn't the stars i'm after. the first fine night we'll go to the woods. you shall wait for me till everything is quiet. it will be good practise in _practical_ astronomy." she watched my face, and began silently laughing as if she were reading my thoughts. "that's a bargain, then. what is life, miss m., but experience? and what is experience, but knowing thyself? and what's knowing thyself but the very apex of wisdom? anyhow it's a good deal more interesting than the prince of denmark." "yes", i agreed. "and there's still all but a full moon." "aha!" said she. "but _what_ a world with only one! jupiter has scores, hasn't he? just think of _his_ love lanes!" she rose to her feet with a sigh of boredom, and smoothed out her skirts with her long, narrow hands. i stared at her beauty in amazement. "i hate these parties here," she said. "they are not worth while." "you look lov--you look all right." "h'm; but what's that when there's no one to see." "but you see yourself. you _live_ in it." the reflected face in the glass, which, craning forward, i could just distinguish, knitted its placid brows. "why, if that were enough, we should all be hermits. i rather think, you know, that god made man almost solely in the hope of his two-legged appreciation. but perhaps you disapprove of incense?" "why should i, miss bowater? my aunt kitilda was a catholic: and so was my mother's family right back." "_that's_ right," said miss bowater. she kissed her hand to looking-glass and four-poster, flung me a last fervid smile, and was gone. and the little box i had given her lay on the table, beside my bed. i was aroused much later by the sound of voices drawing nearer. instinctively i sat up, my senses fastened on the sound like a vampire. the voices seemed to be in argument, then the footsteps ceased and clear on the night air came the words:-- "but you made me promise _not_ to write. oh, fanny, and you have broken your own!" "then you must confess," was the cautious reply, "that i am consistent. as for the promises, you are quite, quite welcome to the pieces." "you mean that?" was the muffled retort. "that," cried the other softly, "depends entirely on what you mean by 'mean.' please look happy! you'd soon grow old and uglier if there was only that scrap of moon to light your face." "oh, fanny. will you never be serious?"--the misery in the words seemed to creep about in my own mind for shelter. they were answered by a sparkling gush of laughter, followed by a crisp, emphatic knock at the door. fanny had returned from her party, and the eavesdropper buried her face in her pillow. so she enjoyed hurting people. and yet.... chapter twelve the next afternoon mrs bowater was out when dr phelps made his call. it was fanny who ushered him into the room. he felt my pulse again, held up the phial of medicine to the light, left unconsulted my tongue, and pronounced that "we are doing very nicely." as indeed i was. while this professional inquiry was in progress fanny stood silently watching us, then exclaimed that it was half-past four, and that i must have my tea. she was standing behind dr phelps, and for a few seconds i watched with extreme interest but slow understanding a series of mute little movements of brows and lips which she was directing at me while he was jotting down a note in a leather pocket-book. at length i found myself repeating--as if at her dictation--a polite little invitation to him to take tea with me. the startled blue eyes lifted themselves above the pocket-book, the square, fair head was bowing a polite refusal, when, "but, of course, dr phelps," fanny broke in like one inspired, "how very thoughtless of me!" "thank you, thank you, miss bowater, but----" cried dr phelps, with a smooth uplifted hand, and almost statuesque in his pose. his refusal was too late. miss bowater had hastened from the room. his panic passed. he reseated himself, and remarking that it was a very cold afternoon, predicted that if the frost continued, skating might be expected. conversation of this kind is apt so soon to faint away like a breeze in hot weather, that i kept wondering what to say next. besides, whenever dr phelps seemed impelled to look at me, he far more quickly looked away, and the sound of his voice suggested that he was uncertain if he was not all but talking to himself. to put him more at his ease i inquired boldly if he had many other midgets among his patients. the long lashes swept his cheeks; he pondered a while on my landlady's window curtains. "as a matter of fact perhaps _not_," he replied at last, as if giving me the result of a mathematical calculation. "i suppose, dr phelps," i then inquired, "there _might_ be more, at any time, might there not?" our glances this time met. he blinked. "my father and mother, i mean," i explained in some confusion, "were just of the com--of the ordinary size. and what i was wondering is, whether you yourself would be sorry--in quite a general way, of course--if you found your practice going down like that." "going down?" "i mean the _patients_ coming smaller. i never had the opportunity of asking our own doctor, dr grose. at lyndsey, you know. besides, i was a child then. now, first of all, it is true, isn't it, that giants are usually rather dull-witted people? so nobody would deliberately choose _that_ kind of change. if, then, quality does vary with quantity, mightn't there be an improvement in the other direction? you will think i am being extremely ego--egotistical. but one must take jack's side, mustn't one?--even if one's jill?" "jack?" "the giant killer." he looked at me curiously, and his finger and thumb once more strayed up towards the waistcoat pocket in which he kept his thermometer. but instead of taking it out, he coughed. "there is a norm----" he began in a voice not quite his own. "ah," i cried, interrupting him, and throwing up my hands, "there is indeed. but why, i ask myself, so vast a number of examples of it!" it was as if a voice within were prompting me. perhaps the excitement of fanny's homecoming was partly to blame. "i sit at my window here and watch the passers-by. norms, in mere size, dr phelps, every one of them, if you allow for the few little defects in the--the moulding, you know. and just think what london must be like. why, _nobody_ can be noticeable, there." "but surely," dr phelps smiled indulgently, though his eyelashes seemed to be in the way, "surely variety is possible, without--er--excess. indeed there must be variety in order to arrive at our norm, mustn't there?" "you'd be astonished," i assured him, "how slight the differences really are. a few inches or ounces; red or black or fawn; and age, and sex, of course; that's all. now, isn't it true, dr phelps, that almost any twenty women--unselected, you know--would weigh about a ton? and surely there's no particular reason why just human shells should weigh as much as that. we are not lobsters. and yet, do you know, i have watched, and they really seem to enjoy being the same as one another. one would think they tried to be--manners and habits, knowledge and victuals, hats and boots, everything. and if on the outside, i suppose on the inside, too. what a mysterious thing it seems. all of them _thinking_ pretty much the same: norm-_thoughts_, you know; just five-foot-fivers. after all, one wouldn't so much mind the monotonous packages, if the contents were different. 'forty feeding like one'--who said that? now, truly, dr phelps, don't you feel?---- it would, of course, be very serious at first for their mothers and fathers if all the little human babies here came midgets, but it would be amusing, too, wouldn't it?... and it isn't quite my own idea, either." dr phelps cleared his throat, and looked at his watch. "but surely," he said, with a peculiar emphasis which i have noticed men are apt to make when my sex asks intelligent or unintelligent questions: "surely you and i are understanding one another. _i_ try to make myself clear to _you_. so extremes _can_ meet; at least i hope so." he gave me a charming little awkward bow. "tell me, then, what is this peculiar difference you are so anxious about? you wouldn't like a pygmy england, a pygmy universe, now, would you, miss m.?" it was a great pity. a pygmy england--the thought dazzled me. in a few minutes dr phelps would perhaps have set all my doubts at rest. but at that moment miss bowater came in with the tea, and the talk took quite another turn. she just made it fanny's size. even dr phelps looked a great deal handsomer in her company. more sociable. nor were we to remain "three's none." she had finished but one slice of toast over my fire, and inflamed but one cheek, when a more protracted but far less vigorous knock than dr phelps's on the door summoned her out of the room again. and a minute or two afterwards our tea-party became one of four, and its sexes (in number, at any rate) equally matched. by a happy coincidence, just as good king wenceslas had looked out on the feast of stephen, so mr crimble, the curate-in-charge at st peter's, had looked in. by his "ah, phelps!" it was evident that our guests were well acquainted with one another; and fanny and i were soon enjoying a tea enriched by the cream of local society. mr crimble had mild dark eyes, gold spectacles, rather full red lips, and a voice that reminded me of raspberries. i think he had heard of me, for he was very attentive, and handled my small cup and saucer with remarkable, if rather conspicuous, ingenuity. candles were lit. the talk soon became animated. from the weather of this christmas we passed to the weather of last, to dr phelps's prospects of skating, and thence to the good old times, to mr pickwick, to our respective childish beliefs in santa claus, stockings, and to credulous parents. fanny repeated some of the naïve remarks made by her pupils, and mr crimble capped them with a collection of biblical _bons mots_ culled in his sunday school. i couldn't glance fast enough from one to the other. dr phelps steadily munched and watched mr crimble. he in turn told us of a patient of his, a mrs hall, who, poor old creature, was , and enjoyed nothing better than playing at "old soldier" with a small grandson. "literally, second childhood. senile decay," he said, passing his cup. from mrs hall we naturally turned to parochial affairs; and then mr crimble, without more ado, bolted his mouthful of toast, in order to explain the inmost purpose of his visit. he was anxious to persuade miss bowater to sing at the annual parish concert, which was to be given on new year's eve. try as he might, he had been unable to persuade his vicar of the efficacy of watch night services. so a concert was to be given instead. now, would miss bowater, as ever, be ever so kind, and would i add my entreaties to his? as he looked at fanny and i did too--with one of those odd turns of the mind, i was conscious that the peculiar leaning angle of his head was exactly the same as my own. whereupon i glanced at dr phelps, but he sat fair and foursquare, one feeding like forty. fanny remaining hesitant, appeal was made to him. with almost more cordiality than mr crimble appeared to relish, he agreed that the musical talent available was not so abundant as it might be, and he promised to take as many of the expensive tickets as miss bowater would sing songs. "i don't pretend to be musical, not like you, crimble. but i don't mind a pleasant voice--in moderation; and i assure you, miss bowater, i am an excellent listener--given a fair chance, you know." "but then," said fanny, "so am i. i believe now really--and one can judge from one's speaking voice, can't one, mr crimble?--i believe you sing yourself." "sing, miss bowater," interjected mr crimble, tipping back his chair. "'the wedding guest here beat his chest, for he heard the loud bassoon.' now, conjuring tricks, eh, phelps? with a stethoscope and a clinical thermometer; and i'll hold the hat and make the omelette. it would bring down the house." "it was his _breast_ he beat; not his _chest_," i broke in. the six eyes slid round, as if at a voice out of the clouds. there was a pause. "why, exactly," cried mr crimble, slapping his leg. "but i wish dr phelps _would_ sing," said fanny in a small voice, passing him the sugar. "he must, he shall," said mr crimble, in extreme jubilation. "so that's settled. _thank_ you, miss bowater," his eyes seemed to melt in his head at his success, "the programme is complete." he drew a slip of paper from his inside pocket and brandished a silver pencil-case. "mrs browning, 'the better land'--better and better every year. 'caller herrin'' to follow--though what kind of herrings caller herrings are i've never been able to discover." he beamed on me. "miss finch--she is sending me the names of her songs this evening. miss willett and mr bangor--'o that we two,' and a queer pair they'd look; and 'my luv is like.' hardy annuals. mrs bullace--recitations, 'abt vogler,' and no doubt a lord tennyson. flute, mr piper; 'cello, miss oran, a niece of lady pollacke's; and for comic relief, tom sturgess, of course; though i hope he will be a little more--er--eclectic this year. and you and i," again he turned his boyish brow on me, "will sit with mrs bowater in the front row of the gallery--a claque, phelps, eh?" he seemed to be in the topmost height of good spirits. well, thought i, if social badinage and _bonhomie_ were as pleasant and easy as this, why hadn't my mother----? "but why in the gallery?" drawled fanny suddenly from the hearthrug, with the little steel poker ready poised; "miss m. _dances_." the clear voice rasped on the word. a peculiar silence followed the lingering accents. the two gentlemen's faces smoothed themselves out, and both, i knew, though i gave them no heed, sat gazing, _not_ at their hostess. but fanny herself was looking at me now, her light eyes quite still in the flame of the candles, which, with their reflections in mrs bowater's pier glass were not two, but four. it was into those eyes i gazed, yet not into, only at. all day my thoughts had remained on her, like bubbles in wine. all day hope of the coming night and of our expedition to the woods had been, as it were, a palace in which my girlish fancy had wandered, and now, though only a few minutes ago i had been cheeping my small extemporary philosophy into the ear of dr phelps, the fires of self-contempt and hatred burned up in me hotter than ever. i forgot even the dainty dressing-jacket on my back. "miss bowater is pleased to be satirical," i said, my hand clenched in my lap. "now _was_ i?" cried fanny, appealing to dr phelps, "be just to me." dr phelps opened his mouth, swallowed, and shut it again. "i really think not, you know," said mr crimble persuasively, coming to her rescue. "indeed it would be extremely kind and--er--entertaining; though dancing--er--and--unless, perhaps, so many strangers.... we can count in any case on your being _present_, can we not, miss m.?" he leaned over seductively, finger and thumb twitching at the plain gold cross suspended from his watch-chain on his black waistcoat. "oh, yes," i replied, "you can count on me for the claque." the room had sunk into a stillness. constraint was in the air. "then that's settled. on new year's eve we--we all meet again. unless, miss bowater, there is any hope of seeing you meanwhile--just to arrange the _titles_ and so on of your songs on the programme." "no," smiled fanny, "i see no hope whatever. you forget, mr crimble, there are dishes to wash. and hadn't you better see miss finch first?" mr crimble cast a strange look at her face. he was close to her, and it was almost as if he had whispered, "fanny." but there was no time for further discussion. dr phelps, gloved and buttoned, was already at the door. fanny returned into the room when our guests had taken their departure. i heard their male voices in vivacious talk as they marched off in the cold dark air beneath my window. "i thought they were never going," said fanny lightly, twisting up into her hair an escaped ringlet. "i think, do you know, we had better say nothing to mother about the tea--at least not yet a while. they are dull creatures: it's pottering about so dull and sleepy a place, i suppose. what _could_ have inspired you to invite dr phelps to tea? really, really, miss m., you are rather astonishing. aren't you, now?" what right had she to speak to me like this, as if we had met again after another life? she paused in her swift collection of the remnants of our feast. "sulking?" she inquired sweetly. with an effort i kept my self-possession. "you meant what you said, then? you really think i would sink to that?" "'sink!' to what? oh, the dancing, you mean. how funny you should still be fretting about that. still, you look quite entertaining when you are cross: 'diaphenia like the daffadowndilly,' you know. good heavens! surely we shouldn't hide any kind of lights under bushels, should we? i'm sure the reverend harold would agree to that. isn't it being the least bit pedantic?" "i should think," i retorted, "mr crimble would say anything pleasant to _any_ young woman." "i have no doubt he would," she agreed. "the other cheek also, you know. but the real question is what the young woman would say in reply. you are too sensitive, miss m." "perhaps i am." oh that i could escape from this horrible net between us. "i know this, anyhow--that i lay awake till midnight because you had made a kind of promise to come in. then i--i 'counted the pieces.'" her face whitened beneath the clear skin. "oh, so we list----" she began, turning on me, then checked herself. "i tell you this," she said, her hand trembling, "i'm sick of it all. those--those fools! ph! i thought that you, being as you are--snippeting along out of the night--might understand. there's such a thing as friendship on false pretences, miss m." was she, too, addressing, as she supposed, a confidant hardly more external to herself than that inward being whom we engage in such endless talk and argument? her violence shocked me; still more her "fools." for the word was still next-door neighbour in my mind to the dreadful "_raca_." "'understand,'" i said, "i do, if you would only let me. you just hide in your--in your own outside. you think because i am as i am that i'm only of that much account. it's you are the--foolish. oh, don't let us quarrel. you just came. i never knew. every hour, every minute...." inarticulate my tongue might be, but my face told its tale. she must have heard many similar confessions, yet an almost childish incredulity lightened in hers. "keep there," she said; "keep there! i won't be a moment." she hastened out of the room with the tea things, poising an instant like a bird on a branch as she pushed open the door with her foot. the slave left behind her listened to her footsteps dying away in a mingling of shame, sorrow, and of a happiness beyond words. i know now that it is not when we are near people that we reach themselves, not, i mean, in their looks and words, but only by following their thoughts to where the spirit within plays and has its being. perhaps if i had realized this earlier, i shouldn't have fallen so easy a prey to fanny bowater. i waited--but that particular exchange of confidences was never to be completed. a key sounded in the latch. fanny had but time to show herself with stooping, almost serpent-like head, in the doorway. "to-night!" she whispered. "and not a word, not a word!" chapter thirteen was there suspicion in the face of mrs bowater that evening? our usual familiar talk dwindled to a few words this supper-time. the old conflict was raging in my mind--hatred of my deceit, horror at betraying an accomplice, and longing for the solemn quiet and solitude of the dark. i crushed my doubtings down and cast a dismal, hostile look at the long face, so yellow of skin and sombre in expression. when would she be gone and leave me in peace? the packed little parlour hung stagnant in the candlelight. it seemed impossible that mrs bowater could not hear the thoughts in my mind. apparently not. she tidied up my few belongings, which, contrary to my usual neat habits, i had left scattered over the table. she bade me good-night; but paused in the doorway to look back at me. but what intimacy she had meant to share with me was put aside. "good-night, miss," she repeated; "and i'm sure, god bless you." it was the dark, quiet look that whelmed over me. i gazed mutely, without response, and the silence was broken by a clear voice like that of a cautious mocking-bird out of a wood. it called softly on two honeyed notes, "mo--ther!" the house draped itself in quiet. until ten had struck, and footsteps had ascended to the rooms overhead, i kept close in my bedchamber. then i hastily put on my outdoor clothes, shivering not with cold, but with expectation, and sat down by the fire, prepared for the least sound that would prove that fanny had not forgotten our assignation. but i waited in vain. the cold gathered. the vaporous light of the waning moon brightened in the room. the cinders fainted to a darker glow. i heard the kitchen clock with its cracked, cantankerous stroke beat out eleven. its solemn mate outside, who had seemingly lost his voice, ticked on. hope died out in me, leaving an almost physical nausea, a profound hatred of myself and even of being alive. "well," a cold voice said in my ear, "that's how we are treated; that comes of those eyes we cannot forget. cheated, cheated again, my friend." in those young days disappointment set my heart aching with a bitterness less easy to bear than it is now. no doubt i was steeped in sentimentality and folly. it was the vehemence of this new feeling that almost terrified me. but my mind was my world; it is my only excuse. i could not get out of _that_ by merely turning a tiny key in a brahma lock. nor could i betake myself to bed. how sleep in such an inward storm of reproaches, humiliation, and despised love? i drew down my veil, wrapped my shawl closer round my shoulders, descended my staircase, and presently stood in the porch in confrontation of the night. low on the horizon, at evens with me across space, and burning with a limpid fire, hung my chosen--sirius. the sudden sight of him pouring his brilliance into my eyes brought a revulsion of feeling. he was "cutting me dead." i brazened him down. i trod with exquisite caution down the steps, daring but one fleeting glance, as i turned, at fanny's window. it was blinded, empty. toiling on heavily up the hill, i sourly comforted myself with the vow that she should realize how little i cared, that her room had been sweeter than her company. never more would i put trust in "any child of man." gradually, however, the quiet night received me into its peace (just as, poor soul, did the moor desdemona), and its influence stole into my darkened mind. the smooth, columnar boughs of the beeches lifted themselves archingly into the sky. soon i was climbing over the moss-bound roots of my customary observatory. but this night the stars were left for a while unsignalled and unadmired. the crisped, frost-lined leaves scattered between the snake-like roots sparkled faintly. years seemed to have passed away, dwindled in time's hour-glass, since my previous visit. that miss m. had ghosted herself away for ever. in my reverie the vision of fanny re-arose into my imagination--that secret still fountain--of herself. asleep now.... i could no more free myself from her sorcery than i could disclaim the two hands that lay in my lap. she was indeed more closely mine than they--and nearer in actuality than i had imagined. a faint stir in the woods suddenly caught my attention. the sound neared. i pressed my hand to my breast, torn now between two incentives, two desires--to fly, to stay. and on the path by which i had come, appeared, some yards distant, in the faint trickling light, the dark figure of my dreams. she was dressed in a black cloak, its peaked old-fashioned hood drawn over her head. the moonbeams struck its folds as she moved. her face was bowed down a little, her hand from within clutching her cloak together. and i realized instinctively and with joy that the silence and solitude of the woods alarmed her. it was i who was calm and self-contained. she paused and looked around her--stood listening with lips divided that yet could not persuade themselves to call me by name. for my part, i softly gathered myself closer together and continued to gloat. and suddenly out of the far-away of the woods a nightbird loosed its cry: "a-hoo.... ahoo-oo-oo-hooh!" there is a hunter in us all. i laughed inwardly as i watched. a few months more and i was to watch a lion-tamer ... but let me keep to one thing at a time. i needled myself in, and, almost hooting the sound through my mouth, as if in echo of the bird, i heard myself call stealthily across the air, "fanny!--fanny bowater!" the cloaked figure recoiled, with lifted head, like the picture of a fawn i have seen, and gazed in my direction. seeing nothing of me amidst the leaves and shadows, she was about to flee, when i called again:-- "it is i, fanny. here: here!" instantly she woke to herself, came near, and looked down on me. no movement welcomed her. "i was tired of waiting," i yawned. "there is nothing to be frightened about." many of her fellow creatures, i fancy, have in their day wearied of waiting for fanny bowater, but few have had the courage or sagacity to tell her so. she had not recovered her equanimity fully enough to refrain from excuses. "surely you did not expect me while mother was moving? i am not accustomed, miss m., to midnight wanderings." "i gave up expecting you, and was glad to be alone." the barb fell short. she looked stilly around her. the solemn beeches were like mute giants overarching with their starry, sky-hung boughs the dark, slim figure. what consciousness had they, i wonder, of those odd humans at their roots? "alone! here!" she returned. "but no wonder. it's what you are all about." a peculiar elation sprang up in me at this none too intelligible remark. "i wonder, though," she added, "you are not frozen like--like a pebble, sitting there." "but i am," i said, laughing softly. "it doesn't matter in me, because i'm so easy to thaw. you ought to know that. oh, miss bowater, think if this were summer time and the dew and the first burning heat! are you wrapped up? and shall we sit here, just--just for one dance of the sisters: thou lost dove, merope?" for there on high--and i had murmured the last words all but inaudibly to myself--there played the spangling pleiads, clear above her head in the twig-swept sky. "what sisters?" she inquired, merely humouring me, perhaps. "the six, fanny, look! you cannot see their seventh--yet she is all that _that_ is about." south to north i swept my hand across the powdery firmament. "and i myself trudge along down watling street; that's the milky way. i don't think, fanny, i shall ever, ever be weaned. please, may i call you that?" she frowned up a moment into the emptiness, hesitated, then--just like a white peacock i had once seen when a child from my godmother's ancient carriage as we rolled by an old low house with terraces smooth as velvet beneath its cedars--she disposed her black draperies upon the ground at a little distance, disclosing, in so doing, beneath their folds the moon-blanched flounces of her party gown. i gazed spellbound. i looked at the white and black, and thought of what there was within their folds, and of the heart within that, and of the spirit of man. such was my foolish fashion, following idly like a butterfly the scents of the air, flitting on from thought to thought, and so missing the full richness of the one blossom on which i might have hovered. "tell me some more," broke suddenly the curious voice into the midst of this reverie. "well, there," i cried, "is fickle algol; the demon. and over there where the crab crawls, is the little beehive between the roses." "præsepe," drawled fanny. "yes," said i, unabashed, "the beehive. and crane back your neck, fanny--there's little jack-by-the-middle-horse; and far down, oh, far down, berenice's hair, which would have been fanny bowater's hair, if you had been she." even as i looked, a remote film of mist blotted out the infinitesimal cluster. "and see, beyond the chair," i went on, laughing, and yet exalted with my theme, "that dim in the girdle is the great nebula--s-sh! and on, on, that chirruping invisible, _that_, fanny, is the midget. perhaps you cannot even dream of her: but she watches." "never even heard of her," said fanny good-humouredly, withdrawing the angle of her chin from the ecliptic. "say not so, horatia," i mocked, "there are more things...." "oh, yes, i know all about that. and these cold, monotonous old things really please you? personally, i'd give the whole meaningless scramble of them for another moon." "but your old glutton has gobbled up half of them already." "then my old glutton can gobble up what's left. who taught you about them? and why," she scanned me closely, "why did you pick out the faintest; do you see them the best?" "i picked out the faintest because they were meant especially for me so that i could give them to you. my father taught me a little about them; and _your_ father the rest." "_my_ father," echoed fanny, her face suddenly intent. "his book. do you miss him? mine is dead." "oh, yes, i miss him," was the serene retort, "and so, i fancy, does mother." "oh, fanny, i am sorry. she told me--something like that." "you need not be. i suppose god chooses one's parents quite deliberately. praise him from whom all blessings flow!" she smoothed out her black cloak over her ankles, raised her face again into the dwindling moonlight, and gently smiled at me. "i am glad i came, midgetina, though it's suicidally cold. '_pardi! on sent dieu bien à son aise ici._' we are going to be great friends, aren't we?" her eyes swept over me. "would you like that?" "friends," indeed! and as if she had offered me a lump of sugar. i gravely nodded. "but i must come to you. you can't come to me. no one has; except, perhaps, my mother--a little." "oh, yes," she replied cautiously, piercing her eyes at me, "that _is_ a riddle. you must tell me about your childhood. not that i love children, or my own childhood either. i had enough of that to last me a lifetime. i shan't pass it on; though i promise you, midgetina, if i ever _do_ have a baby, i will anoint its little backbone with the grease of moles, bats, and dormice, and make it like you. was your mother----" she began again, after a pause of reflection. "are _you_ sorry, i mean, you aren't--you aren't----?" her look supplied the missing words. "sorry that i am a midget, fanny? people think i must be. but why? it is all i am, all i ever was. i am myself, inside; like everybody else; and yet, you know, not quite like everybody else. i sometimes think"--i laughed at the memory--"i was asking dr phelps about that. besides, would _you_ be--alone?" "not when i was alone, perhaps. still, it must be rather odd, miss needle-in-a-haystack. as for being alone"--once again our owl, if owl it was, much nearer now, screeched its screech in the wintry woods--"i hate it!" "but surely," expostulated the wiseacre in me, "that's what we cannot help being. we even die alone, fanny." "oh, but i'm going to help it. i'm not dead yet. do you ever think of the future?" for an instant its great black hole yawned close, but i shook my head. "well, that," replied she, "is what fanny bowater is doing all the time. there's nothing," she added satirically, "so important, so imperative for teachers as learning. and you must learn your lesson, my dear, before you are heard it--if you want to escape a slapping. every little donkey knows that." "i suppose the truth is," said i, as if seized with a bright idea, "there are two kinds of ambitions, of wants, i mean. we are all like those chinese boxes; and some of us want to live in the biggest, the outsidest we can possibly manage; and some in the inmost one of all. the one," i added a little drearily, "no one can share." "quite, quite true," said fanny, mimicking my sententiousness, "the teeniest, tiniest, ickiest one, which no mortal ingenuity has ever been able to open--and so discover the nothing inside. i know your chinese boxes!" "poor fanny," i cried, rising up and kneeling beside the ice-cold hand that lay on the frosty leaves. "all that i have shall help you." infatuated thing; i stooped low as i knelt, and stroked softly with my own the outstretched fingers on which she was leaning. i might have been a pet animal for all the heed she paid to my caress. "fanny," i whispered tragically, "will you please sing to me--if you are not frozenly cold? you remember--the moon song: i have never forgotten it; and only three notes, yet it sometimes wakes me at night. it's queer, isn't it, being you and me?" she laughed, tilting her chin; and her voice began at once to sing, as if at the scarcely opened door of her throat, and a tune so plain it seemed but the words speaking:-- "twas a cuckoo, cried 'cuck-oo' in the youth of the year; and the timid things nesting, crouched, ruffled in fear; and the cuckoo cried, 'cuck-oo,' for the honest to hear. one--two notes: a bell sound in the blue and the green; 'cuck-oo: cuck-oo: cuck-oo!' and a silence between. ay, mistress, have a care, lest harsh love, he hie by, and for kindness a monster to nourish you try-- in your bosom to lie: 'cuck-oo,' and a 'cuck-oo,' and 'cuck-oo!'" the sounds fell like beads into the quiet--as if a small child had come up out of her heart and gone down again; and she callous and unmoved. i cannot say why the clear, muted notes saddened and thrilled me so. was _she_ the monster? i had drawn back, and stayed eyeing her pale face, the high cheek, the delicate straight nose, the darkened lips, the slim black eyebrows, the light, clear, unfathomable eyes reflecting the solitude and the thin brilliance of the wood. yet the secret of herself remained her own. she tried in vain not to be disturbed at my scrutiny. "well," she inquired at last, with motionless glance fixed on the distance. "do you think you could honestly give me a testimonial, miss midget?" it is strange. the sphinx had spoken, yet without much enlightenment. "now look at me," i commanded. "if i went away, you couldn't follow. when you go away, you cannot escape from me. i can go back and--and _be_ where i was." my own meaning was half-concealed from me; but a startled something that had not been there before peeped out of those eyes so close to mine. "if," she said, "i could care like that too, yet wanted nothing, then i should be free too." "what do you mean?" said i, lifting my hand from the unanswering fingers. "i mean," she exclaimed, leaping to her feet, "that i'm sick to death of the stars and am going home to bed. hateful, listening old woods!" i turned sharp round, as if in apprehension that some secret hearer might have caught her remark. but fanny stretched out her arms, and, laughing a foolish tune, in affected abandonment began softly to dance in the crisp leaves, quite lost to me again. so twirling, she set off down the path by which she had come trespassing. a physical exhaustion came over me. i watched her no more, but stumbled along, with unheeding eyes, in her wake. what had i not given, i thought bitterly, and this my reward. thus solitary, i had gone only a little distance, and had reached the outskirts of the woods, when a far from indifferent fanny came hastening back to intercept me. and no wonder. she had remembered to attire herself becomingly for her moonlight tryst, but had forgotten the door key. we stood looking at one another aghast, as, from eternity, i suppose, have all fellow-conspirators in danger of discovery. it was i who first awoke to action. there was but one thing to be done, and, warning fanny that i had never before attempted to unlatch the big front door of her mother's house, i set off resolutely down the hill. "you walk so slowly!" she said suddenly, turning back on me. "i will carry you." again we paused. i looked up at her with an inextricable medley of emotions struggling together in my mind, and shook my head. "but why, why?" she repeated impatiently. "we could get there in half the time." "if you could _fly_, fanny, i'd walk," i replied stubbornly. "you mean----" and her cold anger distorted her face. "oh, pride! what childish nonsense! and you said we were to be friends. do you suppose i care whether...?" but the question remained unfinished. "i _am_ your friend," said i, "and that is why i will not, i _will_ not give way to you." it was hardly friendship that gleamed out of the wide eyes then. but mine the victory--a victory in which only a tithe of the spoils, unrecognized by the vanquished, had fallen to the victor. without another word she turned on her heel, and for the rest of our dejected journey she might have been mistaken for a cross nurse trailing on pace for pace beside a rebellious child. my dignity was less ruffled than hers, however, and for a brief while i had earned my freedom. arrived at the house, dumbly hostile in the luminous night, fanny concealed herself as best she could behind the gate-post and kept watch on the windows. far away in the stillness we heard a footfall echoing on the hill. "there is some one coming," she whispered, "you must hurry." she might, i think, have serpented her way in by my own little door. where the _head_ leads, the heart may follow. but she did not suggest it. nor did i. i tugged and pushed as best i could, but the umbrella with which from a chair i at last managed to draw the upper bolt of the door was extremely cumbersome. the latch for a while resisted my efforts. and the knowledge that fanny was fretting and fuming behind the gatepost hardly increased my skill. the house was sunken in quiet; mrs bowater apparently was sleeping without her usual accompaniment; only henry shared my labours, and he sat moodily at the foot of the stairs, refusing to draw near until at the same moment fanny entered, and he leapt out. once safely within, and the door closed and bolted again, fanny stood for a few moments listening. then with a sigh and a curious gesture she bent herself and kissed the black veil that concealed my fair hair. "i am sorry, midgetina," she whispered into its folds, "i was impatient. mother wouldn't have liked the astronomy, you know. that was all. and i am truly sorry for--for----" "my dear," i replied in firm, elderly tones, whose echo is in my ear to this very day; "my dear, it was my mind you hurt, not my feelings." with that piece of sententiousness i scrambled blindly through my bates's doorway, shut the door behind me, and more disturbed at heart than i can tell, soon sank into the thronging slumber of the guilty and the obsessed. chapter fourteen when my eyes opened next morning, a strange, still glare lay over the ceiling, and i looked out of my window on a world mantled and cold with snow. for a while i forgot the fever of the last few days in watching the birds hopping and twittering among the crumbs that mrs bowater scattered out on the windowsill for my pleasure. and yet--their every virtue, every grace, fanny bowater, all were thine! the very snow, in my girlish fantasy, was the fairness beneath which the unknown self in her must, as i fondly believed, lie slumbering; a beauty that hid also from me for a while the restless, self-centred mind. how believe that such beauty is any the less a gift to its possessor than its bespeckled breast and song to a thrush, its sheen to a starling? it is a riddle that still baffles me. if we are all shut up in our bodies as the poets and the scriptures say we are, then how is it that many of the loveliest seem to be all but uninhabited, or to harbour such dingy tenants; while quite plain faces may throng with animated ghosts? fanny did not come to share my delight in the snow that morning. and as i looked out on it, waiting on in vain, hope flagged, and a sadness stole over its beauty. probably she had not given the fantastic lodger a thought. she slid through life, it seemed, as easily as a seal through water. but i was not the only friend who survived her caprices. in spite of her warning about the dish-washing, mr crimble came to see her that afternoon. she was out. with a little bundle of papers in his hand he paused at the gate-post to push his spectacles more firmly on to his nose and cast a kind of homeless look over the fields before turning his face towards st peter's. next day, holy innocents', he came again; but this time with more determination, for he asked to see me. to rid myself, as far as possible, of one piece of duplicity, i at once took the bull by the horns, and in the presence of mrs bowater boldly invited him to stay to tea. with a flurried glance of the eye in her direction he accepted my invitation. "a cold afternoon, mrs bowater," he intoned. "the cup that cheers, the cup that cheers." my landlady left the conventions to take care of themselves; and presently he and i found ourselves positively _tête-à-tête_ over her seed cake and thin bread and butter. but though we both set to work to make conversation, an absent intentness in his manner, a listening turn of his head, hinted that his thoughts were not wholly with me. "are you long with us?" he inquired, stirring his tea. "i am quite, quite happy here," i replied, with a sigh. "ah!" he replied, a little wistfully, taking a sip, "how few of us have the courage to confess that. perhaps it flatters us to suppose we are miserable. it is this pessimism--of a mechanical, a scientific age--which we have chiefly to contend against. we don't often see you at st peter's, i think?" "you wouldn't see _very_ much of me, if i did come," i replied a little tartly. possibly it was his "we" that had fretted me. it seemed needlessly egotistical. "on the other hand," i added, "wouldn't there be a risk of the congregation seeing nothing else?" mr crimble opened his mouth and laughed. "i wish," he said, with a gallant little bow, "there were more like you." "more like _me_, mr crimble?" "i mean," he explained, darting a glance at the furniture of my bedroom, whose curtains, to my annoyance, hung withdrawn, "i mean that--that you--that so many of us refuse to see the facts of life. to look them in the face, miss m. there is nothing to fear." we were getting along famously, and i begged him to take some of mrs bowater's black currant jam. "but then, i have plenty of time," i said agreeably. "and the real difficulty is to get the facts to face me. dear me, if only, now, i had some of miss bowater's brains." a veil seemed suddenly to lift from his face and as suddenly to descend again. so, too, he had for a moment stopped eating, then as suddenly begun eating again. "ah, miss bowater! she is indeed clever; a--a brilliant young lady. the very life of a party, i assure you. and, yet, do you know, in parochial gatherings, try as i may, i occasionally find it very difficult to get people to mix. the little social formulas, the prejudices. yet, surely, miss m., religion _should_ be the great solvent. at least, that is my view." he munched away more vigorously, and gazed through his spectacles out through my window-blinds. "mixing people must be very wearisome," i suggested, examining his face. "'wearisome,'" he repeated blandly. "i am sometimes at my wits' end. no. a curate's life is not a happy one." yet he confessed it almost with joy. "and the visiting!" i said. and then, alas! my tongue began to run away with me. he was falling back again into what i may call his company voice, and i pined to talk to the real mr crimble, little dreaming how soon that want was to be satiated. "i sometimes wonder, do you know, if religion is made difficult enough." "but i assure you," he replied, politely but firmly, "a true religion is exceedingly difficult. 'the eye of a needle'--we mustn't forget that." "ah, yes," said i warmly; "that 'eye' will be narrow enough even for a person with my little advantages. i remember my mother's cook telling me, when i was a child, that in the old days, really wicked people if they wanted to return to the church, had to do so in a sheet, with ashes on their heads, you know, and carrying a long lighted candle. she said that if the door was shut against them, they died in torment, and went to hell. but she was a roman catholic, like my grandmother." mr crimble peered at me as if over a wall. "i remember, too," i went on, "one summer's day as a very little girl i was taken to the evening service. and the singing--bursting out like that, you know, with the panting and the yowling of the organ, made me faint and sick; and i jumped right out of the window." "jumped out of the window!" cried my visitor in consternation. "yes, we were at the back. pollie, my nursemaid, had put me up in the niche, you see; and i dragged her hand away. but i didn't hurt myself. the grass was thick in the churchyard; i fell light, and i had plenty of clothes on. i rather enjoyed it--the air and the tombstones. and though i had my gasps, the 'eye' seemed big enough when i was a child. but afterwards--when i was confirmed--i thought of hell a good deal. i can't _see_ it so plainly now. wide, low, and black, with a few demons. _that_ can't be right." "my dear young lady!" cried mr crimble, as if shocked, "is it wise to attempt it? it must be admitted, of course, that if we do not take advantage of the benefits bestowed upon us by providence in a christian community, we cannot escape his displeasure. the absence from his love." "yes," i said, looking at him in sudden intimacy, "i believe that." and i pondered a while, following up my own thoughts. "have you ever read mr clodd's _childhood of the world_, mr crimble?" by the momentary confusion of his face i gathered that he had not. "mr clodd?... ah, yes, the writer on primitive man." "this was only a little book, for the young, you know. but in it mr clodd says, i remember, that even the most shocking old forms of religion were not invented by devils. they were 'man's struggles from darkness to twilight.' what he meant was that no man _loves_ darkness. at least," i added, with a sudden gush of remembrances, "not without the stars." "that is exceedingly true," replied mr crimble. "and, talking of stars, what a wonderful sight it was the night before last, the whole heavens one spangle of diamonds! i was returning from visiting a sick parishioner, mr hubbins." then it was _his_ foot that fanny and i had heard reverberating on the hill! i hastily hid my face in my cup, but he appeared not to have noticed my confusion. he took another slice of bread and butter; folded it carefully in two, then peered up out of the corner of his round eye at me, and added solemnly: "sick, i regret to say, no longer." "dead?" i cried from the bottom of my heart, and again looked at him. then my eyes strayed to the silent scene beyond the window, silent, it seemed, with the very presence of poor mr hubbins. "i should not like to go to hell in the snow," i said ruminatingly. out of the past welled into memory an old ballad my mother had taught me:-- "this ae nighte, this ae nighte --_every nighte and alle_, fire and sleet and candle-lighte, _and christe receive thy saule_!" "beautiful, beautiful," murmured mr crimble, yet not without a trace of alarm in his dark eyes. "but believe me, i am not suggesting that mr hubbins---- his was, i am told, a wonderfully peaceful end." "peaceful! oh, but surely not in his mind, mr crimble. surely one must be more alive in that last hour than ever--just when one's going away. at any rate," and i couldn't refrain a sigh, almost of envy, "i hope _i_ shall be. was mr hubbins a good man?" "he was a most regular church-goer," replied my visitor a little unsteadily; "a family-man, one of our sidesmen, in fact. he will be greatly missed. you may remember what mr ruskin wrote of his father: 'here lies an entirely honest merchant.' mr ruskin, senior, was, as a matter of fact, in the wine trade. mr hubbins, i believe, was in linen, though, of course, it amounts to the same thing. but haven't we," and he cleared his throat, "haven't we--er--strayed into a rather lugubrious subject?" "we have strayed into a rather lugubrious world," said i. "of course, of course; but, believe me, we mustn't always _think_ too closely. 'days and moments quickly flying,' true enough, though hardly appropriate, as a matter of fact, at this particular season in the christian year. but, on the other hand, 'we may make our lives sublime.' does not yet another poet tell us that? although, perhaps, mr hub----" "yes," i interposed eagerly, the lover of books in me at once rising to the bait, "but what do you think longfellow absolutely _meant_ by his 'sailor on the main' of life being comforted, you remember, by somebody else having been shipwrecked and just leaving _footprints_ in the sand? i used to wonder and wonder. does the poem imply, mr crimble, that merely to be born is to be shipwrecked? i don't think that can be so, because longfellow was quite a cheerful man, wasn't he?--at least for a poet. for my part," i ran on, now thoroughly at home with my visitor, and on familiar ground, "i am sure i prefer poor friday. do you remember how robinson crusoe described him soon after the rescue from the savages as 'without passions, sullenness, or designs,' even though he did, poor thing, 'have a hankering stomach after some of the flesh'? not that i mean to suggest," i added hastily, "that mr hubbins was in any sense a cannibal." "by no means," said mr crimble helplessly. "but there," and he brushed his knees with his handkerchief, "i fear you are too much of a reader for me, and--and critic. for that very reason i do hope, miss m., you will sometimes contrive to pay a visit to st peter's. mother church has room for all, you know, in her--about her footstool." he smiled at me very kindly. "and our organist, mr temple, has been treating us to some charmingly quaint old carols--at least the words seem a little quaint to a modern ear. but i cannot boast of being a _student_ of poetry. parochial work leaves little time even for the classics:-- "odi profanum vulgus, et arceo. favete linguis...." he almost chirped the delightful words in a high, pleasant voice, but except for the first three of them, they were too many for my small latin, and i afterwards forgot to test the aptness of his quotation. i was just about to ask him (with some little unwillingness) to translate the whole ode for me, when i heard fanny's step at the door. i desisted. at her entry the whole of our conversation, as it hung about in mrs bowater's firelit little parlour, seemed to have become threadbare and meaningless. my visitor and i turned away from each other almost with relief--like longfellow's shipwrecked sailors, perhaps, at sight of a ship. fanny's pale cheeks beneath her round beaver hat and veil were bright with the cold--for frost had followed the snow. she eyed us slowly, with less even than a smile in her eyes, facing my candles softly, as if she had come out of a dream. whatever class of the community mr crimble may have meant to include in his _odi_, the celerity with which he rose to greet her made it perfectly clear that it was not miss bowater's. she smiled at the black sleeve, cuff, and signet ring outstretched towards her, but made no further advance. she brought him, too, a sad disappointment, simply that she would be unable to sing at his concert on the last night of the year. at this blow mr crimble instinctively folded his hands. he looked helpless and distressed. "but, miss bowater," he pleaded, "the printer has been waiting nearly two days for the names of your songs. the time is very short now." "yes," said fanny, seating herself on a stool by the fire and slowly removing her gloves. "it is annoying. i hadn't a vestige of a cold last night." "but indeed, indeed," he began, "is it wise in this severe weather----?" "oh, it isn't the weather i mind," was the serene retort, "it's the croaking like a frog in public." "'a frog!'" cried mr crimble beguilingly, "oh, no!" but all his protestations and cajoleries were unavailing. even to a long, silent glance so private in appearance that it seemed more courteous to turn away from it, fanny made no discernible response. his shoulders humped. he caught up his soft hat, made his adieu--a little formal, and hasty--and hurried off through the door to the printer. when his muffled footsteps had passed away, i looked at fanny. "oh, yes," she agreed, shrugging her shoulders, "it was a lie. i said it like a lie, so that it shouldn't deceive him. i detest all that wheedling. to come here two days running, after.... and why, may i ask, if it is beneath your dignity to dance to the parish, is it not beneath mine to sing? let the silly sheep amuse _themselves_ with their bleating. i have done with it all." she rose, folded her gloves into a ball and her veil over her hat, and once more faced her reflection in her mother's looking-glass. i had not the courage to tell her that the expression she wore on other occasions suited her best. "but surely," i argued uneasily, "things are different. if i were to dance, stuck up there on a platform, you know very well it would not be the dancing that would amuse them, but--just me. would you care for that if you were--well, what i am?" "ah, you don't know," a low voice replied bitterly, "you don't know. the snobs they are! i have soaked in it for years, like a pig in brine. boxed up here in your pretty little doll's house, you suppose that all that matters is what you think of other people. but to be perfectly frank, you are out of the running, my dear. _i_ have to get my own living, and all that matters is not what i think of other people but what other people think of me. do you suppose i don't know what _he_, in his heart, thinks of me--and all the rest of them? well, i say, wait!" and she left me to my doll's house--a more helpless slave than ever. not only one "star" the fewer, then, dazzled st peter's parish that new year's eve, but fanny and i never again shared an hour's practical astronomy. still, she would often sit and talk to me, and the chain of my devotion grew heavy. perhaps she, on her side, merely basked in the flattery of my imagination. it was for her a new variety of a familiar experience. perhaps a curious and condescending fondness for me for a while sprang up in her--as far as that was possible, for, apart from her instinctive heartlessness, she never really accustomed herself to my physical shortcomings. i believe they attracted yet repelled her. to my lonely spirit she was a dream that remained a dream in spite of its intensifying resemblance to a nightmare. i realize now that she was desperately capricious, of a cat-like cruelty by nature, and so evasive and elusive that frequently i could not distinguish her soft, furry pads from her claws. but whatever her mood, or her treatment of me, or her lapses into a kind of commonness to which i deliberately shut my eyes, her beauty remained. whomsoever we love becomes unique in that love, and i suppose we are responsible for what we give as well as for what we accept. the very memory of her beauty, when i was alone, haunted me as intensely as if she were present. yet in her actual company, it made her in a sense unreal. so, often, it was only the ghost of her with whom i sat and talked. how sharply it would have incensed her to know it. when she came to me in my sleep, she was both paradise and seraph, and never fiddle entranced a paganini as did her liquid lapsing voice my small fastidious ear. yet, however much she loved to watch herself in looking-glass or in her mind, and to observe her effects on others, she was not vain. but the constant, unbanishable thought of anything wearies the mind and weakens the body. in my infatuation, i, too, was scarcely more than a ghost--a very childish ghost perhaps. i think if i could call him for witness, my small pasha in the train from lyndsey would bear me out in this. as for what is called passion, the only burning of it i ever felt was for an outcast with whom i never shared so much as glance or word. alas, fanny, i suppose, was merely a brazen image. long before the dark day of her departure--a day which stood in my thoughts like a barrier at the world's end--i had very foolishly poured out most of my memories for her profit and amusement, though so immobile was she when seated in a chair beside my table, or standing foot on fender at the chimney-piece, that it was difficult at times to decide whether she was listening to me or not. what is more important, she told me in return in her curious tortuous and contradictory fashion, a good deal about herself, and of her childhood, which--because of the endless violent roarings of her nautical father, and the taciturn discipline of poor mrs bowater--filled me with compassion and heaped fuel on my love. and not least of these bonds was the secret which, in spite of endless temptation, i managed to withhold from her in a last instinctive loyalty to mrs bowater--the discovery that her own mother was long since dead and gone. she possessed more brains than she cared to exhibit to visitors like dr phelps and mr crimble. even to this day i cannot believe that mr crimble even so much as guessed how clever she was. it was just part of herself, like the bloom on a plum. hers was not one of those gesticulating minds. her efforts only intensified her fannyishness. oh dear, how simple things are if only you leave them unexplained. her very knowledge, too (which for the most part she kept to herself) was to me like finding chain armour when one is in search of a beating heart. she could shed it all, and her cleverness too, as easily as a swan water-drops. what could she not shed, and yet remain fanny? and with all her confidences, she was extremely reticent. a lift of the light shoulders, or of the flat arched eyebrows, a sarcasm, a far-away smile, at the same time illuminated and obscured her talk. these are feminine gifts, and yet past my mastery. perhaps for this reason i admired them the more in fanny--just as, in reading my childhood's beloved volume, _the observing eye_, i had admired the crab's cuirass and the scorpion's horny rings--because, being, after all, myself a woman, i faintly understood their purpose. thus, when fanny told me of the school she taught in; and of the smooth-haired drawing-master who attended it with his skill, on mondays, wednesdays, and fridays; and of the vivacious and saturnine "monsieur crapaud," who, poked up in a room under the gables, lived in the house; or of that other parish curate who was a nephew of the head-mistress's, the implacable miss stebbings, and who, apparently, preached sunday after sunday, with peculiar pertinacity, on such texts as "god is love"--when fanny recounted to me these afflictions, graces, and mockeries of her daily routine as "literature" mistress, i could as easily bestow on her the vivifying particulars she left out, as a painter can send his portraits to be framed. once and again--just as i have seen a blackbird drop plumb from the upper boughs of a tree on a worm disporting itself in the dewy mould--once i did ask a question which produced in her one of those curious reactions which made her, rather than immaterial, an exceedingly vigilant image of her very self. "what will you do, fanny, when you _can't_ mock at him?" "him?" she inquired in a breath. "_the_ him!" i said. "what him?" she replied. "well," i said, stumbling along down what was a rather black and unfamiliar alley to me, "my father was not, i suppose, particularly wise in anything, but my mother loved him very much." "and _my_ father," she retorted, in words so carefully pronounced that i knew they must be dangerous, "my father was a first mate in the mercantile marine when he married your landlady." "well," i repeated, "what would you do, if--if _you_ fell in love?" fanny sat quite still, all the light at the window gently beating on her face, with its half-closed eyes. her foot stirred, and with an almost imperceptible movement of her shoulder, she replied, "i shall go blind." i looked at her, dumbfounded. all the days of her company were shrivelled up in that small sentence. "oh, fanny," i whispered hopelessly, "then you know?" "'know'?" echoed the smooth lips. "why, i mean," i expostulated, rushing for shelter fully as rapidly as my old friend the lobster must have done when it was time to change his shell, "i mean that's what that absurd little frenchman is--'monsieur crapaud.'" "oh, no," said fanny calmly, "_he_ is not blind, he only has his eyes shut. mine," she added, as if the whole light of the wintry sky she faced were the mirror of her prediction, "mine will be wide open." how did i know that for once the serene, theatrical creature was being mortally serious? chapter fifteen i grew a little weary of the beautiful snow in the days that followed my first talk with mr crimble, and fretted at the close air of the house. the last day of the year the wind was still in the north. it perplexed me that the pride which from my seed had sprung up in fanny, and had prevented her from taking part in the parish concert, yet allowed her to attend it. she set off thickly veiled. not even mr crimble's spectacles were likely to pierce her disguise. i had written a little letter the afternoon before and had myself handed it to mrs bowater with a large fork of mistletoe from my christmas bunch. it was an invitation to herself and fanny to sit with me and "see in" the new year. she smiled at me over it--still her tranquil, though neglected self--and i was half-satisfied. her best black dress was donned for the occasion. she had purchased a bottle of ginger wine, which she brought in with some glasses and placed in the middle of the red and black tablecloth. its white-lettered, dark-green label "haunts me still." the hours drew on. fanny returned from the concert--entering the room like a cloud of beauty. she beguiled the dwindling minutes of the year with mocking echoes of it. in a rich falsetto she repeated mr crimble's "few words" of sympathetic apology for her absence: "'i must ask your indulgence, ladies and gentlemen, for a lamentable hiatus in our programme.'" she gave us miss willett's and mr bangor's spirited rendering of "oh, that we two"; and of the recitation which rather easily, it appeared, mrs bullace had been prevailed upon to give as an encore after her "abt vogler": "the lady's 'yes,'" by elizabeth barrett browning. and what a glance of light and fire she cast me when she came to stanza six of the poem:-- "lead her from the festive boards, point her to the starry skies!..." and she imitated lady pollacke's niece's--miss oran's--'cello obligato to "the lost chord," with a plangency that stirred even the soul of henry as he lay curled up in my landlady's lap. the black head split like a pomegranate as he yawned his disgust. at this mrs bowater turned her bony face on me, her hands on her knees, and with a lift of her eyes disclosed the fact that she was amused, and that she hoped her amusement would remain a confidence between us. she got up and put the cat out: and on her return had regained her solemnity. "i suppose," she said stiffly, staring into the sparkling fire that was our only illumination, "i suppose, poor creatures, they did their best: and it isn't so many years ago, fanny, since you were as put-about to be allowed to sing at one of the church concerts as a bird is to hop out of its cage." "yes," said fanny, "but in this world birds merely hop out of one cage into another; though i suppose the larger are the more comfortable." this retort set mrs bowater's countenance in an impassive mask--so impassive that every fitfully-lit photograph in the room seemed to have imitated her stare. "and, mother," added fanny seductively, "who _taught_ me to sing?" "the lord knows," cried mrs bowater, with conviction, "_i_ never did." "yes," muttered fanny in a low voice, for my information, "but does he care?" i hastily asked mrs bowater if she was glad of to-morrow's new year. as if in reply the kitchen clock, always ten minutes fast, began to chime twelve, half-choking at every stroke. and once more the soul of poor mr hubbins sorrowfully took shape in a gaze at me out of vacancy. "to them going downhill, miss," my landlady was replying to my question, "it is not the milestones are the pleasantest company--nor that the journey's then of much account until it is over. by which i don't mean to suggest there need be _gloom_. but to you and fanny here--well, i expect the little that's the present for you is mostly wasted on the future." with that, she rose, and poured out the syrupy brown wine from the green bottle, reserving a remarkably little glass which she had rummaged out of her years' hoardings for me. fanny herself, with musing head--her mockings over--was sitting drawn-up on a stool by the fire. i doubt if she was thinking. whether or not, to my enchanted eyes some phantom within her seemed content merely to be her beauty. and in rest, there was a grace in her body--the smooth shoulder, the poised head that, because, perhaps, it was so transitory, seemed to resemble the never-changing--that mimicry of the unknown which may be seen in a flower, in a green hill, even in an animal. it is as though, i do think, what we love most in this life must of necessity share two worlds. faintly out of the frosty air was wafted the knelling of midnight. i rose, stepped back from the firelight, drew the curtain, and stole a look into space. away on the right flashed sirius, and to east of him came gliding flat-headed hydra with alphard, the red bird, in his coil. so, for a moment in our history, i and the terrestrial globe were alone together. it seemed indeed that an intenser silence drew over reality as the earth faced yet one more fleeting revolution round her invisible lord and master. but no moon was risen yet. i turned towards the shape by the fire, and without her perceiving it, wafted kiss and prayer in her direction. cold, careless fanny--further than uranus. we were alone, for at first stroke of st peter's mrs bowater had left the room and had opened the front door. she was smiling; but _was_ she smiling, or was that vague bewitchingness in her face merely an unmeaning guile of which she was unaware? it might have been a mermaid sitting there in the firelight. the bells broke in on our stillness; and fortunately, since there was no dark man in the house to bring us luck, henry, already disgusted with the snow and blacker in hue than any whiskered human i have ever seen, seized his opportunity, and was the first living creature to cross our threshold from one year into another. this auspicious event renewed our spirits which, in waiting, had begun to flag. from far away came a jangling murmur of shouting and instruments and bells, which showed that the rest of the parish was sharing our solemn vigil; and then, with me on my table between them, a hand of each clasping mine, mrs bowater, fanny, and i, after sipping each other's health, raised the strains of "auld lang syne." there must have been scottish blood in mrs bowater; she certainly made up for some little variation from the tune by a heartfelt pronunciation of the words. hardly had we completed this rite than the grandfather's clock in the narrow passage staidly protested its own rendering of eternity; and we all--even mrs bowater--burst out laughing. "good-night, midgetina; an immense happy new year to you," whispered a voice to me about half an hour afterwards. i jumped out of bed, and peeped through my curtains. on some little errand fanny had come down from her bedroom, and with a paisley shawl over her shoulders stood with head and candle thrust in at the door. i gazed at her fairness. "oh, fanny!" i cried. "oh, fanny!" new year's day brought a change of weather. a slight mist rose over the fields, it began to thaw. a kind of listlessness now came over fanny, which i tried in vain to dispel. yet she seemed to seek my company; often to remain silent, and occasionally to ask me curious questions as if testing one answer against another. and one discovery i made in my efforts to keep her near me: that she liked being read to. most of the volumes in mrs bowater's small library were of a nautical character, and though one of them, on the winds and tides and seas and coasts of the world, was to console me later in fanny's absence, the majority defied even my obstinacy. fanny hated stories of the sea, seemed to detest crusoe; and smiled her slow, mysterious smile while she examined my own small literary treasures. by a flighty stroke of fortune, tacked up by an unskilled hand in the stained brown binding of a volume on disorders of the nerves, we discovered among her father's books a copy of _wuthering heights_, by emily brontë. the very first sentence of this strange, dwelling book, was a spell: " .--i have just returned from a visit to my landlord--the solitary neighbour that i shall be troubled with."... and when, a few lines farther on, i read: "he little imagined how my heart warmed towards him when i beheld his black eyes withdraw so suspiciously under their brows"--the apparition of who but mr crumble blinked at me out of the print, and the enchantment was complete. it was not only gaunt enormous yorkshire with its fells and wastes of snow that seized on my imagination, not only that vast kitchen with its flagstones, green chairs, and firearms, but the mere music and aroma of the words, "i beheld his black eyes"; "a range of gaunt thorns"; "a wilderness of crumbling griffins"; "a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer"--they rang in my mind, echoed on in my dreams. and though in the wet and windy afternoons and evenings which fanny and i thus shared, she, much more than poor mr crimble, resembled heathcliff in being "rather morose," and in frequently expressing "an aversion to showing displays of feeling," she was more attracted by my discovery than she condescended to confess. _jane eyre_, she said, was a better story, "though jane herself was a fool." what cared i? to me this book was like the kindling of a light in a strange house; and that house my mind. i gazed, watched, marvelled, and recognized, as i kneeled before its pages. but though my heart was torn, and my feelings were a little deranged by the scenes of violence, and my fancy was haunted by that stalking wolfish spectre, i took no part. i surveyed all with just that sense of aloofness and absorption with which as children cathy and heathcliff, barefoot in the darkness of the garden, had looked in that sunday evening on the lintons' crimson taper-lit drawing-room. if, in february, you put a newly gathered sprig of budding thorn into the fire; instantaneously, in the influence of the heat, it will break into bright-green tiny leaf. that is what emily brontë did for me. not so for fanny. in her "vapid listlessness" she often pretended to yawn over _wuthering heights_, and would shock me with mocking criticism, or cry "ah!" at the poignant passages. but i believe it was pure concealment. she was really playing a part in the story. i have, at any rate, never seen her face so transfigured as when once she suddenly looked up in the firelight and caught my eye fixed on her over the book. it was at the passage where cathy--in her grand plaid silk frock, white trousers, and burnished shoes--returns to the dreadful grange; and, "dismally beclouded," heathcliff stares out at her from his hiding-place. "'he might,'" i read on, "'well skulk behind the settle, at beholding such a bright, graceful damsel enter the house. "is heathcliff not here?" she demanded, pulling off her gloves, and displaying fingers wonderfully whitened with doing nothing and staying indoors.'" it was at this point that our eyes, as i say, fanny's and mine, met. but she, bright, graceful damsel, was not thinking of me. "do you like that kind of character, fanny?" i inquired. my candle's flames gleamed lean and tiny in her eyes. "whose?" she asked. "why, heathcliff's." she turned slowly away. "you take things so seriously, midgetina. it's merely a story. he only wanted taming. you'll see by-and-by." but at that moment my ear caught the sound of footsteps, and when mrs bowater opened the door to contemplate idle fanny, the book was under my bed. as the day drew near for fanny's return to her "duties," her mood brightened. she displayed before me in all their stages, the new clothes which mrs bowater lavished on her--to a degree that, amateur though i was in domestic economy, filled me with astonishment. i had to feign delight in these fineries--"ah!" whispered i to each, "when she wears _you_ she will be far, far away." i envied the very buttons, and indeed pestered her with entreaties. i implored her to think of me at certain hours; to say good-night to herself for me; to write day by day in the first of the evening; to share the moon: "if we both look at her at the same moment," i argued, "it will be next to looking at one another. you _cannot_ be utterly gone: and if you see even a flower, or hear the wind.... oh, i hope and hope you will be happy." she promised everything with smiling ease, and would have sealed the compact in blood if i had thought to cut my thumb for it. thursday in holy week--_then_ she would be home again. i stared at the blessed day across the centuries as a condemned man stares in fancy at the scaffold awaiting him; but on mine hung all my hopes. long evenings i never saw her at all; and voices in the kitchen, when she came in late, suggested that my landlady had also missed her. but fanny never lost her self-control even when she lost her temper; and i dared not tax her with neglecting me. her cold looks almost suffocated me. i besought her to spend one last hour of the eve of her departure alone with me and with the stars in the woods. she promised. at eleven she came home, and went straight up into her bedroom. i heard her footsteps. she was packing. then silence. i waited on until sick at heart i flung myself on my knees beside my bed and prayed that god would comfort her. heathcliff had acquired a feeble pupil. the next afternoon she was gone. chapter sixteen for many days my mind was an empty husk, yet in a constant torment of longing, daydream, despair, and self-reproaches. everything i looked at had but one meaning--that she was not there. i did not dare to admit into my heart a hope of the future, since it would be treason to the absent. there was an ecstatic mournfulness even in the sight of the january sun, the greening fields, the first scarcely perceptible signals of a new year. and when one morning i awoke early and heard, still half in dream, a thrush in all but darkness singing of spring, it seemed it was a voice pealing in the empty courts of paradise. what ridiculous care i took to conceal my misery from mrs bowater. hardly a morning passed but that i carried out in a bag the food i couldn't eat the day before, to hide it away or bury it. but such journeys were brief. i have read somewhere that love is a disease. or is it that life piles up the fuel, a chance stranger darts a spark, and the whole world goes up in smoke? was i happier in that fever than i am in this literary calm? why did love for things without jealousy or envy fill me with delight, pour happiness into me, and love for fanny parch me up, suck every other interest from my mind, and all but blind my eyes? is that true? i cannot be sure: for to remember her ravages is as difficult as to re-assemble the dismal phantoms that flock into a delirious brain. and still to be honest--there's another chance: was she to blame? would my mind have been at peace even in its solitary woe if she had dealt truly with me? would any one believe it?--it never occurred to me to remind myself that it might be a question merely of size. simply because i loved, i deemed myself lovable. yet in my heart of hearts that afternoon i had been twitting mr crimble for saying his prayers! but even the heart is phoenix-like. the outer world began to break into my desolation, not least successfully when after a week or two of absence there came a post card from fanny to her mother with a mere "love to m." scrawled in its top right-hand corner. it was as if a wine-glass of cold water had been poured down my back. it was followed by yet another little "shock." one evening, when she had carefully set down my bowl of rusk and milk, mrs bowater took up her stand opposite to me, black as an image in wood. "you haven't been after your stars, miss, of late. it's moping you are. i suffered myself from the same greensick fantasticalities, when _i_ was a girl. not that a good result's any the better for a poor cause; but it was courting danger with your frail frame; it was indeed." i smile in remembrance of the picture presented by that conscience-stricken face of mine upturned to that stark monitor--a monitor no less stark at this very moment though we are both many years older. "yes, yes," she continued, and even the dun, fading photograph over her head might have paled at her accents. "i'm soliciting no divulgements; she wouldn't have gone alone, and if she did, would have heard of it from me. but you must please remember, miss, i am her mother. and you will remember, miss, also," she added, with upper lip drawn even tighter, "that your care is my care, and always will be while you are under my roof--and after, please god." she soundlessly closed the door behind her, as if in so doing she were shutting up the whole matter in her mind for ever, as indeed she was, for she never referred to it again. thunderbolts fall quietly at times. i sat stupefied. but as i examine that distant conscience, i am aware, first, of a faint flitting of the problem through my mind as to why a freedom which mrs bowater would have denied to fanny should have held no dangers for me, and next, i realize that of all the emotions in conflict within me, humiliation stood head and shoulders above the rest. indeed i flushed all over, at the thought that never for one moment--then or since--had i paused to consider how, on that fateful midnight, fanny could have left the house-door _bolted_ behind her. my utter stupidity: and fanny's! all these weeks my landlady had known, and said nothing. the green gooseberries of my childhood were a far less effective tonic. but i lost no love for mrs bowater in this prodigious increase of respect. a far pleasanter interruption of my sick longings for the absent one occurred the next morning. at a loss what to be reading (for fanny had abstracted my _wuthering heights_ and taken it away with her), once more shudderingly pushing aside my breakfast, i turned over the dusty, faded pile of bowater books. and in one of them i discovered a chapter on knots. our minds are cleverer than we think them, and not only cats have an instinct for physicking themselves. i took out a piece of silk twine from my drawer and--with fanny's phantom sulking a while in neglect--set myself to the mastery of "the ship boy's" science. i had learned for ever to distinguish between the granny and the reef (such is fate, this knot was also called the true lover's!), and was setting about the fisherman's bend, when there came a knock on the door--and then a head. it was pollie. until i saw her round, red, country cheek, and stiff sunday hat, thus unexpectedly appear, i had almost forgotten how much i loved and had missed her. no doubt my landlady had been the _dea ex machinâ_ that had produced her on this fine sunshine morning. anyhow she was from heaven. besides butter, a posy of winter jasmine, a crochet bedspread, and a varnished arbour chair made especially for me during the winter evenings by her father, mr muggeridge, she brought startling news. there suddenly fell a pause in our excited talk. she drew out her handkerchief and a slow crimson mounted up over neck, cheek, ears, and brow. i couldn't look quite away from this delicious sight, so my eyes wandered up in admiration of the artificial cornflowers and daisies in her hat. whereupon she softly blew her nose and, with a gliding glance at the shut door, she breathed out her secret. she was engaged to be married. a trying, romantic vapour seemed instantly to gather about us, in whose hush i was curiously aware not only of pollie thus suffused, sitting with her hands loosely folded in her lap, but of myself also, perched opposite to her with eyes in which curiosity, incredulity, and even a remote consternation played upon her homely features. time melted away, and there once more sat the old pollie--a gawk of a girl in a pinafore, munching up green apples and re-plaiting her dull brown hair. then, of course, i was bashfully challenged to name the happy man. i guessed and guessed to pollie's ever-increasing gusto, and at last i dared my first unuttered choice: "well, then, it _must_ be adam waggett!" "adam waggett! oh, miss, him! a nose like a winebottle." it was undeniable. i apologized, and pollie surrendered her future into my hands. "it's bob halibut, miss," she whispered hoarsely. and instantaneously bob halibut's red head loomed louringly out at me. but i know little about husbands; and premonitions only impress us when they come true. time was to prove that pollie and her mother had made a prudent choice. am i not now mr halibut's god-sister, so to speak? the wedding, said pollie, was to be in the summer. "and oh, miss"--would i come? the scheming that followed! the sensitive draping of difficulties on either side, the old homesick longing on mine--to flee away now, at once, from this scene of my afflicted adoration. i almost hated fanny for giving me so much pain. mrs bowater was summoned to our council; my promise was given; and it was she who suggested that its being "a nice bright afternoon," pollie should take me for a walk. but whither? it seemed a sheer waste of pollie to take her to the woods. thoughts of st peter's, the nocturnal splendour in the cab, a hunger for novelty, the itch to spend money, and maybe a tinge of dare-devilry--without a moment's hesitation i chose the shops and the "town." once more in my black, with two thicknesses of veil canopying my head, as if i were a joint of meat in the dog days, i settled myself on pollie's arm, and--in the full publicity of three o'clock in the afternoon--off we went. we chattered; we laughed; we sniggled together like schoolgirls in amusement at the passers-by, in the strange, busy high street. i devoured the entrancing wares in the shop windows--milliner, hairdresser and perfumer, confectioner; even the pyramids of jam jars and sugar-cones in the grocer's, and the soaps, syrups, and sponges of mr simpkins--beechwood's pharmaceutical chemist. out of the sovereign which i had brought with me from my treasure-chest pollie made purchases on my behalf. for mrs bowater, a muslin tie for the neck; for herself--after heated controversy--a pair of kid gloves and a bottle of frangipani; and for me a novel. this last necessitated a visit to mrs stocks's circulating library. my hopes had been set on _jane eyre_. mrs stocks regretted that the demand for this novel had always exceeded her supply: "what may be called the sensational style of fiction" (or was it friction?) "never lays much on our hands." she produced, instead, and very tactfully, a comparatively diminutive copy of miss austen's _sense and sensibility_. it was a little shop-soiled; "but books keep, miss"; and she let me have it at a reduced price. her great shears severed the string. pollie and i once more set clanging the sonorous bell at the door, and emerged into the sunlight. "oh, pollie," i whispered, "if only you could stay with me for ever!" this taste of "life" had so elated me that after fevered and silent debate i at last laughed out, and explained to pollie that i wished to be "put down." her breathless arguments against this foolhardy experiment only increased my obstinacy. she was compelled to obey. bidding her keep some little distance behind me, i settled my veil, clasped tight my miss austen in my arms and set my face in the direction from which we had come. one after another the wide paving-stones stretched out in front of me. it was an extraordinary experience. i was openly alone now, not with the skulking, deceitful shades and appearances of night, or the quiet flowers and trees in the enormous vacancy of nature; but in the midst of a town of men in their height--and walking along there: by myself. it was as if i had suddenly realized what astonishingly active and domineering and multitudinous creatures we humans are. i can't explain. the high street, to use a good old phrase, "got up into my head." my mind was in such a whirl of excitement that full consciousness of what followed eludes me. the sun poured wintry bright into the house-walled gulf of a street that in my isolation seemed immeasurably vast and empty. i think my senses distorted the scene. there was the terrific glitter of glass, the clatter of traffic. a puff of wind whirled dust and grit and particles of straw into the air. the shapes of advancing pedestrians towered close above me, then, stiff with sudden attention, passed me by. my legs grew a little numb and my brain confused. the strident whistling of a butcher's boy, with an empty, blood-stained tray over his shoulder, suddenly ceased. saucer-eyed, he stood stock still, gulped and gaped. i kept on my course. a yelp of astonishment rent the air. whereupon, as it seemed, from divers angles, similar boys seemed to leap out of the ground and came whooping and revolving across the street in my direction. and now the blood so hummed in my head that it was rather my nerves than my ears which informed me of a steadily increasing murmur and trampling behind me. with extraordinary vividness i recall the vision of a gigantic barouche gliding along towards me in the shine and the dust; and seated up in it a high, pompous lady who at one moment with rigid urbanity inclined her head apparently in my direction, and at the next, her face displeased as if at an offensive odour, had sunk back into her cushions, oblivious not only of beechwood but of the whole habitable globe. simultaneously, i was aware, even as i hastened on, first that the acquaintance whose salute she had acknowledged was mr crimble, and next, that with incredible rapidity he had wheeled himself about and had instantaneously transfixed his entire attention on some object in the window of a hatter's. until this moment, as i say, a confused but blackening elation had filled my mind. but at sight of mr crimble's rook-like stooping shoulders i began to be afraid. my shoe stumbled against a jutting paving-stone. i almost fell. whereupon the mute concourse at my heels--spreading tail of me, the comet--burst into a prolonged squealing roar of delight. the next moment pollie was at my side, stooping to my rescue. it was too late. one glance over my shoulder--and terror and hatred of the whole human race engulfed me like a sea. i struck savagely at pollie's cotton-gloved hand. shivering, with clenched, sticky teeth, i began to run. why this panic? who would have harmed me? and yet on the thronging faces which i had flyingly caught sight of through my veil there lay an expression that was not solely curiosity--a kind of hunger, a dog-like gleam. i remember one thin-legged, ferrety, red-haired lad in particular. well, no matter. the comedy was brief, and it was mrs stocks who lowered the curtain. attracted by all this racket and hubbub in the street, she was protruding her round head out of her precincts. like fox to its hole, i scrambled over her wooden doorstep, whisked round her person, and fled for sanctuary into her shop. she hustled poor pollie in after me, wheeled round on my pursuers, slammed the door in their faces, slipped its bolt, and drew down its dark blue blind. in the sudden quiet and torpor of this musty gloom i turned my hunted eyes and stared at the dark strip of holland that hid me from my pursuers. so too did mrs stocks. the round creature stood like a stone out of reach of the surf. then she snorted. "them!" said she, with a flick of her duster. "a parcel of idle herrand boys. _i_ know them: and no more decency than if you was royalty, my dear, or a pickpocket, or a corpse run over in the street. you rest a bit, pore young thing, and compose yourself. they'll soon grow tired of themselves." she retired into the back part of her shop beyond the muslined door and returned with a tumbler of water. i shook my head. my sight pulsed with my heartbeats. as if congealed into a drop of poison, i stared and stared at the blind. "open the door," i said. "i'd like to go out again." "oh, miss! oh, miss!" cried pollie. but mrs stocks was of a more practical turn. after surveying my enemies from an upper window she had sent a neighbour's little girl for a cab. by the time this vehicle arrived, with a half-hearted "boo!" of disappointment, the concourse in the street had all but melted away, and mrs stocks's check duster scattered the rest. the cab-door slammed, the wheels ground on the kerbstone, my début was over. i had been but a nine minutes' wonder. chapter seventeen we jogged on sluggishly up the hill, and at last, in our velvety quiet, as if at a preconcerted signal, pollie and i turned and looked at one another, and broke into a long, mirthless peal of laughter--a laughter that on her side presently threatened to end in tears. i left her to recover herself, fixing my festering attention on her engagement ring--two hearts in silver encircled by six sky-blue turquoises. and in the silly, helpless fashion of one against the world, i plotted revenge. the cab stopped. there stood the little brick house, wholly unaffected by the tragic hours which had passed since we had so gaily set out from it. i eyed it with malice and disgust as i reascended my bateses and preceded pollie into the passage. once safely within, i shrugged my shoulders and explained to mrs bowater the phenomenon of the cab with such success that i verily believe she was for the moment convinced that her lodger was one of those persons who prosper in the attentions of the mob--royalty, that is, rather than pickpockets or corpses run over in the street. with my new muslin tie adorning her neck, mrs bowater took tea with us that afternoon, but even pollie's imaginative version of our adventures made no reference to the lady in the carriage, nor did she share my intense conjecture on what mr crimble can have found of such engrossing interest in the hatter's. _was_ it that the lady had feigned not to have seen me entirely for my sake; and that mr crimble had feigned not to have seen me entirely for _his_? i was still poring over this problem in bed that night when there came a tap at my door. it was pollie. she had made her way downstairs to assure herself that i was safe and comfortable. "and oh, miss," she whispered, as she bade me a final good-night, "you never see such a lovely little bedroom as mrs bowater have put me into--fit for a princess, and yet just quite plain! bob's been thinking about furniture too." so i was left alone again with forgotten fanny, and that night i dreamed of her. nothing to be seen but black boiling waves flinging their yeasty, curdling crests into the clouds, and every crest the face of my ferrety "herrand-boy." and afloat in the midst of the welter beneath, a beloved shape whiter than the foam, with shut eyes, under the gigantic stoop of the water. who hangs these tragic veils in the sleeping mind? who was this i that looked out on them? i awoke, shuddering, breathed a blessing--disjointed, nameless; turned over, and soon was once more asleep. my day's experiences in the high street had added at least twenty-four hours to my life. so much a woman of the world was i becoming that when, after pollie's departure, a knock announced mr crimble, i greeted him with a countenance guileless and self-possessed. with spectacles fixed on me, he stood nervously twitching a small bunch of snowdrops which he assured me were the first of the new year. i thanked him, remarked that our lyndsey snowdrops were shorter in the stalk than these, and had he noticed the pale green hieroglyphs on the petals? "in the white, dead nettle you have to look underneath for them: tiny black oblongs; you can't think how secret it looks!" but mr crimble had not come to botanize. after answering my inquiry after the health of mrs hubbins, he suddenly sat down and announced that the object of his visit was to cast himself on my generosity. the proposal made me uncomfortable, but my timid attempt to return to mrs hubbins was unavailing. "i speak," he said, "of yesterday's atrocity. there is no other word for it, and inasmuch as it occurred within two hundred yards of my own church, indeed of my mother's house, i cannot disclaim all responsibility for it." nor could i. but i wished very heartily that he had not come to talk about _his_ share. "oh," said i, as airily as i could, "you mean, mr crimble, my little experience in the high street. that was nothing. my attention was so much taken up with other things that i did not get even so much as a glimpse of st peter's. so you see----" "you are kindness itself," he interrupted, with a rapid insertion of his forefinger between his neck and his clerical collar, "but the fact is," and he cast a glance at me as if with the whites of his eyes, "the fact is, i was myself a scandalized witness of the occurrence. believe me, it cannot have hurt your sensitive feelings more than--than it hurt mine." "but honestly, mr crimble," i replied, glancing rather helplessly round the room, "it didn't hurt my feelings at all. you don't feel much, you know, when you are angry. it was just as i should have foreseen. it is important to know where we are, isn't it; and where other people are? and boys will be boys, as mrs bowater says, and particularly, i suppose, errand boys. what else could i expect? it has just taught me a very useful lesson--even though i didn't much enjoy learning it. if i am ever to get used to the world (and that _is_ a kind of duty, mr crimble, isn't it?), the world must get used to me. perhaps if we all knew each other's insides--our thoughts and feelings, i mean--everybody would be as peculiar there--inside, you know--as i am, outside. i'm afraid this is not making myself very clear." and only a few weeks ago i had been bombarding dr phelps with precisely the opposite argument. that, i suppose, is what is meant by being "deceitful on the weights." mr crimble opened his mouth, but i continued rapidly, "you see, i must be candid about such things to myself and try not to--to be silly. and you were merely going to be very kind, weren't you? i am a midget, and it's no good denying it. the people that hooted me were not. that's all; and if there hadn't been so many of them, perhaps i might have been just as much amused, if not even shocked at them, as they at me. we _think_ our own size, that's all, and i'm perfectly certain," i nodded at him emphatically, "i'm perfectly certain if poor mr hubbins were here now, he'd--he'd bear me out." bear me out--the words lingered on in my mind so distinctly, and conveyed so peculiar a picture of mr hubbins's spirit and myself, that i missed the beginning of my visitor's reply. "but i assure you," he was saying, "it is not merely that." the glint of perspiration was on his forehead. "in the almighty's sight all men are equal. appearances are nothing. and some of us perhaps are far more precious by very reason of--of passing afflictions, and----" "my godmother," i interposed, "said exactly that in a letter to me a few months ago. not that i accept the _word_, mr crimble, the 'afflictions,' i mean. and as for appearances, why they are _everything_, aren't they?" i gave him as cordial an imitation of a smile as i could. "no, no, no; yes, yes, yes," said mr crimble rapidly. "but it was not of that, not of that in a sense that i was speaking. what i came to say this afternoon is this. i grant it; i freely confess it; i played the coward; morally rather than physically, perhaps, but still the coward. the--the hideous barbarity of the proceeding." he had forgotten me. his eyes were fixed on the scene in his memory. he was once more at the hatter's window. there fell a painful pause. i rose and sat down again. "but quite, quite honestly," i interposed faintly, "they did me no harm. they were only inquisitive. what could you have done? why, really and truly," i laughed feebly, "they might have had to pay, you know. it was getting--getting me cheap!" his head was thrown back, so that he looked _under_ his spectacles at me, as he cried hollowly: "they might have stoned you." "not with those pavements." "but i was there. i turned aside. you _saw_ me?" what persuaded me to be guilty of such a ridiculous quibble, i cannot think. anything, perhaps, to ease his agitation: "but honestly, honestly, mr crimble," i murmured out at him, "i didn't _see_ you see me." "oh, ah! a woman's way!" he adjured me desperately, turning his head from one side to the other. "but you must have known that i knew you knew i had seen you, you _must_ confess _that_. and, well ... as i say, i can only appeal to your generosity." "but what can i _do_? i'm not hurt. if it had been the other way round--_you_ scuttling along, i mean; i really do believe _i_ might have looked into the hatter's. besides, when we were safe in the cab.... i mean, i'm glad! it was experience: oh, and past. i loved it and the streets, and the shops, and all those grinning, gnashing faces, and even you.... it was wildly _exciting_, mr crimble, can't you _see_? and now"--i ended triumphantly--"and now i have another novel!" at this, suddenly overcome, i jumped up from my chair and ran off into my bedroom as if in search of the book. the curtains composed themselves behind me. in this inner quietness, this momentary release, i stood there, erect beside the bed--without a thought in my head. and i began slowly, silently--to laugh. handkerchief to my lips, i laughed and laughed--not exactly like pollie in the cab, but because apparently some infinitely minute being within me had risen up at remembrance of the strange human creature beyond the curtains who had suddenly before my very eyes seemed to have expanded and swollen out to double his size. oh, what extraordinary things life was doing to me. how can i express myself? for that pip of a moment i was just an exquisite icicle of solitude--as if i had never been born. yet there, under my very nose, was my bed, my glass, my hair-brushes and bottles--"here we all are, miss m."--and on the other side of the curtains.... and how contemptuous i had been of pollie's little lapse into the hysterical! i brushed my handkerchief over my eyes, tranquillized my features, and sallied out once more into the world. "ah, here it is," i exclaimed ingenuously, and lifting my _sense and sensibility_ from where it lay on the floor beside my table, i placed it almost ceremoniously in mr crimble's hands. a visible mist of disconcertion gathered over his face. he looked at the book, he opened it, his eye strayed down the title-page. "yes, yes," he murmured, "jane austen--a pocket edition. macaulay, i remember...." he closed-to the covers again, drew finger and thumb slowly down the margin, and then leaned forward. "but you were asking me a question. what could i have _done_? frankly i don't quite know. but i might have protected you, driven the rabble off, taken you---- the good shepherd. but there, in short," and the sun of relief peered through the glooms of conscience, "i did nothing. that was my failure. and absurd though it may seem, i could not rest until, as a matter of fact, i had unbosomed myself, confessed, knowing you would understand." his tongue came to a standstill. "and when," he continued in a small, constrained voice, and with a searching, almost appealing glance, "when miss _bowater_ returns, you will, i hope, allow me to make amends, to prove---- she would never--for--forgive...." the fog that had been his became mine. in an extravagance of attention to every syllable of his speech as it died away uncompleted in the little listening room i mutely surveyed him. then i began to understand, to realize where my poor little "generosity" was to come in. "ah," i replied at last, forlornly, our eyes in close communion, "she won't be back for months and months. and anyhow, she wouldn't, i am sure, much _mind_, mr crimble." "easter," he whispered. "well, you will write, i suppose," and his eye wandered off as if in search of the inkpot, "and no doubt you will share our--your secret." there was no vestige of interrogation in his voice, and yet it was clear that what he was suggesting i should do was only and exactly what he had come that afternoon to ask me not to do. why, surely, i thought, examining him none too complimentarily, i am afraid, he was merely playing for a kind of stalemate. what funny, blind alleys love leads us into. "no," i said solemnly. "i shall say nothing. but that, i suppose, is because i am not so brave as you are. really and truly, i think she would only be amused. everything amuses her." it seemed that we had suddenly reassumed our natural dimensions, for at that he looked at me _tinily_ again, and with the suggestion, to which i was long accustomed, that he would rather not be observed while so looking. on the whole, ours had been a gloomy talk. nevertheless, _there_, not on my generosity, but i hope on my understanding, he reposed himself, and so reposes to this day. when the door had closed behind him, i felt far more friendly towards mr crimble than i had felt before. even apart from the almighty, he had made us as nearly as he could--equals. i tossed a pleasant little bow to his snowdrops, and, catching sight of mr bowater's fixed stare on me, hastily included _him_ within its range. mr crimble, mrs bowater informed me the following sunday evening, lived with an aged mother, and in spite of his sociability and his "fun," was a lonely young man. he hadn't, my landlady thought, yet seen enough of the world to be of much service to those who had. "they," and i think she meant clergymen in general, as well as mr crimble in particular, "live a shut-in, complimentary life, and people treat them according. though, of course, there's those who have seen a bit of trouble and cheeseparing themselves, and the church is the church when all's said and done." and all in a moment i caught my first real glimpse of the church--no more just a number of st peterses than i was so many "organs," or beechwood was so many errand boys, or, for that matter, england so many counties. it was an idea; my attention wandered. "but he was very anxious about the concert," i ventured to protest. "i've no doubt," said mrs bowater shortly. "but then," i remarked with a sigh, "fanny seems to make friends wherever she goes." "it isn't the making," replied her mother, "but the keeping." the heavy weeks dragged slowly by, and a one-sided correspondence is like posting letters into a dream. my progress with miss austen was slow, because she made me think and argue with her. apart from her, i devoured every fragment of print i could lay hands on. for when fiction palled i turned to facts, mastered the _sheepshank_, the _running bowline_, and the _figure-of-eight_; and wrestled on with my sea-craft. it was a hard task, and i thought it fair progress if in _that_ i covered half a knot a day. besides which, mrs bowater sometimes played with me at solitaire, draughts, or cards. in these she was a martinet, and would appropriate a fat pack at _beggar-my-neighbour_ with infinite gusto. how silent stood the little room, with just the click of the cards, the simmering of the kettle on the hob, and mrs bowater's occasional gruff "four to pay." we might have been on a desert island. i must confess this particular game soon grew a little wearisome; but i played on, thinking to please my partner, and that she had chosen it for her own sake. until one evening, with a stifled sigh, she murmured the word, cribbage! i was shuffling my own small pack at the moment, and paused, my eyes on their backs, in a rather wry amusement. but fate has pretty frequently so turned the tables on me; and after that, "one for his nob," sepulchrally broke the night-silence of beechwood far more often than "four to pay." not all my letters to fanny went into the post. my landlady looked a little askance at them, and many of the unposted ones were scrawled, if possible in moonlight, after she had gone to bed. to judge from my recollection of other letters written in my young days, i may be thankful that fanny was one of those practical people who do not hoard the valueless. i can still recall the poignancy of my postscripts. on the one hand: "i beseech you to write to me, fanny, i live to hear. last night was full moon again. i saw you--you only in her glass." on the other: "henry has been fighting. there is a chip out of his ear. nine centuries nearer now! and how is 'monsieur crapaud'?" wanderslore chapter eighteen at last there came a post which brought me, not a sermon from miss fenne, nor gossip from pollie, but a message from the islands of the blest. all that evening and night it lay unopened under my pillow. i was saving it up. and never have i passed hours so studious yet so barren of result. it was the end of february. a sudden burst of light and sunshine had fallen on the world. there were green shining grass and new-fallen lambs in the meadows, and the almond tree beyond my window was in full, leafless bloom. as for the larks, they were singing of fanny. the next morning early, about seven o'clock, her letter folded up in its small envelope in the bosom of my cloak, i was out of the house and making my way to the woods. it was the clear air of daybreak and only the large stars shook faint and silvery in the brightening sky. frost powdered the ground and edged the grasses. but now tufts of primroses were in blow among the withered mist of leaves. i came to my "observatory" just as the first beams of sunrise smote on its upper boughs. yet even now i deferred the longed-for moment and hastened on between the trees, beech and brooding yew, by what seemed a faint foot-track, and at last came out on a kind of rising on the edge of the woods. from this green eminence for the first time i looked straight across its desolate garden to wanderslore. it was a long, dark, many-windowed house. it gloomed sullenly back at me beneath the last of night. from the alarm calls of the blackbirds it seemed that even so harmless a trespasser as i was a rare spectacle. a tangle of brier and bramble bushed frostily over its grey stone terraces. nearer at hand in the hollow stood an angled house, also of stone--and as small compared with wanderslore as a little child compared with its mother. it had been shattered at one corner by a falling tree, whose bole still lay among the undergrowth. the faint track i was following led on, and apparently past it. breathless and triumphant, i presently found myself seated on a low mossy stone beside it, monarch of all i surveyed. with a profound sigh i opened my letter:-- "burn this letter, and show the other to m. "dear midgetina,--don't suppose, because i have not written, that fanny is a monster, though, in fact, she is. i have often thought of you--with your stars and knick-knacks. and of course your letters have come. my thanks. i can't really answer them now because i am trying at the same time to scribble this note and to correct 'composition' papers under the very eyes of miss stebbings--the abhorred daughter of argus and the eldest gorgon. dear me, i almost envy you, midgetina. it _must_ be fun to be like a tiny, round-headed pin in a pin-cushion and just mock at the workbox. but all things in moderation. "when the full moon came last i remembered our _vow_. she was so dazzling, poor old wreck. and i wondered, as i blinked up at her, if you would not some day vanish away altogether--unless you make a fortune by being looked at. i wish i could. only would they pay enough? that is the question. "what i am writing about now is not the moon, but--don't be amused!--a man. not monsieur crapaud, who is more absurd than ever; but some one you know, mr crimble. he has sent me the most alarming letter and wants me to marry him. it is not for the first time of asking, but still a solemn occasion. mother once said that he was like a coquette--all attention and no intention. sad to say, it is the other way round. m., you see, always judges by what she fears. _i_ by what this heart tells me. "now i daren't write back to him direct (_a_) because i wish just now to say neither yes nor no; (_b_) because a little delay will benefit his family pride; (_c_) because it is safer not to--he's very careless and i might soon want to change my mind; (_d_) because that's how my fancy takes me; and (_e_) because i love you exceedingly and know you will help me. "when no answer comes to his letter, he will probably dare another pilgrimage to beechwood hill, if only to make sure that i am not in my grave. so i want you to tell him _secretly_ that _i have received his letter and that i am giving it my earnest attention_--let alone my prayers. tell me exactly how he takes this answer; then i will write to you again. i am sure, midgetina, in some previous life you must have lived in the tiny rooms in the palace at mantua--you are a born _intrigante_. "_in my bedroom, p.m._--a scheme is in my mind, but it is not yet in bloom, and you may infer from all this that i don't _care_. often i wish this were so. i sat in front of my eight inches of grained looking-glass last night till it seemed some god(dess) _must_ intervene. but no. my head was dark and empty. i could hear mr oliphant cajoling with his violin in the distance--as if music had charms. oh, dear, they give you life, and leave you to ask, why. you seem to be perfectly contented in your queer little prim way with merely asking. but fanny bowater wants an answer, or she will make one up. meanwhile, search for a scrap of magic mushroom, little sister, and come nearer! some day i will tell you even more about myself! meanwhile, believe me, petitissimost m., your affec.--f. "ps.--_burn this._ "pps.--what i mean is, that he must be _made_ to realize that i will not and cannot give him an answer before i come home--unless he hears meanwhile. "burn this: the _other_ letter is for show purposes." fanny's "other" was more brief:-- "dear midgetina,--it is delightful to have your letters, and i am ashamed of myself for not answering them before. but i will do so the very moment there is a free hour. would you please ask mother with my love to send me some handkerchiefs, some stockings, and some soap? my first are worn with weeping, my second with sitting still, and my third is mottled--and similarly affects the complexion. but easter draws near, and i am sure i must long to be home. did you tell mother by any chance of your midnight astronomy lesson? it has been most useful when all other baits and threats have failed to teach the young idea how to shoot. truly a poet's way of putting it. is mr crimble still visiting his charming parishioner? "i remain, "yours affec'ly, "fanny bowater." slowly, self-conscious word by word, lingering here and there, i read these letters through--then through again. then i lifted my eyes and stared for a while over my left shoulder at empty wanderslore. a medley of emotions strove for mastery, and as if to reassure herself the "tiny, round-headed pin" kissed the signature, whispering languishingly to herself in the great garden: "i love you exceedingly. oh, fanny, i love you exceedingly," and hid her eyes in her hands. the note-paper was very faintly scented. my imagination wandered off i know not where; and returned, elated and dejected. which the more i know not. then i folded up the secret letter into as small a compass as i could, dragged back a loose, flat stone, hid it away in the dry crevice beneath, and replaced the stone. the other i put into my silk bag. i emerged from these labours to see in my mind mrs bowater steadfastly regarding me, and behind her the shadowy shape of mr crimble, with i know not what of entreaty in his magnified dark eyes. i smiled a little ruefully to myself to think that my life was become like a pool of deep water in which i was slowly sinking down and down. as if, in sober fact, there were stones in my pocket, or leaden soles to my shoes. it was more like reading a story about myself, than _being_ myself, and what was to be the end of it all? i thought of fanny married to mr crimble, as my mother was married to my father. how dark and uncomfortable a creature he looked beside fanny's grace and fairness. and would mrs crimble sit in an arm-chair and watch fanny as fanny had watched me? and should i be asked to tea? i was surprised into a shudder. yet i don't think there would have been any _wild_ jealousy in my heart--even if fanny should say, yes. i could love her better, perhaps, if she would give me a little time. and what was really keeping her back? why did every word she said or wrote only hide what she truly meant? so, far from mocking at the workbox, i was only helplessly examining its tangled skeins. nor was i criticizing fanny. to help her--that was my one burning desire, to give all i had, take nothing. in a vague, and possibly priggish, fashion, i knew, too, that i wanted to help her against herself. her letter (and perhaps the long waiting for it) had smoothed out my old excitements. in the midst of these musings memory suddenly alighted on the question in the letter which was to be shown to mrs bowater: about the star-gazing. there was no need for that now. but the point was, had not fanny extorted a promise from me _not_ to tell her mother of our midnight adventure? it seemed as though without a shred of warning the fair face had drawn close in my consciousness and was looking at me low and fixedly, like a snake in a picture. why, it was like cheating at cards! fascinated and repelled, i sank again into reverie. "no, no, it's cowardly, fanny," cried aloud a voice in the midst of this inward argument, as startling as if a stranger had addressed me. the morning was intensely still. sunbeams out of the sky now silvered the clustered chimney shafts of wanderslore. where shadow lay, the frost gloomed wondrously blue on the dishevelled terraces; where sun, a thin smoke of vapour was ascending into the air. the plants and bushes around me were knobbed all over with wax-green buds. the enormous trees were faintly coloured in their twigs. a sun-beetle staggered, out among the pebbles at my feet. i glanced at my hands; they were coral pink with the cold. "i love you exceedingly--exceedingly," i repeated, though this time i knew not to whom. so saying, and, even as i said it, realizing that the _exceedingly_ was not my own, and that i must be intelligent even if i was sentimental, i rose from my stone, and turned to go back. i thus faced the worn, small, stone house again. instantly i was all attention. a curious feeling came over me, familiar, yet eluding remembrance. it meant that i must be vigilant. cautiously i edged round to the other side of the angled wall, where lay the fallen tree. hard, dark buds showed on its yet living fringes. rather than clamber over its sodden bole, i skirted it until i could walk beneath a lank, upthrust bough. at every few steps i shrank in and glanced around me, then fixed my eyes--as i had learned to do by my stream-side or when star-gazing--on a single object, in order to mark what was passing on the outskirts of my field of vision. nothing. i was alone in the garden. a robin, with a light flutter of wing, perched to eye me. a string of rooks cawed across the sky. wanderslore emptily stared. if, indeed, i was being watched, then my watcher was no less circumspect than i. soon i was skirting the woods again, and had climbed the green knoll by which i had descended into the garden. i wheeled sharply, searching the whole course of my retreat. nothing. when i opened my door, mrs bowater and henry seemed to be awaiting me. was it my fancy that both of them looked censorious? absently she stood aside to let me pass to my room, then followed me in. "such a lovely morning, mrs bowater," i called pleasantly down from my bedroom, as i stood taking off my cloak in front of the glass, "and not a soul to be seen--though" (and my voice was better under command with a hairpin between my teeth); "i wouldn't have minded if there had been. not now." "ah," came the reply, "but you must be cautious, miss. boys will be boys; and," the sound tailed away, "men, men." i heard the door open and close, and paused, with hands still lifted to my hair, prickling cold all over at this strange behaviour. what could i have been found out in now? then a voice sounded seemingly out of nowhere. "what i was going to say, miss, is--a letter's come." with that i drew aside the curtain. the explanation was simple. having let henry out of my room, in which he was never at ease, mrs bowater was still standing, like a figure in waxwork, in front of her chiffonier, her eyes fixed on the window. they then wheeled on me. "_mr_ bowater," she said. i was conscious of an inexpressible relief and of the profoundest interest. i glanced at the great portrait. "mr bowater?" i repeated. "yes," she replied. "buenos ayres. he's broken a leg; and so's fixed there for the time being." "oh, mrs bowater," i said, "i _am_ sorry. and how terribly sudden." "believe me, my young friend," she replied musingly, "it's never in my experience what's unprepared for that finds us least expecting it. not that it was actually his _leg_ was in my mind." what was chiefly in _my_ selfish mind was the happy conviction that i had better not give her fanny's letter just then. "i do hope he's not in great pain," was all i found to say. she continued to muse at me in her queer, sightless fashion, almost as if she were looking for help. "oh, dear me, miss," the poor thing cried brokenly, "how should your young mind feel what an old woman feels: just grovelling in the past?" she was gone; and, feeling very uncomfortable in my humiliation, i sat down and stared--at "the workbox." why, why indeed, i thought angrily, why should i be responsible? well, i suppose it's only when the poor fish--sturgeon or stickleback--struggles, that he really knows he's in the net. chapter nineteen one of the many perplexing problems that now hemmed me in was brushed away by fortune that afternoon. between gloomy bursts of reflection on fanny's, mr crimble's, mrs bowater's, and my own account, i had been reading miss austen; and at about four o'clock was sharing chapter xxiii. with poor elinor:-- "the youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind her to everything but her beauty and good nature, but the four succeeding years--years which, if rationally spent, give such improvements to the understanding--must have opened her eyes to her defects of education, which the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits...." i say i was reading this passage, and had come to the words--"and more frivolous pursuits," when an unusually imperative _rat-tat-tat_ fell upon the outer door, and i emerged from my book to discover that an impressive white-horsed barouche was drawn up in the street beyond my window. the horse tossed its head and chawed its frothy bit; and the coachman sat up beside his whip in the sparkling frosty afternoon air. my heart gave a thump, and i was still seeking vaguely to connect this event with myself or with mr bowater in buenos ayres, when the door opened and a lady entered whose plumed and purple bonnet was as much too small for her head as she herself was too large for the room. yet in sheer dimensions this was not a very large lady. it was her "presence" that augmented her. she seemed, too, to be perfectly accustomed to these special proportions, and with a rather haughty, "thank you," to mrs bowater, winningly announced that she was lady pollacke, "a friend, a mutual friend, as i understand, of dear mr crimble's." though a mauvish pink in complexion, lady pollacke was so like her own white horse that _whinnyingly_ rather than _winningly_ would perhaps have been the apter word. i have read somewhere that this human resemblance to horses sometimes accompanies unusual intelligence. the poet, william wordsworth, was like a horse; i have seen his portrait. and i should like to see dean swift's. whether or not, the unexpected arrival of this visitor betrayed me into some little gaucherie, and for a moment i still sat on, as she had discovered me, literally "floored" by my novel. then i scrambled with what dignity i could to my feet, and chased after my manners. "and not merely that," continued my visitor, seating herself on a horsehair easy-chair, "but among my still older friends is mr pellew. so you see--you see," she repeated, apparently a little dazzled by the light of my window, "that we need no introduction, and that i know all--all the circumstances." she lowered a plump, white-kidded hand to her lap, as if, providentially, _there_ all the circumstances lay. unlike mr crimble, lady pollacke had not come to make excuses, but to bring me an invitation--nothing less than to take tea with her on the following thursday afternoon. but first she hoped--she was sure, in fact, and she satisfied herself with a candid gaze round my apartment--that i was comfortable with mrs bowater; "a thoroughly trustworthy and sagacious woman, though, perhaps, a little eccentric in address." i assured her that i was so comfortable that some of my happiest hours were spent gossiping with my landlady over my supper. "ah, yes," she said, "that class of person tells us such very interesting things occasionally, do they not? yet i am convinced that the crying need in these days is for discrimination. uplift, by all means, but we mustn't confuse. what does the old proverb say: _festina lente_: there's still truth in that. now, had i known your father--but there; we must not rake in old ashes. we are clean, i see; and quiet and secluded." her equine glance made a rapid circuit of the photographs and ornaments that diversified the walls, and i simply couldn't help thinking what a queer little cage they adorned for so large and handsome a bird, the kind of bird, as one might say, that is less weight than magnitude. i was still casting my eye up and down her silk and laces when she abruptly turned upon me with a direct question: "you seldom, i suppose, go _out_?" possibly if lady pollacke had not at this so composedly turned her full face on me--with its exceedingly handsome nose--her bonnet might have remained only vaguely familiar. now as i looked at her, it was as if the full moon had risen. she was, without the least doubt in the world, the lady who had bowed to mr crimble from her carriage that fateful afternoon. a little countenance is not, perhaps, so tell-tale as a large one. (i remember, at any rate, the horrid shock i once experienced when my father set me up on his hand one day to show me my own face, many times magnified, in his dressing-room shaving-glass.) but my eyes must have narrowed a little, for lady pollacke's at once seemed to set a little harder. and she was still awaiting an answer to her question. "'go out'!" i repeated meditatively, "not very much, lady pollacke; at least not in crowded places. the boys, you know." "ah, yes, the boys." it was mr crimble's little dilemma all over again: lady pollacke was evidently wondering whether i knew she knew i knew. "but still," i continued cheerfully, "it is the looker-on that sees most of the game, isn't it?" her eyelids descended, though her face was still lifted up. "well, so the proverb says," she agreed, with the utmost cordiality. it was at this moment--as i have said--that she invited me to tea. she would come for me herself, she promised. "now wouldn't that be very nice for us both--quite a little adventure?" i was not perfectly certain of the niceness, but might not mr crimble be a fellow-guest; and hadn't i an urgent and anxious mission with him? i smiled and murmured; and, as if her life had been a series of such little social triumphs, my visitor immediately rose; and, i must confess, in so doing seemed rather a waste of space. "then _that's_ settled: thursday afternoon. we must wrap up," she called gaily through her descending veil. "this treacherous month! it has come in like a lamb, but"--and she tugged at her gloves, still scrutinizing me fixedly beneath her eyelids, "but it will probably go out like a lion." as if to illustrate this prediction, she swept away to the door, leaving mrs bowater's little parlour and myself to gather our scattered wits together as best we could, while her carriage rolled away. alas, though i love talking and watching and exploring, how could i be, even at that age, a really social creature? though lady pollacke had been politeness itself, the remembrance of her bonnet in less favourable surroundings was still in my mind's eye. if anything, then, her invitation slightly depressed me. besides, thursday never was a favourite day of mine. it is said to have only one lucky hour--the last before dawn. but this is not tea-time. worse still, the coming thursday seemed to have sucked all the virtue out of the wednesday in between. i prefer to see the future stretching out boundless and empty in front of me--like the savannas of robinson crusoe's island. visitors, and i am quite sure _he_ would have agreed with me, are hardly at times to be distinguished from visitations. all this merely means that i was a rather green and backward young woman, and, far worse, unashamed of being so. here was one of the greatest ladies of beechwood lavishing attentions upon me, and all i was thinking was how splendid an appearance she would have made a few days before if she had borrowed his whip from her coachman and dispersed my little mob with it, as had mrs stocks with her duster. but _noblesse oblige_; mr crimble had been compelled to consider my feelings, and no doubt lady pollacke had been compelled to consider his. the next day was fine, but i overslept myself and was robbed of my morning walk. for many hours i was alone. mrs bowater had departed on one of her shopping bouts. so, whoever knocked, knocked in vain; and i listened to such efforts in secret and unmannerly amusement. i wonder if ever ghosts come knocking like that on the doors of the mind; and it isn't that one won't hear, but can't. my afternoon was spent in an anxious examination of my wardrobe. four o'clock punctually arrived, and, almost as punctually, lady pollacke. soon, under mrs bowater's contemplative gaze, i was mounted up on a pile of cushions, and we were bowling along in most inspiriting fashion through the fresh march air. strangely enough, when during our progress, eyes were now bent in my direction, lady pollacke seemed copiously to enjoy their interest. this was especially the case when she was acquainted with their owners; and bowed her bow in return. "quite a little reception for you," she beamed at me, after a particularly respectable carriage had cast its occupants' scarcely modulated glances in my direction. how strange is human character! to an intelligent onlooker, my other little reception must have been infinitely more inspiring; and yet she had almost wantonly refused to take any part in it. now, supposing i _had_ been royalty or a corpse run over in the street.... but we were come to our journey's end. brunswick house was a fine, square, stone-edged edifice, dominating its own "grounds." regiments of crocuses stood with mouths wide open in its rich loam. its gateposts were surmounted by white balls of stone; and the gravel was of so lively a colour that it must have been new laid. wherever i looked, my eyes were impressed by the best things in the best order. this was as true of lady pollacke's clothes, as of her features, of her gateposts, and her drawing-room. and the next most important thing in the last was its light. light simply _poured_ in upon its gilt and brass and pale maroon from two high wide windows staring each other down from between their rich silk damask curtains. it was like entering an enormous bath, and it made me timid. in the midst of a large animal's skin, beneath a fine white marble chimney-piece, and under an ormolu clock, the parlour-maid was directed to place a cherry-coloured stool for me. here i seated myself. with a fine, encouraging smile my hostess left me for a few minutes to myself. maybe because an embroidered fire-screen that stood near reminded me of miss fenne, i pulled myself together. "don't be a ninny," i heard myself murmur. my one hope and desire in this luxurious solitude was for the opportunity to deliver my message to mr crimble. this was not only a visit, it was an adventure. i looked about the flashing room; and it rather stared back at me. the first visitor to appear was none but miss bullace, whose recitation of "the lady's 'yes'" had so peculiarly inspirited fanny. she sat square and dark with her broad lap in front of her, and scrutinized me as if _no_ emergency ever daunted her. and lady pollacke recounted the complexity of ties that had brought us together. miss bullace, alas, knew neither mr ambrose pellew, nor my godmother, nor even my godmother's sister, augusta fenne. indeed i seemed to have no claim at all on her recognition until she inquired whether it was not augusta fenne's cousin, dr julius fenne, who had died suddenly while on a visit to the bermudas. apparently it was. we all at once fell into better spirits, which were still more refreshed when lady pollacke remarked that augusta had also "gone off like that," and that fennes were a doomed family. but merely to smile and smile is not to partake; so i ventured to suggest that to judge from my last letter from my godmother she, at any rate, was in her usual health; and i added, rather more cheerfully perhaps than the fact warranted, that my family seemed to be doomed too, since, so far as i was aware, i myself was the last of it left alive. at this a sudden gush of shame welled up in me at the thought that through all my troubles i had never once remembered the kindnesses of my step-grandfather; that he, too, might be dead. i was so rapt away by the thought that i caught only the last three words of miss bullace's murmured aside to lady pollacke, _viz._, "not blush unseen." lady pollacke raised her eyebrows and nodded vigorously; and then to my joy mr crimble and a venerable old lady with silver curls clustering out of her bonnet were shown into the room. he looked pale and absent as he bent himself down to take my hand. it was almost as if in secret collusion we had breathed the word fanny together. mrs crimble was supplied with a tea-cup, and her front teeth were soon unusually busy with a slice of thin bread and butter. eating or drinking, her intense old eyes dwelt distantly but assiduously on my small shape; and she at last entered into a long story of how, as a girl, she had been taken to a circus--a circus: and there had seen.... but _what_ she had seen mr crimble refused to let her divulge. he jerked forward so hastily that his fragment of toasted scone rolled off his plate into the wild beast's skin, and while, with some little difficulty, he was retrieving it, he assured us that his mother's memory was little short of miraculous, and particularly in relation to the past. "i have noticed," he remarked, in what i thought a rather hollow voice, "that the more advanced in years we--er--happily become, the more closely we return to childhood." "senile...." i began timidly, remembering dr phelps's phrase. but mr crimble hastened on. "why, mother," he appealed to her, with an indulgent laugh, "i suppose to you i am still nothing but a small boy about that height?" he stretched out a ringless left hand about twenty-four inches above the rose-patterned carpet. the old lady was not to be so easily smoothed over. "you interrupted me, harold," she retorted, with some little show of indignation, "in what i was telling lady pollacke. even a child of that size would have been a perfect monstrosity." a lightning grimace swept over miss bullace's square features. "ah, ah, ah!" laughed mr crimble, "i am rebuked, i am in the corner! another scone, lady pollacke?" mrs crimble was a beautiful old lady; but it was with a rather unfriendly and feline eye that she continued to regard me; and i wondered earnestly if fanny had ever noticed this characteristic. "the fact of the matter is," said lady pollacke, with conviction, "our memories _rust_ for want of exercise. where, physically speaking, would you be, mr crimble, if you hadn't the parish to tramp over? precisely the same with the mind. every day i make a personal effort to commit some salient fact to memory--such a fact, for a _trivial_ example, as the date of the norman conquest. the consequence is, my husband tells me, i am a veritable encyclopædia. my father took after me. alexander the great, i have read somewhere, could address by name--though one may assume _not_ christian name--every soldier in his army. thomas babington macaulay, a great genius, poor man, knew by heart every book he had ever read. a veritable _mine_ of memory. on the other hand, i once had a parlour-maid, sarah jakes, who couldn't remember even the simplest of her duties, and if it hadn't been for my constant supervision would have given us port with the soup." "perfectly, perfectly true," assented miss bullace. "now mine is a verbal memory. my mind is a positive magnet for _words_. method, of course, is everything. i weld. let us say that a line of a poem terminates with the word _bower_, and the next line commences with _she_, i commit these to memory as one word--_bowershee_--and so master the sequence. my old friend, lady bovill porter--we were schoolfellows--recommended this method. it was edmund kean's, i fancy, or some other well-known actor's. how else indeed, could a great actor _realize_ what he was doing? word-perfect, you see, he is free." "exactly, exactly," sagely nodded mr crimble, but with a countenance so colourless and sad that it called back to my remembrance the picture of a martyr--of st sebastian, i think--that used to hang up in my mother's room. "and you?"--i discovered lady pollacke was rather shrilly inquiring of me. "is yours a verbal memory like miss bullace's; or are you in my camp?" "ah, there," cried mr crimble, tilting back his chair in sudden enthusiasm. "miss m. positively puts me to shame. and poetry, miss bullace; even your wonderful repertory!" "you mean miss m. _recites_?" inquired miss bullace, leaning forward over her lap. "but how entrancing! it is we, then, who are birds of a feather. and how i should adore to hear a fellow-enthusiast. now, won't you, lady pollacke, join your entreaties to mine? just a _stanza_ or two!" a chill crept through my bones. i had accepted lady pollacke's invitation, thinking my mere presence would be entertainment enough, and because i knew it was important to see life, and immensely important to see mr crimble. in actual fact it seemed i had hopped for a moment not _out_ of my cage, but merely, as fanny had said, into another compartment of it. "but mr crimble and i were only talking," i managed to utter. "oh, now, but do! delicious!" pleaded a trio of voices. their faces had suddenly become a little strained and unnatural. the threat of further persuasion lifted me almost automatically to my feet. with hunted eyes fixed at last on a small marble bust with stooping head and winged brow that stood on a narrow table under the window, i recited the first thing that sprang to remembrance--an old poem my mother had taught me, _tom o' bedlam_. "the moon's my constant mistress, and the lovely owl my marrow; the flaming drake, and the night-crow, make me music to my sorrow. i know more than apollo; for oft when he lies sleeping, i behold the stars at mortal wars, and the rounded welkin weeping. the moon embraces her shepherd, and the queen of love her warrior; while the first does horn the stars of the morn, and the next the heavenly farrier...." throughout these first three stanzas all went well. so rapt was my audience that i seemed to be breaking the silence of the seas beyond their furthest hebrides. but at the first line of the fourth--at "with a heart"--my glance unfortunately wandered off from the unheeding face of the image and swam through the air, to be caught, as it were, like fly by spider, by miss bullace's dark, fixed gaze, that lay on me from under her flat hat. "'with a heart,'" i began; and failed. some ghost within had risen in rebellion, sealed my tongue. it seemed to my irrational heart that i had--how shall i say it?--betrayed my "stars," betrayed fanny, that she and they and i could never be of the same far, quiet company again. so the "furious fancies" were never shared. the blood ran out of my cheek; i stuck fast; and shook my head. at which quite a little tempest of applause spent itself against the walls of lady pollacke's drawing-room, an applause reinforced by that of a little round old gentleman, who, unnoticed, had entered the room by a farther door, and was now advancing to greet his guest. he was promptly presented to me on the beast-skin, and with the gentlest courtesy begged me to continue. "'with a heart,' now; 'with a heart ...'" he prompted me, "a most important organ, though less in use nowadays than when _i_ was a boy." but it was in vain. even if he had asked me only to whisper the rest of the poem into his long, pink ear, for his sake alone, i could not have done so. moreover, mr crimble was still nodding his head at his mother in confirmation of his applause; and miss bullace was assuring me that mine was a poem entirely unknown to her, that, "with a few little _excisions_," it should be instantly enshrined in her repertory--"though perhaps a little bizarre!" and that if i made trial of lady bovill porter's _bowershee_ method, my memory would never again play me false. "the enunciation--am i not right, sir walter?--as distinct from the elocution--was flawless. and really, quite remarkable vocal power!" amidst these smiles and delights, and what with the brassy heat of the fire and the scent of the skin, i thought i should presently faint, and caught, as if at a straw, at the bust in the window. "how lovely!" i cried, with pointing finger.... at that, silence fell, but only for a moment. lady pollacke managed to follow the unexpected allusion, and led me off for a closer inspection. in the hushed course of our progress thither i caught out of the distance two quavering words uttered as if in expostulation, "apparent intelligence." it was mrs crimble addressing sir walter pollacke. "classical, you know," lady pollacke was sonorously informing me, as we stood together before the marble head. "charming pose, don't you think? though, as we see, only a fragment--one of sir walter's little hobbies." i looked up at the serene, winged, sightless face, and a whisper sounded on and on in my mind in its mute presence, "i know more than apollo; i know more than apollo." how strange that this mere deaf-and-dumbness should seem more real, more human even, than anything or any one else in lady pollacke's elegant drawing-room. but self-possession was creeping back. "who," i asked, "_is_ he? and who sculped him?" "scalped him?" cried lady pollacke, poring down on me in dismay. "cut him out?" "ah, my dear young lady," said a quiet voice, "that i cannot tell you. it is the head of hypnos, sleep, you know, the son of night and brother of death. one wing, as you see, has been broken away in preparation for this more active age, and yet ... only a replica, of course"; the voice trembled into richness, "but an exceedingly pleasant example. it gives me rare pleasure, rare pleasure," he stood softly rocking, hands under coat-tails, eyes drinking me in, "to--to have your companionship." what pleasure his words gave _me_, i could not--can never--express. then and there i was his slave for ever. "walter," murmured lady pollacke, as if fondly, smiling down on the rotund old gentleman, "you are a positive peacock over your little toys; is he not, mr crimble? did you ever hear of a _woman_ wasting her affections on the inanimate? even a doll, i am told, is an infant in disguise." but mr crimble had approached us not to discuss infants or woman, but to tell lady pollacke that her carriage was awaiting me. "then pity 'tis, 'tis true," cried she, as if in miss bullace's words. "but _please_, miss m., it must be the briefest of adieus. there are so many of my friends who would enjoy your company--and those delightful recitations. walter, will you see that everything's quite--er--convenient?" i am sure lady pollacke's was a flawless _savoir faire_, yet, when i held out my hand in farewell, her cheek crimsoned, it seemed, from some other cause than stooping. the crucial moment had arrived. if one private word was to be mine with mr crimble, it must be now or never. to my relief both gentlemen accompanied me out of the room, addressing their steps to mine. urgency gave me initiative. i came to a standstill on the tesselated marble of the hall, and this time proffered my hand to sir walter. he stooped himself double over it; and i tried in vain to dismiss from remembrance a favourite reference of pollie's to the guinea-pig held up by its tail. i wonder now what sir w. would have said of _me_ in _his_ autobiography: "and _there_ stood a flaxen spelican in the midst of the hearthrug; blushing, poor tiny thing, over her little piece like some little bread-and-butter miss fresh from school." something to that effect? i wonder still more who taught him so lovable a skill in handling that spelican? "there; good-bye," said he, "and the blessing, my dear young lady, of a fellow fanatic." he turned about and ascended the staircase. except for the parlour-maid who was awaiting me in the porch, mr crimble and i were alone. chapter twenty "mr crimble," i whispered, "i have a message." a tense excitement seized him. his face turned a dusky yellow. how curious it is to see others as they must sometimes see ourselves. should _i_ have gasped like that, if mr crimble had been fanny's mercury? "a letter from miss bowater," i whispered, "and i am to say," the cadaverous face was close above me, its sombre melting eyes almost bulging behind their glasses, "i am to say that she is giving yours '_her earnest attention, let alone her prayers_.'" i remember once, when adam waggett as a noisy little boy was playing in the garden at home, the string of his toy bow suddenly snapped: mr crimble drew back as straight and as swiftly as that. his eyes rained unanswerable questions. but the parlourmaid had turned to meet me, and the next moment she and i were side by side in lady pollacke's springy carriage _en route_ for my lodgings. i had given my message, but never for an instant had i anticipated it would have so overwhelming an effect. there must have been something inebriating in lady pollacke's tea. my mind was still simmering with excitement. and yet, during the whole of that journey, i spent not a moment on mr crimble's or fanny's affairs, or even on brunswick house, but on the dreadful problem whether or not i ought to "tip" the parlourmaid, and if so, with how much. where had i picked this enigma up? possibly from some chance reference of my father's. it made me absent and harassed. i saw not a face or a flower; and even when the parlourmaid was actually waiting at my request in mrs bowater's passage, i stood over my money-chest, still incapable of coming to a decision. instinct prevailed. just as i could not bring myself to complete _tom o' bedlam_ with miss bullace looking out of her eyes at me, so i could not bring myself to offer money to lady pollacke's nice prim parlourmaid. instead i hastily scrabbled up in tissue paper a large flat brooch--a bloodstone set in pinchbeck--a thing of no intrinsic value, alas, but precious to me because it had been the gift of an old servant of my mother's. i hastened out and lifting it over my head, pushed it into her hand. dear me, how ashamed of this impulsive action i felt when i had regained my solitude. should i not now be the jest of the pollacke kitchen and drawing-room alike?--for even in my anxiety to attain mr crimble's private ear, i had half-consciously noticed what a cascade of talk had gushed forth when mr crimble had closed the door of the latter behind him. that evening i shared with mrs bowater my experiences at brunswick house. so absorbed was i in my own affairs that i deliberately evaded any reference to hers. yet her pallid face, seemingly an inch longer and many shades more austere these last two days, touched my heart. "you won't think," i pleaded at last, "that i don't infinitely prefer being here, with you? isn't it, mrs bowater, that you and i haven't quite so many things to _pretend_ about? it is easy thinking of others when there are only one or two of them. but whole drawing-roomsful! while here; well, there is only just you and me." "why, miss," she replied, "as for pretending, the world's full of shadows, though substantial enough when it comes to close quarters. if we were all to look at things just bare in a manner of speaking, it would have to be the garden of eden over again. it can't be done. and it's just that that what's called the gentry know so well. we must make the best use of the mess we can." i was tired. the thin, sweet air of spring, wafted in at my window after the precocious heat of the day, breathed a faint, reviving fragrance. a curious excitement was in me. yet her words, or perhaps the tone of her voice, coloured my fancy with vague forebodings. i pushed aside my supper, slipped off my fine visiting clothes, and put on my dressing-gown. with lights extinguished, i drew the blind, and strove for a while to puzzle out life's riddle for myself. not for the first or the last time did wandering wits cheat me of the goal, for presently in the quiet out of my thoughts, stole into my imagination the vision of that dreaming head my eyes had sheltered on. "hypnos," i sighed the word; and--another face, fanny's, seemed to melt into and mingle with the visionary features. why, why, was my desperate thought, why needed _she_ allow the world to come to such close quarters? why, with so many plausible reasons given in her letter for keeping poor mr crimble waiting, had she withheld the one that counted for most? and what was it? i knew in my heart that _that_ could not be "making the best use of the mess." surely, if one just told only the truth, there wasn't anything else to tell. it had taken me some time to learn this lesson. a low, rumbling voice shook up from the kitchen. mrs bowater was talking to herself. dejection drew over me again at the thought of the deceit i was in, and i looked at my love for fanny as i suppose abraham at the altar of stones looked at his son isaac. then suddenly a thought far more matter-of-fact chilled through my mind. i saw again mr crimble huddling down towards me in that echoing hall, heard my voice delivering fanny's message, and realized that half of what i had said had been written in mockery. it had been intended for my eye only--"_let alone my prayers_." in the solitude of the darkness the words had a sound far more sinister than even fanny can have intended. mr crimble, however, had accepted them apparently in good faith--to judge at least from the letter which reached me the following morning:-- "dear miss m.,--thank you. i write with a mind so overburdened that words fail me. but i realize that miss bowater has no truer friend than yourself, and shall be frank. after that _terrible_ morning you might well have refused to help me. i cannot believe that you will--for her sake. this long concealment, believe me, is not of my own seeking. it cannot, it must not, continue, a moment beyond the necessity. for weeks, nay, months, i have been tortured with doubts and misgivings. her pride, her impenetrable heedlessness; oh, indeed, i realize the difficulties of her situation. i dare not speak till she gives consent. yet silence puts me in a false position, and tongues, as perhaps even you may be aware, begin to wag. nor is this my first attempt, and--to be more frank than i feel is discreet--there is my mother (quite apart from _hers_) now, alas, aged and more dependent on my affection and care than ever. to make a change now--the talk, the absence of christian _charity_, my own temperament and calling! i pray for counsel to guide my stumbling bark on this sea of _darkest_ tempest. "can f. decide that her affections are such as could justify her in committing her future to me? am i justified in asking her? you, too, must have many anxieties--anxieties perhaps unguessed at by those of coarser fibre. and though i cannot venture to ask your confidences, i do ask for your feminine intuition--even though this may seem an _intrusion_ after my sad discomfiture the other day. and yet, i assure you, it was not corporeal fear--are not we priests the police of the city beautiful? might i not have succeeded merely in making us _both_ ridiculous? but that is past, and the dead past must bury its dead: there is no gentler sexton. "need i say that this letter is not the fruit of any mere _impulse_. the thought, the very image of her never leaves my consciousness night or day; and i get no rest. i am almost afraid at the power she has of imprinting herself on the mind. i implore you to be discreet, without needless deception. i will wait patiently. my last desire is to _hasten_ an answer--unless, dear miss m., one in the affirmative. and would it be possible--indeed the chief purpose of this letter was to make this small request--would it be possible to give me one hour--no tea--this afternoon? there was a phrase in your whispered message--probably because of the peculiar acoustic properties of brunswick house--that was but half-caught. we must not risk the faintest shadow of misunderstanding. "believe me, yours most gratefully, though 'perplexed in the extreme,' "harold crimble. "ps.--i feel at times that it is incumbent on one to burn one's boats; even though out of sight the further shore. "and the letter: would it be even possible to share a glance at _that_?" my old habit of hunting in the crannies of what i read had ample opportunity here. two things stood out in my mind: a kind of astonishment at mr crimble's "stumbling bark" which he was asking _me_ to help to steer, and inexpressible relief that fanny's letter was buried beyond hope of recovery before he could call that afternoon. the more i pitied and understood his state of mind, the more helpless and anxious i felt. then, in my foolish fashion, i began again picturing in fancy the ceremony that would bring mr crimble and my landlady into so close a relationship. why did he fear the wagging of tongues so much? i didn't. would miss bullace be a bridesmaid? would i? i searched in my drawer and read over the "form of solemnization of matrimony." i came to "the dreadful day of judgment," and to "serve" and "obey," and shivered. i was not sure that i cared for the way human beings had managed these things. but at least, bridesmaids _said_ nothing, and if i---- while i was thus engaged mrs bowater entered the room. i smuggled my prayer-book aside and gave her fanny's letter. she was always a woman of few words. she folded it reflectively; took off her spectacles, replaced them in their leather case, and that in her pocket. "'soap, handkerchiefs, stockings,'" she mused, "though why in the world she didn't _say_ 'silk' is merely fanny's way. and i am sure, miss," she added, "she must have had one peculiar moment when the thought occurred to her of the bolt." "but, mrs bowater," i cried in snake-like accents, "you _said_ you were 'soliciting no divulgements.'" mrs bowater's mouth opened in silent laughter. "between you----" she began, and broke off. "gracious goodness, but here's that young man, mr crimble, calling again." mr crimble drank tea with me, though he ate nothing. and now, his darkest tempest being long since stilled, i completely absolve myself for amending the message which lady pollacke's tesselated hall had mercifully left obscure. he sat there, almost like a goldfish--though black in effect beyond description--gaping for the crumb that never comes. "she bade me," i muttered my falsehood, "she bade me say secretly that she has had your letter, that she is giving it her earnest attention, her earnest attention, _alone, and in her prayers_." the dark liquid pupils appeared for one sheer instant to rotate, then he turned away, and, as if quite helplessly, stifled an unsheltered yawn. "'alone,'" he cried desperately. "i see myself, i see myself in her young imagination!" i think he guessed that my words were false, that his ear had not been as treacherous as all that. whether or not, no human utterance have i ever heard so humble, tragic, final. it knelled in my ear like the surrender of all hope. and yet it brought me, personally, some enlightenment. it was with mr crimble's eyes that i now scanned not only his phantom presence in fanny's imagination, but my own, standing beside him--a "knick-knack" figure of fun, pygmied beneath the flappets of his clerical coat, like a sun-beetle by a rook. the spectacle strengthened me without much affecting fanny. she was no longer the absolute sultana of my being. i could _think_ now, as well as adore. how strange it is that when our minds are needled to a sharp focus mere "things" swarm so close. there was not a single ornament or book or fading photograph in mrs bowater's parlour that in this queer privacy did not mutely seem to cry, "yes, here am i. this is how things go." i leant forward and looked at him. "we mustn't care what she sees, what she thinks, if only we can go on loving her." "'can, can'?" echoed mr crimble, "i have prayed on my knees _not_ to." this was a sharp ray on my thoughts of love. "but why?" i said. "even when i was a child, i knew by my mother's face that i must go on, and should go on, loving her, mr crimble, whether she loved me or not. one can't make a bad mistake in giving, can one? and yet--well, you must remember that i cannot but have been a--a disappointment; that as long as i live i can't expect any great affection, any disproportionate one, i mean." "but, but," he stumbled on, "a daughter's affection--it's different. i mustn't brood on my trouble. it unhinges me. why, the clock stops. but nevertheless may god bless you for that." "but surely," i persisted, smiling as cheerfully as i could, "_nil desperandum_, mr crimble. and you know what they say about fish in the sea." his eye rolled round on me as if a serpent had spoken. "i am sorry, i am sorry," he repeated rapidly, in the same low, unemphatic undertone as if to himself. "i must just wait. you have never seen a sheep--a bullock, shall we call him?--being driven to the slaughter-house. on, on--from despair to despair. that's my position." his face was emptied of expression, his eyes fixed. these words, his air, his look, this awful private thing--i can't say--it shocked and frightened me beyond words. but i answered him steadily none the less. "listen, mr crimble," i said, "look at _me_, here, what i am. i have had my desperate moments too--more alone in the world than you can ever be! and i swear before god that i will never, never be _not_ myself." i wonder what the listener thought of this little challenge, not perhaps what mr crimble did. "well," he replied, with sudden calm, "that's the courage of the martyrs, and not all of them perhaps have been christians, if history is to be credited. yes, and in sober truth, i assure you, _you_, that i would go to the stake for--for miss bowater." he rose, and in that instant of dignity i foresaw what was never to be--lawn sleeves encasing those loose, black arms. he had somehow wafted me back to my confirmation. "and the letter? i have no wish to intrude. but her actual words. i mayn't see _that_?" "you will please forgive me," i entreated helplessly, "it is buried; because, you see, fanny--you see, mrs bowater----" "ah," he said. "it is this deception which dismays, scandalizes me most. but you will keep me informed?" he seized his soft round hat, and it was on this cold word we parted. i stood by the window, with hand stretched out to summon him back. but no word of comfort or hope came to my aid, and i watched him out of sight. chapter twenty-one that night i wrote to fanny, copying out my letter from the scrawling draft from which i am copying it now:-- "dear fanny,--i have given mr crimble your message; first, exactly in your own words, though he did not quite hear them, and then, leaving out a little. you may be angry at what i am going to say--but i am quite sure you ought to answer him at _once_. fanny, he's _dreadfully_ fond of you. i never even dreamed people were like that--in such torture for what can't be, unless you mean you _do_ care, but are too proud to tell him so. if he knows you have no heart for him, he may soon be better. this sounds hateful. but i am not such a pin in a pincushion as not to know that even the greatest sorrows and disappointments wear out. why, isn't that beech-tree we sat under a kind of cannibal of its own dead leaves? "your private letter is quite safe; though i prefer not to burn it--indeed, _cannot_ burn it. you know how i have longed for it. but please, if possible, don't send me two in future. it doesn't seem fair; and your mother knew already about our star-gazing. you see, how else could the door have been bolted!! but it's best to have been found out--next, i mean, to telling oneself. "what day are you coming home? i look at it, as if it were a lighthouse--even though it is out of sight. shall we go on with _wuthering heights_ when you do come? i saw the 'dazzling' moon--but there, fanny, what i want most to beg of you is to write to mr. crimble--all that you feel, even if not all that you think. no, perhaps i mean the reverse. he must have been wondering about you long before i began to. and there it was, all sunken in; no one could have guessed his longing by looking at him. i am afraid it must affect his health. "and now good-bye. i have made a vow to myself not to think into things too much. your affectionate friend (as much of her as there is)-- "midgetina. "ps.--please tell me the _day_ you are coming; and that shall be my birthday." fanny was prompt in reply:-- "dear midgetina,--it's a strange fact, but while, to judge from your letter, _you_ seem to be growing smaller, i (in spite of miss stebbings's water porridge) am growing fatter. now, which is the tragedy? i _may_ come home on the th. if so, kill the fatted calf; i will supply the birthday-cake. how foolish of you to keep letters. i never do, lest i should remember the answers. anyhow, i shall not write again. but if, by any chance, mr crimble should make another call, will you explain that my chief motive in not singing at the concert was because i should have been a second mezzo-soprano. one of two in one concert _must_ be superfluous. perhaps i did not explain this clearly; nor did i say how charming i thought my double was. "i am tired--of overwork. i have finished _wuthering heights_. it is a mad, untrue book. the world is not like emily brontë's conception of it. it is neither dream nor nightmare, midgetina, but wide, wide awake. and i am convinced that the poets are only cherubs with sugar-sticks to their little rosebud mouths. i abominate whitewash. as for 'putting people out of their misery,' and cannibal beech-trees: no, fretful midge! if you could see me sitting here looking down on rows and rows of vacant and hostile faces--though one or two are infatuated enough--you would realize that such a practice would lead me into miscellaneous infanticide. "personally, i never did think into things too painfully; though as regards 'telling,' the reverse is _certainly_ the wiser course. so you will forgive so short, and perhaps none too sweet, a letter from your affec.--f." enclosed with this was a narrow slip of paper:-- "i shall _not_ write to you know who. think, if you like, but don't _feel_ like a microscope. he is only in love. and however punctilious your own practice may be, pray, miss m., do not preach--at any rate to your affecte. but unregenerate friend.--f." i believe i drafted and destroyed three answers to this letter. it broke down my defences far more easily than had the errand boys. it shamed me for a prig, a false friend, a sentimentalist. and the "fretful midge" rankled like salt in a wounded heart. yet fanny was faithless even to her postscript. a sheaf of narcissuses hooded in blue tissue paper was left at the house a day or two afterwards. it was accompanied by mr crimble's card in a little envelope tied in with the stalks:-- "i am given a ray of hope." mrs bowater had laid this offering on my table with a peculiar grimace, whether scornful or humorous, it was impossible to detect. "from mr crimble, miss. why, one might think he had two irons in the fire!" i sat gazing at this thank-offering long after she had gone--the waxy wings, the crimson-rimmed corona, the pale-green cluster of pistil and stamen. the heavy perfume stole over my senses, bringing only weariness and self-distaste to my mind. fly that i was, caught in a web--once more i began a letter to fanny, imploring her to write to her mother, to tell her everything. but that letter, too, was torn up into tiny pieces and burnt in the fire. next morning, heavily laden with my parasol, a biscuit or two in my bag, my _sense and sensibility_ and a rug in my arms, i set off very early for wanderslore, having arranged with mrs bowater over night that she should meet me under my beech at a quarter to one. under the flat, bud-pointed branches, i pressed on between clusters of primrose, celandine, and wild wood anemone, breathing in the earthy freshness of grass and moss. and presently i came out between the stones and jutting roots in sight of the vacant windows. i stood for a moment confronting their black regard, then descended the knoll and was soon making myself comfortable beside the garden house. but first i managed to clamber up on a fragment of the fallen masonry and peep in at its low windows. a few dead, last-year's flies lay dry on their backs; dusty, derelict spider-webs; a litter of straw, and a few potsherds--the place was empty. but it was mine, and the very remembrance of which it whispered to me--the picture of my poor father's bedroom that night of the storm--only increased my sense of possession. what was wrong with me just then, what i had sallied out in hope to be delivered from, was the unhappy conviction that my life was worthless, and i of no use in the world. i had taught myself to make knots in strings, but actual experience seemed to have proved that most human fumblings resulted only in "grannies" and not in the true lover's variety. they secured nothing, only tangled and jammed. i was young then, and yet as heavily burdened with other people's responsibilities as was poor christian with the bundle of his sins. but my bundle, too, in that lovely, desolate loneliness at last fell off my shoulders. could i not still be loyal in heart and mind to fanny, even though now i knew how little she cared whether i was loyal or not? i even climbed up behind mr crimble's thick spectacles and looked down again at myself from that point of vantage. whether or not i was his affair, i could try to make him mine--perhaps even persuade fanny to love him. oh, dear; was not every singing bird in that wilderness, every unfolding flower and sunlit march leaf welcoming the spirit within me to their quiet habitation? as if in response to this naïve thought, welled up in my memory the two last stanzas of my _tom o' bedlam_, which, either for pride or shame, had stuck in my throat on the skin mat in lady pollacke's sky-lit drawing-room:---- "with a heart of furious fancies, whereof i am commander: with a burning spear, and a horse of air, to the wilderness i wander. with a knight of ghosts and shadows, i summoned am to tourney: ten leagues beyond the wide world's end; methinks it is no journey." parasol for spear, the youngest miss shanks's pony for horse of air, there was i (even though common-sized boots might reckon it a mere mile or so), ten leagues at least beyond--mrs bowater's. nor, like her husband, had i broken my leg; nor had fanny broken my heart. all would come right again. why, what a waste of fanny it would be to make her mrs crimble. my bishop, according to miss fenne, had had quite a homely helpmate, "little short of a frump, caroline, as i remember her thirty years ago." perhaps if i left off my fine colours and bought a nice brown stuff dress and a bonnet, might not mr crimble change his mind...? i have noticed that as soon as i begin to laugh at myself, the whole world seems to smile in return. absurd, contrary, volatile creature that i was--a kind of thankfulness spread over my mind. i turned on to my knees where i sat and repeated the prayers which in my haste to be off i had neglected before coming out. and thus kneeling, i opened my eyes on the garden again, bathed delicately in the eastern sunshine. there was my old friend, mr clodd's _nature_, pranking herself under the nimble fingers of spring; and in her sight as well as in the sight of my godmother's god, and mr crimble's almighty, and, possibly, of dr phelps's norm, were not, in deed and in truth, all men equal? how mysterious and how entrancing! if "sight," then _eyes_: but whose? where? i gazed round me dazzledly, and if wings had been mine, would have darted through the thin, blue-green veil and been out into the morning. poor she-knight! romantical miss midge! she had no desire to hunt big game, or turn steeplejack; her fancies were not dangerously "furious"; but, as she knelt there, environed about by that untended garden, and not so ridiculously pygmy either, even in the ladder of the world's proportion--saw-edged blade of grass, gold-cupped moss, starry stonecrop, green musky moschatel, close-packed pebble, wax-winged fly--well, i know not how to complete the sentence except by remarking that i am exceedingly glad i began to write my life. i realized too that it is less flattering to compare oneself with the very little things of the world than with the great. given time, i might scale an alp; i could only _kill_ an ant. besides, i am beginning to think that one of the pleasantest ways of living is in one's memory. how much less afflicting at times would my present have been if i had had the foresight to remind myself how beguiling it would appear as the past. even my old sharpest sorrows have now hushed themselves to sleep, and those for whom i have sorrowed are as quiet. having come to a pause in my reflections, i opened my _sense and sensibility_ at chapter xxxv. yet attend to miss austen i could not. she is one of those compact and cautious writers that will not feed a wandering mind; and at last, after three times re-reading the same paragraph, an uneasy conviction began to steal over me. there was no doubt now in my mind. i was being watched. softly, stealthily, i raised my eyes from my book and with not the least motion of head or body, glanced around me. whereupon, as if it had been playing sentinel out of the thicket near at hand, a blackbird suddenly jangled its challenge, and with warning cries fled away on its wings towards the house. chapter twenty-two then instantly i discovered the cause of the bird's alarm. at first i fancied that this strange figure was at some little distance. then i realized that his stature had misled me, and that he could not be more than twenty or thirty yards away. standing there, with fixed, white face and black hair, under a flowering blackthorn, he remained as motionless and as intent as i. he was not more than a few inches, apparently, superior in height to myself. "so," i seemed to whisper, as gaze met gaze, "there!" hardly certain the while if he was real or an illusion. indeed, if, even then before my eyes, he had faded out into the tangle of thorn, twig, and thin-spun blossom above and around him, it would not have greatly astonished, though it would have deeply disappointed me. with a peculiar, trembling curiosity, i held him with my gaze. if he would not disclose himself, then must i. slowly and deliberately my cold hand crept out and grasped my parasol. without for a moment removing my eyes from this interloper's face, i pushed its ribbed silk tent taut into the air. click! went the tiny spring; and at that he stirred. "who are you: watching me?" i cried in a low, steady voice across the space that divided us. his head stooped a little. i fancied--and feared--that he was about to withdraw. but after a pause he drew himself up and came nearer, casting, as he approached, his crooked shadow away from the sun on the close-cropped turf beside him. to this day i sometimes strive in vain to see, quite clearly in my mind, that face, as it appeared at that first meeting. a different memory of it obtrudes itself; yet how many, many times have i searched his features for news of himself, and looked passingly--and once with final intensity--into those living eyes. but i recollect that his clothes looked slightly out of keeping and grotesque amid the green things of early spring. it seemed he had wasted in them. so, too, the cheek had wasted over its bone, and seemed parched; the thin lips, the ears slightly pointed. and then broke out his low, hollow voice. scarcely rising or falling, the mere sound of it seemed to be as full of meaning as the words. he looked at me, and at all i possessed, as if piece by piece--as if he had been a long time searching for them all. yet he now seemed to avoid my eyes, though they were serenely awaiting his. indeed from this moment almost to the last, i was never at a loss or distressed in his company. he never called me out of myself beyond an easy and happy return, though he was to creep into my imagination as easily as a single bee creeps into the thousand-celled darkness of its hive. whenever i parted from him, his remembrance was like that of one of those strange figures which thrust themselves as if out of the sleep-world into the mind's wakefulness; vividly, darkly, impress themselves upon consciousness, and then are gone. so i sometimes wonder if i ever really knew him, if he was ever perfectly real to me; like fanny, for instance. yet he made no pretence to be mysterious, and we were soon talking together almost as naturally as if we were playmates of childhood who had met again after a long separation. he confessed that, quite unknown to me, he had watched me come and go in the cold mornings of winter, when frost had soon driven me home again out of the bare, frozen woods. he had even been present, i think, when fanny and i had shared--or divided--the stars between us. a faint distaste at any rate showed itself on his face when he admitted that he had seen me not alone. i was unaccustomed to that kind of interest, and hardly knew whether to be pleased or angry. "but you know i come here to be alone," i said as courteously as possible. "yes," he answered, with face turned away. "that's how i saw you." without my being aware of it, too, he played a kind of chess with me, seizing each answer in turn for hook on which to hang another question. what had i to conceal? of my short history, though not of myself, i told him freely; yet asked him few questions in return. nor at that time did i even consider how strange a chance had brought two such human beings as he and i to this place of meeting. yet, after all, whales are but little creatures by comparison with the ocean in which they roam, and glow-worm will keep tryst with glow-worm in forests black as night. through all he said was woven a thread of secrecy. so low and monotonous was his voice (not lifting itself much, but only increasing in resonance when any thought angered or darkened his mind); so few were his gestures that he might have been talking in his sleep. not once that long morning did he laugh, not even when i mischievously proffered him my parasol (as he sat a few paces away) to screen him from the march sun! solemnly he shared mrs bowater's biscuits with me, scattering the crumbs to a robin that hopped up between us, as if he had been invited to our breakfast. his head hung so low between his heavy shoulders that it reminded me of a flower stooping for want of water. not that there was anything limp or fragile or gentle in his looks. he was, far rather, clumsy and ugly in appearance, yet with a grace in his look like that of an old, haggled thorn-tree when the wind moves its branches. and anyhow, he was come to be my friend--out of the unknown. and when i looked around at the serene wild loveliness of the garden, it seemed to be no less happy a place because it was no longer quite a solitude. "you read," he said, glancing reflectively, but none too complimentarily, at my book. "it isn't wise to think too much." i replied solemnly, shutting miss austen up. "besides, as i haven't the opportunity of seeing many people in the flesh, you know, the next best thing is to meet them in books--specially in this kind of book. if only i were jane austen; my gracious, i would enjoy myself! her people are just the same as people are now--inside. i doubt if leopards really want to change their spots. but of course"--i added, since he did not seem inclined to express any opinion--"i read other kinds of books as well. that's the best of being a dunce--there's so much to learn! just lately i have been learning to tie knots." i laughed, and discovered that i was blushing. he raised his eyes slowly to my face, then looked so long and earnestly at my hands, that i was forced to hide them away under my bag. long before i had noticed that his own hands were rather large and powerful for his size. fanny's face i had loved to watch for its fairness and beauty--it would have been as lovely if she had not been within. to watch mrs bowater's was like spelling out bits of a peculiar language. i often found out what she was feeling or thinking by imitating her expression, and then translating it, after she was gone. this young man's kept me engrossed because of the self that brooded in it--its dark melancholy, too; and because even then, perhaps, i may have remotely and vaguely realized that flesh and spirit could not be long of one company. he himself was, as it were, a foreigner to me, and i felt i must make the best and most of him before he went off again. perhaps memory reads into this experience more than in those green salad days i actually found there. but of this at least i am certain--that the morning sped on unheeded in his company, and i was even unconscious of how cold i was until he suddenly glanced anxiously into my face and told me so. so now we wandered off together towards the great house--which hitherto i had left unapproached. we climbed the green-stained scaling steps from terrace to terrace, tufted with wallflower and snapdragon amongst the weeds, cushioned with bright moss, fretted with lichen. standing there, side by side with him, looking up--our two figures alone, on the wide flowerless weed-grown terrace--hale, sour weeds some of them, shoulder-high--i scrutinized the dark, shut windows. what was the secret that had kept it so long vacant, i inquired. mrs bowater had never given me any coherent answer to this question. my words dropped into the silence, like a pebble into a vast, black pool of water. "there was a tale about," he replied indifferently, and yet, as i fancied, not so indifferently as he intended, "that many years ago a woman"--he pronounced the word almost as if it had reference to a different species from ourselves--"that a woman had hanged herself in one of its upper rooms." "hanged herself!" it was the kind of fable mrs ballard used to share with adam waggett's mother over their tea and shrimps. frowning in horror and curiosity, i scanned his face. was this the water i could dip for in his well? alas, how familiar i was to become with the bucket. he made a movement with his hands; at which i saw the poor creature up there in the darkness, suspended lifeless, poor, poor human, with head awry. "why?" i asked him, pondering childishly over this picture. "it was mere gossip," he replied, "and true or not, such as 'they' make up to explain their own silly superstitions. just thinking long enough and hard enough would soon invite an evil spirit into any old empty house. human beings are no better than sheep, though they don't always see the dogs and shepherds that drive them." "and does it," i faltered, glancing covertly up the walls, and conscious of a novel vein of interest in this strangely inexhaustible world, "does the evil spirit ever look out of the windows?" he turned his face to me, smiling; and inquired if i had ever heard the phrase, "the eyelids of the dawn." "there's night, too," he said. "but whose spirit? whose?" i persisted. "when i am here alone in the garden, why, it is just peace. how could that be, if an evil spirit haunted here?" "yes," he said, "but a selfish, solitary peace. dead birds don't sing. don't come when you can't get back; or the clouds are down." "you are trying to frighten me," i said, in a louder voice. "and i have been too much alone for that. of course things must look after themselves. don't _we_? and you said an _evil_ spirit. what is the good of dreaming when you are wide awake?" "then," said he, almost coldly, "do you deny that man is an evil spirit? he distorts and destroys." but with that the words of my mother came back to me out of a far-away morning: "he made us of his power and love." yet i could not answer him, could only wait, as if expectant that by mere silence i should be able to share the thoughts he was thinking. and, all the while, my eyes were brooding in some dark chamber of my mind on fanny, and not, as they well might have, on the dark bark of mr crimble tossing in jeopardy beneath its fleeting ray of hope. truly this stranger was making life very interesting, even if he was only prodding over its dead moles. and truly i was an incorrigibly romantic young lady; for when, with a glance at my grandfather's watch, i discovered that it was long past noon, and told him i must be gone; without a single moment's hesitation, i promised to come again to meet him on the very first fine morning that showed. so strong within me was the desire to do so, that a profound dismay chilled my mind when, on turning about at the end of the terrace--for he had shown no inclination to accompany me--i found that he was already out of sight. i formally waved my hand towards where he had vanished in case he should be watching; sighed, and went on. it was colder under the high, sunless trees. i gathered my cloak closer around me, and at that discovered not only that miss austen had been left behind, but that fanny's letter still lay in undisturbed concealment beneath its stone. it was too late to return for them now, and a vague misgiving that had sprung up in me amid the tree-trunks was quieted by the assurance that for these--rather than for any other reason--i must return to wanderslore as soon as i could. so, in remarkably gay spirits, i hastened light-heeled on my way in the direction of civilized society, of nefarious man, and of my never-to-be-blessed-too-much mrs bowater. chapter twenty-three my landlady was already awaiting me at the place appointed, and we walked off together towards the house. it had been a prudent arrangement, for we met and passed at least half a dozen strangers before we arrived there, and one and all by the unfeigned astonishment with which they turned to watch our two figures out of sight (for i stooped once or twice, as if to tie my shoelace, in order to see), clearly proved themselves to belong to that type of humanity to which my new acquaintance had referred frigidly as they. vanity of vanities, when one old loitering gentleman did not so much as lift an eyelid at me--he was so absorbed in own thoughts--i felt a pang of annoyance. as soon as i was safely installed in my own room again, i confided in mrs bowater a full account of my morning's adventure. not so much because i wished to keep free of any further deceit, as because i simply couldn't contain myself, and must talk of my stranger. she heard me to the end without question, but with an unusual rigidity of features. she compressed her lips even tighter before beginning her catechism. "what was the young man's name," she inquired; "and where did he live?" my hope had been that she herself would be able to supply these little particulars. with a blank face, i shook my head: "we just talked of things in general." "i see," she said, and glanced at me, as if over her spectacles. her next question was even less manageable. "was the young fellow a gentleman?" alas! she had fastened on a flaw in my education. this was a problem absolutely new to me. i thought of my father, of mr waggett, dr grose, dr phelps, the old farmer in the railway train, of sir walter pollacke, my bishop, heathcliff, mr bowater, mr clodd, even henry--or rather all these male phantoms went whisking across the back of my mind, calling up every other two-legged creature of the same gender within sight or hearing. meanwhile, mrs bowater stood like patience on her brussels carpet, or rather like thomas de torquemada, watching these intellectual contortions. "well, really, do you know, mrs bowater," i was forced to acknowledge at last, with a sigh and a smile, "i simply can't say. i didn't think of it. that seems rather on _his_ side, doesn't it? but to be quite, quite candid, perhaps _not_ a gentleman; not _exactly_, i mean." "which is no more than i supposed," was her comment, "and if _not_--and any kind of not, miss--what was he, then? and _if_ not, why, you can never go there again!" "indeed, but i must," i said, as if to myself. "with your small knowledge of the world," she retorted unmovedly, "you must, if you please, be guided by those with more. who isn't a gentleman couldn't be desirable company if chanced on like a stranger in a young lady's lonely rambles. and _how_ tall did you say? and what's more," she continued, not pausing for an answer, and gathering momentum on her way, "if he _is_ a gentleman, i'd better come along with you, miss, and see for myself." a rebellious and horrified glance followed her retreating figure out of the room. so this was the reward for being open and above-board. what a ridiculous figure i should cut, tippeting along behind my landlady. what would my stranger think of me? what would she think of him? _was_ he a "gentleman"? to decide whether or not the spirit of man is an evil spirit had been an easy problem by comparison. _gentle man_--why, of course, self muttered in shame to self convicted of yet another mean little snobbery. he had been almost absurdly gentle--had treated me as if i were an angel rather than a young woman. but the nettlerash produced by mrs bowater's bigotry was not to be so easily allayed as all that. it had invited yet another kind of them in. an old, green, rotting board hung over the wicket gate that led up the stony path into wanderslore--"trespassers will be prosecuted." why couldn't one put boards up in the wanderslore of one's mind? my landlady had never inquired if lady pollacke was a gentlewoman. how mechanical things were in their unexpectedness. that morning i had gone out to free myself from the crimble tangle, merely to return with a few more knots in the skein. a dead calm descended on me. i was adrift in the sargasso sea--in the doldrums, and had dropped my sextant overboard. even a long stare at the master-mariner on the wall gave me no help. yet i must confess that these foolish reflections made me happy. i would share them with fanny--perhaps with the "gentleman" himself, some day. i leaned over the side of my small vessel, more deeply interested in the voyage than i had been since pollie had carried me out of my girlhood into the waggetts' wagonette. and as i sat there, simmering over these novelties, a voice, clear as a cockcrow, exclaimed in my mind, "if father hadn't died, i'd have had nothing of all this." my hands clenched damp in my lap at this monstrosity. but i kept my wits and managed to face it. "if father hadn't died," i answered myself, "you don't know _what_ would have happened. and if you think that, because i am happy now, anything could make me _not_ wish him back, it's a lie." but i remained a little less comfortable in mind. the evening post brought me a letter and a registered parcel. i turned them over and over, examining the unfamiliar handwriting, the bright red seals; but all in vain. in spite of my hard-won knotlore, i was still kneeling over the package and wrestling with string and wax, when mrs bowater, folding _her_ letter away in its envelope, announced baldly: "she's not coming home, it seems, at all these holidays, having been invited by some school friend into the country--merriden, or some such place. not that you might expect fanny to write plain, when she doesn't _mean_ plain." "oh, mrs bowater! not at all?" cold fogs of disappointment swept in, blotting out my fool's paradise. that inward light without which life is dark indeed died in eclipse. the one thought and desire which i now realized i had been feeding on from hour to hour, had been snatched away. to think that they had been nothing but waste. "oh, fanny," i whispered bitterly to myself, "oh, fanny!" but the face i lifted to her mother showed only defiance. "well," i muttered, "who cares? let's hope she will enjoy herself better than mooning about in this dingy old place." mrs bowater merely continued to look quietly over the envelope at me. "oh, but you know, mrs bowater," i quaked miserably, "it's not dingy to _me_. surely a promise is a promise, whoever you make it to!" with that i stooped my face over the stuffy-smelling brown paper, and attacked the last knot with my teeth. with eyes still a little asquint with resentment i smoothed away the wrappings from the shape within. then every thought evaporated in a sigh. for there, of a delicate veined fairness against the white paper, lay a minute copy in ivory of none but lovely hypnos. half-blindly i stared at it--lost in a serenity beyond all hope of my poor, foolish life--then lifted it with both hands away from my face: "a present--to me! look!" i cried, "look!" mrs bowater settled her face over the image as if it had been some tropical and noxious insect i was offering for her inspection. but i thrust it into her hand and opened my letter:-- "my dear young lady,--i am no poet, and therefore cannot hope to share with you the music of 'the flaming drake,' but we did share my hypnos. only a replica, as i told you, but none the less one of the most beautiful things i possess. will you, then, give me the pleasure of accepting the contents of the little package i am having posted with this--as a small token of the delight your enthusiasm gave yours most sincerely,-- "walter pollacke. "ps.--lady pollacke tells me that we may perhaps again look forward to your company to tea in a few days, please do not think, then, of acknowledging this little message by post." but i did acknowledge it, not with that guardedness of the feelings which miss austen seemed to recommend, but from the very depths of my heart. next morning came lady pollacke's invitation:-- "dear miss m.,--i hasten to renew my invitation of last thursday. will you give us the pleasure of your company at tea on friday afternoon? mrs monnerie--the younger daughter, as you will remember, of lord b.--has expressed an exceedingly warm wish to make your acquaintance, and mr. pellew, who is giving us a course of sermons at st. peter's during holy week, will also be with us. may we, perhaps, share yet another of those _delightful_ recitations? "believe me, "yours sincerely, "lydia preston pollacke." i searched my memory for memorial of lord b.; alas, in vain. this lapse made the thought of meeting his younger daughter a little alarming. yet i must confess to having been pleasantly flattered by these attentions. even the black draught administered by fanny, who had not even thought it worth her while to send me a word of excuse or explanation, lost much of its bitterness. i asked mrs bowater if she supposed i might make sir walter a little present in return for his. would it be a proper thing to do, would it be _lady_like? "what's meant kindly," she assured me, after a moment's reflection, "even if taken amiss, which, to judge from his letter, it won't be, is nothing to be thought of but only _felt_." this advice decided me, and early on my friday morning i trimmed and freshened up as well as i could one of my grandfather's dwarf cedar-trees which, in the old days, had stood on my window balcony. its branches were now a little dishevelled, but it was still a fresh and pretty thing in its grey-green pot. chapter twenty-four with this dwarf tree in my arms, when came the auspicious afternoon, i followed lady pollacke's parlourmaid--her neat little bonnet tied with a bow under her ear--down my bateses, and was lifted by mrs bowater into the carriage. how demure a greeting we exchanged when, the maid and i having seated ourselves together under its hood, my glance fell upon the bloodstone brooch pinned conspicuously for the occasion near the topmost button of her trim, outdoor jacket. it gave me so much confidence that even the sudden clatter of conversation that gushed out over me in the doorway of lady pollacke's drawing-room failed to be disconcerting. the long, flowery room was thronged with company, and everybody was talking to everybody else. on my entry, as if a seraph had spoken, the busy tongues sank instantly to a hush. i stood stilettoed by a score of eyes. but sir walter had been keeping good watch for me, and i at once delivered my great pot into his pink, outstretched hands. "my dear, dear young lady," he cried, stooping plumply over me, "the pleasure you give me! a little masterpiece: and real old nankin. alas, my poor hypnos!" "but it is me, _me_," i cried. "if i could only tell you!" a murmur of admiration rippled across the room, in which i distinctly heard a quavering, nasal voice exclaim, "touching, touching!" the words--as if a pleasant sheep had bleated--came, i fancied, from a rather less fashionable lady with a lorgnette, who was sitting almost alone on the outskirts of the room, and who i afterwards discovered was only a widowed sister of lady pollacke's. but i could spare her but one startled glance, for, at the same moment, i was being presented to the younger daughter of lord b. mrs monnerie sat amply reclining in an immense gilded chair--a lady with a large and surprising countenance. lady pollacke's "_younger_" had misled my fancy. far from being the slim, fair, sylphlike thing of my expectations, mrs monnerie cannot have been many years the junior of my godmother, miss fenne. her skin had fallen into the queerest folds and puckers. her black swimming eye under a thick eyebrow gazed down her fine, drooping nose at me with a dwelling expression at once indulgent, engrossed, and amused. with a gracious sweep of her hand she drew aside her voluminous silk skirts so that i could at once install myself by her side in a small, cane-seated chair that had once, i should fancy, accommodated a baby pollacke, and had been brought down from the nursery for this occasion. thus, then, i found myself--the exquisitely self-conscious centre of attention--striving to nibble a biscuit, nurse my child-size handleless tea-cup, and respond to her advances at one and the same time. lady pollacke hung like a cloud at sunset over us both, her cheek flushed with the effort to be amused at every sentence which mrs monnerie uttered and to share it as far as possible with the rest of her guests. "a little pale, eh?" mused mrs monnerie, brooding at me with her great eye. "she wants sea-air; sea-air--just to _tinge_ that rose-leaf porcelain. i must arrange it." i assured her that i was in the best of health. "not at all," she replied. "all young people boast of their health. when i was your age every thought of illness was as black as a visitation of the devil. _that's_ the door where we must lay all such evils, isn't it, mr pellew?" a lean, tall, birdlike figure, the hair on his head still showing traces of auburn, disengaged itself from a knot of charmed spectators. "ah," he said. "but i doubt, now," he continued, with a little deprecating wave of his tea-cup at me, "if miss m. can remember me. when we first met we were precisely one week old, precisely one week old." why, like dr phelps, mr pellew referred to me as _we_ i had not time to consider, for he was already confiding to mrs monnerie that he had never baptized an infant who more strenuously objected to holy water than had i. i looked at his long, fair eyelashes and the smile-line on his cheek as he bent with a sort of jocular urbanity over her chair, but could not recall his younger face, though during my christening i must, of course, have gazed at him even more absorbedly. "'remember' you--i'll be bound she did," cried mrs monnerie with enthusiasm, "or was it the bachelor thumb? the mercy is you didn't drop her into the font. can you swim, my dear?" "i couldn't at a week," i replied as archly as possible. "but i _can_ swim; my father taught me." "but how wonderful!" broke our listeners into chorus. "there we are, then," asserted mrs monnerie; "sea-bathing! and are _we_ a swimmer, mr pellew?" mr pellew seemed not to have caught her question. he was assuring me that miss fenne had kept him well informed--well informed of all my doings. he trusted i was comfortable with the excellent mrs bowater, and hoped that some day i should be able to pay a visit to his rectory in devonshire. "mrs pellew, he knew...." what he knew about mrs pellew, however, was never divulged, for mrs monnerie swallowed him up:-- "devonshire, my dear mr pellew! no, indeed. penthouse lanes, redhot fields, staring cows. imagine it! she would be dried up like a leaf. what she wants is a mild but bracing sea-air. it shall be arranged. and who is this mrs bowater?" at this precise moment, among the strange faces far above me, i descried that of mr crimble, modestly peering out of the background. he coughed, and in a voice i should scarcely have recognized as his, informed mrs monnerie that my landlady was "a most res--an admirable woman." he paused, coughed again, swept my soul with his glance--"i assure you, mrs monnerie, in view of--of all the circumstances, one couldn't be in better hands. indeed the house is on the crest of the hill, well out of the town, yet not a quarter of an hour's walk from my mother's." "hah!" remarked mrs monnerie, with an inflection that i am sure need not have brought a warmth to my cheek, or a duskier pallor to mr crimble's. "you have perhaps heard the tragic story of wanderslore," persisted mr crimble; "miss m.'s--er--lodgings are immediately adjacent to the park." "hah!" repeated mrs monnerie, even more emphatically. "mrs bowater, eh? well, i must see for myself. and i'm told, miss m.," she swept down at me, "that you have a beautiful gift for recitation." she looked round, patted her lap imperiously, and cried, "come, now, who's to break the ice?" in _fact_, no doubt, mrs monnerie was not so arbitrary a mistress of lady pollacke's little ceremony as this account of it may suggest. but that is how she impressed me at the time. she the sun, and i the least--but i hope not the least grateful--of her obsequious planets. lady pollacke at any rate set immediately to breaking the ice. she prevailed upon a miss templemaine to sing. and we all sat mute. i liked miss templemaine's appearance--brown hair, straight nose, dark eyelashes, pretty fringe beneath her peak-brimmed hat. but i was a little distressed by her song, which, so far as i could gather, was about two persons with more or less broken hearts who were compelled to part and said, "ah" for a long time. only physically distressed, however, for though i seemed to be shaken in its strains like a linnet in the wind, its adieux were protracted enough to enable me to examine the rest of the company at my leisure. their eyes, i found, were far more politely engaged the while in gazing composedly down at the carpet or up at the ceiling. and when i did happen to intercept a gliding glance in my direction, it was almost as if with a tiny explosion that it collided with mine and broke away. mrs monnerie's eyelids, on the other hand, with a faintly fluttering motion, remained closed from the first bar to the last--a method of appreciation i experimented with for a moment but quickly abandoned; while at the first clash of the keys, sir walter had dexterously contrived to slide himself out of the room by the door at which he had unexpectedly entered it on my first visit. such was the social situation when, after murmurs of gratitude and applause, miss templemaine took up her gloves and rose from the piano, and mrs monnerie reopened herself to the outer world with the ejaculation, "that's right. _now_, my dear!" the summons was to me. my moment had come, but i was prepared for it. in my last ordeal i had broken down because i had chosen a poem that was a kind of secret thing in my mind. so, after receiving lady pollacke's letter, i had hunted about for a recitation as short, but less personal: one, i mean, whose sentiments i didn't mind. and since mrs bullace had chosen two of mrs browning's pieces for her triumph on new year's eve, i argued that she knew the parish taste, and that i could do no better. of course, too, composure over what i was going to do was far more important than the composition. "prepared for it," i said just now, but i meant it only in the sense that one prepares for a cold bath. there was still the plunge. i clasped my hands, stood up. ceiling and floor gently rocked a little. there seemed to be faces--faces everywhere, and every eye in them was fixed on me. thus completely encompassed, i could find no refuge from them, for unfortunately my hypnos was completely obliterated from view by the lady with the lorgnette. so i fixed my attention, instead, on the window, where showed a blank break of clear, fair, blue sky between the rain-clouds of afternoon. a nervous cough from lady pollacke plunged me over, and i announced my title: "the weakest thing," by elizabeth barrett browning:-- "which is the weakest thing of all mine heart can ponder? the sun, a little cloud can pall with darkness yonder! the cloud, a little wind can move where'er it listeth; the wind, a little leaf above, though sere, resisteth! what time that yellow leaf was green, my days were gladder: now on its branch each summer-sheen may find me sadder! ah, me! a _leaf_ with sighs can wring my lips asunder-- then is my heart the weakest thing itself can ponder. yet, heart, when sun and cloud are pined and drop together; and at a blast which is not wind, the forests wither, thou, from the darkening, deathly curse to glory breakest,-- the strongest of the universe guarding the weakest." the applause, in which miss templemaine generously joined, was this time quite unconcealed, and lady pollacke's sister's last "touching" had hardly died away when mrs monnerie added _her_ approbation. "charming, perfectly charming," she murmured, eyeing me like a turtle-dove. "but tell me, my dear, why that particular poem? it seemed to have even less sense than usual." "no-o; ye-es," breathed lady pollacke, and many heads nodded in discreet accord. "doesn't--er--perhaps, mrs browning dwell rather assiduously on the tragic side of life?" mr crimble ventured to inquire. lady pollacke jerked her head, either in the affirmative or in the negative, and looked inquiringly at mrs monnerie, who merely drooped her eyes a little closer towards me and smiled, almost as if she and i were in a little plot together. "what do _you_ say, miss m.?" "well, mrs monnerie," i replied a little nervously, for all eyes were turned on me, "i don't think i know myself what _exactly_ the poem means--the who's and what's--and what the blast was which was not wind. but i thought it was a poem which every one would understand as much as _possible_ of." to judge from the way she quivered in her chair, though quite inaudibly, mrs monnerie was extremely amused at this criticism. "and that is why you chose it?" "well, yes," said i, "you see, when one is listening to poetry, not reading it to oneself, i mean, one hasn't time to pry about for all its bits of meaning, but only just to get the general--general--" "aroma?" suggested mrs monnerie. "yes--aroma." "and the moral?" the silence that hung over this little exchange was growing more and more dense. luckless miss m.! she only plunged herself deeper into it by her reply that, "oh, there's nothing very much in the moral, mrs monnerie. that's quite ordinary. at least i read about that in _prose_, why, before i was seven!" "touch--" began that further voice, but was silenced by a testy lift of mrs monnerie's eyelid. "indeed!" she said, "and couldn't you, wouldn't you, now, give me the prose version? that's more my mark." "it was in a little nursery lesson-book of mine, called _the observing eye_; letters about snails and coral insects and spiders and things----" i paused. "a book, rather, you know, for sundays. but my--my family and i----" "oh, but do," cried lady pollacke in a voice i should hardly have recognized, "i _adore_ snails." once more i was cornered. so i steeled myself anew, and stumbled through the brief passage in the squat, blue book. it tells how,-- "the history of each one of the animals we have now considered, teaches us that our kind god watches over the wants and the pleasures of the meanest of his creatures. we see that he gives to them, not only the sagacity and the instruments which they need for catching their food, but that he also provides them with some means of defending themselves. we learn by their history that the gracious eye watches under the mighty waters, as well as over the earth, and that no creature can stop doing his will without his eye seeing it." chapter twenty-five once more i sat down, but this time in the midst of what seemed to me a rather unpleasant silence, as if the room had grown colder: a silence which was broken only by the distant whistlings of a thrush. at one and the same moment both mr pellew and mr crimble returned to tea-cups which i should have supposed must have, by this time, been empty, and lady pollacke's widowed sister folded up her lorgnette. "my dear miss m.," said mrs monnerie dryly, with an almost wicked ray of amusement in her deep-set eyes, "wherever the top of beechwood hill may be, and whatever supplies of food may be caught on its crest, there is no doubt that _you_ have been provided with the means of defending yourself. but tell me now, what do you think, perhaps, mr _pellew's_ little 'instruments' are? or, better still--mine? am i a mollusc with a hard shell, or a scorpion with a sting?" lady pollacke rose to her feet and stood looking down on me like a hen, though not exactly a motherly one. but this was a serious question over which i must not be flustered, so i took my time. i folded my hands, and fixed a long, long look on mrs monnerie. even after all these years, i confess it moves me to recall it. "of course, really and truly," i said at last, as deferentially as i could, "i haven't known you long enough to say. but i should think, mrs monnerie, you always knew the truth." i was glad i had not been too impetuous. my reply evidently pleased her. she chuckled all over. "ah," she said reposefully, "the truth. and that is why, i suppose, like sleeping beauty, i am so thickly hedged in with the thorns and briers of affection. well, well, there's one little truth we'll share alone, you and i." she raised herself in her chair and stooped her great face close to my ear: "we must know more of one another, my dear," she whispered. "i have taken a great fancy to you. we must meet again." she hoisted herself up. sir walter pollacke had hastened in and stood smiling, with arm hooked, and genial, beaming countenance in front of her. mr crimble had already vanished. mr pellew was talking earnestly with lady pollacke. conversation broke out, like a storm-shower, on every side. for a while i was extraordinarily alone. into this derelict moment a fair-cheeked, breathless lady descended, and surreptitiously thrusting a crimson padded birthday book and a miniature pencil into my lap, entreated my autograph--"just your signature, you know--for my small daughter. how she would have _loved_ to be here!" this lady cannot have been many years older than i, and one of those instantaneous, fleeting affections sprang up in me as i looked up at her for the first and only time, and seemed to see that small daughter smiling at me out of her face. alas, such is vanity. i turned over the leaves to august th and found printed there, for motto, a passage from shakespeare:-- "he that has had a little tiny wit,-- with hey, ho, the wind and the rain,-- must make content with his fortunes fit, for the rain it raineth every day." the th was little less depressing, from samuel taylor coleridge:-- "he prayeth best who loveth best all creatures great and small." this would never do. i bent double over the volume, turned back hastily three or four leaves, and scrawled in my name under august th on a leaf that bore the quotation:-- "fie on't; ah, fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, that grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature possess it merely. that it should come to this!" and beneath the quotation, the signature of josephine mildred spratte. "thank you, _thank_ you, she will be overjoyed," blushed the fair-haired lady. a sudden hunger for solitude seized upon me. i rose hastily, conscious for the first time of a headache, caused, no doubt, by the expensive and fumey perfumes in the air. threading my way between the trains and flounces and trouser-legs around me, at last my adieux were over. i was in the porch--in the carriage. the breezes of heaven were on my cheek. my blessed parlourmaid was once more installed beside me. yet even now the pollacke faces were still flocking in my mind. the outside world was very sluggishly welling in. looking up so long had stiffened my neck. i fixed my eyes on the crested back buttons of lady pollacke's stiff-looking coachman, and committed myself to my thoughts. it was to a miss m., with one of her own handkerchiefs laid over her brows, and sprinkled with vinegar and lavender water, that mrs bowater brought in supper that evening. we had one of our broken talks together, none the less. but she persisted in desultory accounts of fanny's ailments in her infancy; and i had to drag in brunswick house by myself. at which she poked the fire and was mum. it was unamiable of her. i longed to share my little difficulties and triumphs. surely she was showing rather too much of that discrimination which lady pollacke had recommended. she snorted at mr pellew, she snorted at my friendly parlourmaid and even at mrs monnerie. even when i repeated for her ear alone my nursery passage from _the observing eye_, her only comment was that to judge from _some_ fine folk she knew of, there was no doubt at all that god watched closely over the pleasures of the meanest of his creatures, but as for their doing his will, she hadn't much noticed it. to my sigh of regret that fanny had not been at home to accompany me, she retorted with yet another onslaught on the fire, and the apophthegm, that the world would be a far better place if people kept themselves _to_ themselves. "but mrs bowater," i argued fretfully, "if i did that, i should just--distil, as you might say, quite away. besides, fanny would have been far, far the--the gracefullest person there. mrs monnerie would have taken a fancy to _her_, now, if you like." mrs bowater drew in her lips and rubbed her nose. "god forbid," she said. but it was her indifference to the impression that i myself had made on mrs monnerie that nettled me the most. "why, then, who _is_ lord b.?" i inquired impatiently at last, pushing back the bandage that had fallen over my eyes. "from what i've heard of lord b.," said mrs bowater shortly, "he was a gentleman of whom the less heard of's the better." "but surely," i protested, "that isn't mrs monnerie's fault any more than fanny's being so lovely--i mean, than i being a midget was my father's fault? anyhow," i hurried on, "mrs monnerie says i look pale, and must go to the sea." mrs bowater was still kneeling by the fire, just as fanny used to kneel. and, like fanny, when one most expected an answer, she remained silent; though, unlike fanny, it seemed to be not because she was dreaming of something else. how shall i express it?--there fell a kind of loneliness between us. the severe face made no sign. "would you--would you miss me?" some silly self within piped out pathetically. "why, for the matter of that," was her sardonic reply, "there's not very much of you to miss." i rose from my bed, flung down the bandage, and ran down my little staircase. "oh, mrs bowater," i said, burying my face in her camphory skirts, "be kind to me; be kind to me! i've nobody but you." the magnanimous creature stroked my vinegar-sodden hair with the tips of her horny fingers. "why there, miss. i meant no harm. isn't all the gentry and nobility just gaping to snatch you up? you won't want your old mrs bowater very long. what's more, you mustn't get carried away by yourself. you never know where that journey ends. if sea it is, sea it must be. though, lord preserve us, the word's no favourite of mine." "but suppose, suppose, mrs bowater," i cried, starting up and smiling enrapturedly into her face, "suppose we could go together!" "that," said she, with a look of astonishing benignity, "would be just what i was being led to suppose was the heighth of the impossible." at which, of course, we at once began discussing ways and means. but, delicious though this prospect seemed, i determined that nothing should persuade me to go unless all hope of fanny's coming home proved vain. naturally, from fanny memory darted to wanderslore. i laughed up at my landlady, holding her finger, and suggested demurely that we should go off together on the morrow to see if my stranger were true to his word. "we have kept him a very long time, and if, as you seem to think, mrs monnerie isn't such a wonderful lady, you may decide that after all _he_ is a gentleman." she enjoyed my little joke, was pleased that i had been won over, but refused to accept my reasoning, though the topic itself was after her heart. "the point is, miss, not whether your last conquest is a wonderful lady, or a grand lady, or even a perfect lady for the matter of that, but, well, a _lady_. it's that's the kind in my experience that comes nearest to being as uncommon a sort as any sort of a good woman." this was a wholly unexpected vista for me, and i peered down its smooth, green, aristocratic sward with some little awe. "as for the young fellow who made himself so free in his manners," she went on placidly, so that i had to scamper back to pick her up again, "i have no doubt seeing will be believing." "but what is the story of wanderslore?" i pressed her none too honestly. the story--and this time mrs bowater poured it out quite freely--was precisely what i had been told already, but with the addition that the young woman who had hanged herself in one of its attics had done so for jealousy. "jealousy! but of whom?" i inquired. "her husband's, not her own: driven wild by his." "you really mean," i persisted, "that she couldn't endure to live any longer because her husband loved her so much that he couldn't bear anybody else to love her too?" "in some such measure," replied mrs bowater, "though i don't say he didn't help the other way round. but she was a wild, scattering creature. it was just her way. the less she cared, the more they flocked. she couldn't _collect_ herself, and say, 'here i am; who are you?' so to speak. ah, miss, it's a sickly and dangerous thing to be too much admired." "but you said 'scattering': was she mad a little?" "no. peculiar, perhaps, with her sidelong, startled look. a lovelier i've never seen." "you've seen her!" "thirty years ago, perhaps. alive _and_ dead." "oh, mrs bowater, poor thing, poor thing." "that you may well say, for lovely in the latter finding she was not." my eyes were fixed on the fire, but the picture conjured up was dark even amidst the red-hot coals. "and he? did he die too? at least his jealousy was broken away." "and i'm not so sure of that," said mrs bowater. "it's like the men to go on wanting, even when it comes to scrabbling at a grave. and there's a trashy sort of creature, though well-set-up enough from the outside, that a spark will put in a blaze. i've no doubt he was that kind." i thought of my own sparks, but questioned on: "then there's nothing else but--but her ghost there now?" "lor, _ghosts_, miss, it's an hour, i see, when bed's the proper place for you and me. i look to be scared by that kind of gentry when they come true." "you don't believe, then, in _destroyers_, mrs bowater?" "miss, it's those queer books you are reading," was the evasive reply. "'destroyers'! why, wasn't it cruel enough to drive that poor feather-brained creature into a noose!" candle and i and drowsing cinders kept company until st peter's bell had told only the sleepless that midnight was over the world. it seemed to my young mind that there was not a day, scarcely an hour, i lived, but that life was unfolding itself in ever new and ravishing disguises. i had not begun to be in the least tired or afraid of it. smallest of bubbles i might be, tossing on the great waters, but i reflected the universe. what need of courage when no danger was apparent? surely one need not mind being different if that difference added to one's share in the wonderful banquet. even wanderslore's story was only of what happened when the tangle was so harshly knotted that no mortal fingers could unravel it. and though my own private existence now had mrs monnerie--and all that _she_ might do and mean and be--to cope with, as well as my stranger who was yet another queer story and as yet mine alone, these complications were enticing. one must just keep control of them; that was all. at which i thought a little unsteadily of fanny's "pin," and remembered that that pin was helping to keep her and mr crimble from being torn apart. he had seemed so peering a guest at brunswick house. mrs monnerie hadn't so much as glanced at him when he had commented on mrs browning's poems. there seemed to be a shadow over whatever he did. it was as though there could be a sadness in the very coursing of one's blood. how thankful i felt that mine hadn't been a really flattering reply to mrs monnerie's question. she was extremely arrogant, even for a younger daughter of a lord. on the other hand, though, of course, the sheer novelty of me had had something to do with it, she had certainly singled me out afterwards to know what i _thought_, and in thoughts there is no particular size, only effusiveness--no, _piercingness_. i smiled to myself at the word, pitied my godmother for living so sequestered a life, and wondered how and why it was that my father and mother had so obstinately shut me away from the world. if only fanny was coming home--what a difference she would find in her fretful midge! and with that, i discovered that my feet were cold and that my headache had ached itself away. chapter twenty-six there had been no need to reserve the small hours for these ruminations. the next few days were wet and windy; every glance at the streaming panes cast my mind into a sort of vacancy. the wind trumpeted smoke into the room; i could fix my mind on nothing. then the weather faired. there came "a red sky at night," and spica flashing secrets to me across the darkness; and that supper-time i referred as casually as possible to mr anon. "i suppose one _must_ keep one's promises, mrs bowater, even to a stranger. would half-past six be too early to keep mine, do you think? would it look too--forward? of course he may have forgotten all about me by this time." mrs bowater eyed me like an owl as i bent my cheeks over my bowl of bread and milk, and proceeded to preach me yet another little sermon on the ways of the world. nevertheless, the next morning saw us setting out together in the crisp, sparkling air to my tryst, with the tacit understanding that she accompanied me rather in the cause of propriety than romance. owing, i fancy, to a bunion, she was so leisurely a walker that it was i who must set my pace to hers. but the day promised to be warm, and we could take our ease. as we wandered on among the early flowers and bright, green grass, and under the beeches, a mildness lightened into her face. over her long features lay a vacant yet happy smile, of which she seemed to be unaware. this set me off thinking in the old, old fashion; comparing my lot with that of ordinary human beings. how fortunate i was. if only she could have seen the lowlier plants as i could--scarcely looking down on any, and of the same stature as some among the taller of them, so that the air around me was dyed and illumined with their clear colours, and burthened with their breath. the least and humblest of them--not merely crisp-edged lichen, speckle-seed whitlow-grass and hyssop in the wall--are so close to earth, the wonder, indeed, is that common-sized people ever see them at all. they must, at any rate, i thought, commit themselves to their stomachs, or go down on their knees to see them _properly_. so, on we went, mrs bowater and i, she pursuing her private musings, and i mine. i smiled to myself at remembrance of dr phelps and his blushes. after all, if humanity should "dwindle into a delicate littleness," it would make a good deal more difference than he had supposed. what a destruction would ensue, among all the lesser creatures of the earth, the squirrels, moles, voles, hedgehogs, and the birds, not to mention the bees and hornets. _they_ would be the enemies then--the traps and poisons and the nets! no more billowy cornfields a good yard high, no more fine nine-foot hedges flinging their blossoms into the air. and all the long-legged, "doubled," bloated garden flowers, gone clean out of favour. it would be a little world, would it be a happier? the dwarfed mrs bowaters, dr phelpses, miss bullaces, lady pollackes. but there was little chance of such an eventuality--at least in my lifetime. it was far likelier that the miss m.'s of the world would continue to be a by-play. yet, as i glanced up at my companion, and called to mind other such "lapland giants" of mine, i can truthfully avouch that i did not much envy their extra inches. so much more thin-skinned surface to be kept warm and unscratched. the cumbersome bones, the curious distance from foot and fingertip to brain, too; and those quarts and quarts of blood. i shuddered. it was little short of a miracle that they escaped continual injury; and what an extended body in which to die. on the other hand, what real loss was mine--with so much to my advantage? these great spreading beech-trees were no less shady and companionable to me than to them. nor, thought i, could moon or sun or star or ocean or mountain be any the less silvery, hot, lustrous, and remote, forlorn in beauty, or vast in strangeness, one way or the other, than they are to ordinary people. could there be any doubt at all, too, that men had always coveted to make much finer and more delicate things than their clumsiness allowed? what fantastic creatures they were!--with their vast mansions, pyramids, palaces, scores of sizes too large either for carcass or mind. their satan a monster on whose wrist the vulture of the andes could perch like an aphis on my thumb; yet their death but skeleton-high, and their saviour of such a stature that wellnigh without stooping he could have laid his fingers on my head. time's sands had been trickling fast while i thought these small thoughts that bright spring daybreak. so, though we had loitered on our way, it seemed we had reached our destination on the wings of the morning. alas, mrs bowater's smile can have been only skin-deep; for, when, lifting my eyes from the ground i stopped all of a sudden, spread out my hands, and cried in triumph, "there! mrs bowater"; she hardly shared my rapture. she disapproved of the vast, blank "barn of a place," with its blackshot windows and cold chimneys. the waste and ruination of the garden displeased her so much that i grew a little ashamed of my barbarism. "it's all going to wrack and ruin," she exclaimed, snorting at my stone summer-house no less emphatically than she had snorted at mrs monnerie. "not a walkable walk, nor the trace of a border; and was there ever such a miggle-maggle of weeds! a fine house in its prime, miss, but now, money melting away like butter in the sun." "but," said i, standing before her in the lovely light amid the dwelling dewdrops, "really and truly, mrs bowater, it is only going back to its own again. what you call a miggle-maggle is what these things were made to be. they are growing up now by themselves; and if you could look as close as i can, you'd see they breathe only what each can spare. they are just racing along to live as wildly as they possibly can. it's the tameness," i expostulated, flinging back my hood, "that would be shocking to _me_." mrs bowater looked down at me, listening to this high-piped recitative with an unusual inquisitiveness. "well, that's as it may be," she retorted, "but what _i'm_ asking is, where's the young fellow? he don't seem to be as punctual as they were when i was a girl." my own eyes had long been busy, but as yet in vain. "i did not come particularly to see him," was my airy reply. "besides, we said no time--_any_ fine day. shall we sit down?" with a secretive smile mrs bowater spread a square of waterproof sheeting over a flat stone that had fallen out of the coping of the house, unfolded a newspaper over the grass, and we began our breakfast. neither of us betrayed much appetite for it; she, i fancy, having already fortified herself out of her brown teapot before leaving the house, and i because of the odour of india-rubber and newspaper--an odour presently intensified by the moisture and the sun. paying no heed to my fastidious nibblings, she munched on reflectively, while i grew more and more ill at ease, first because the "young fellow" was almost visibly sinking in my old friend's esteem, and next because her cloth-booted foot lay within a few inches of the stone beneath which was hidden fanny's letter. "it'll do you good, the sea," she remarked presently, after sweeping yet one more comprehensive glance around her, "and we can only hope mrs monnerie will be as good as her word. a spot like this--trespassing or not--is good for neither man nor beast. and when you are young the more human company you get, with proper supervising, the better." "were _you_ happy as a girl, mrs bowater?" i inquired after a pause. our voices went up and up into the still, mild air. "happy enough--for my own good," she said, neatly screwing up her remaining biscuits in their paper bag. "in my days children were brought up. taught to make themselves useful. i would as soon have lifted a hand against my mother as answer her back." "you mean she--she whipped you?" "if need be," my landlady replied complacently, folding her thread-gloved hands on her lap and contemplating the shiny toecaps of her boots. "she had large hands, my mother; and plenty of temper kept well under control. what's more, if life isn't a continual punishment for the stoopidities and wickedness of others, not to mention ourselves, then it must be even a darker story than was ever told me." "and was, mrs bowater, mr bowater your--your first----" i looked steadily at a flower at my foot in case she might be affected at so intimate a question, and not wish me to see her face. "if mr bowater was not the first," was her easy response, "he may well live to boast of being the last. which is neither here nor there, for we may be sure he's enjoying attentive nursing. broken bones are soon mended. it's when things are disjointed from the root that the wrench comes." the storm-felled bole lay there beside us, as if for picture to her parable. i began to think rather more earnestly than i had intended to that morning. in my present state of conscience, it was never an easy matter to decide whether mrs bowater's comments on life referred openly to things in general or covertly to me in particular. how fortunate that the scent of fanny's notepaper was not potent enough to escape from its tomb. and whether or not, speech seemed less dangerous than silence. "it seems to me, mrs bowater," i began rather hastily, "at least to judge from my own father and mother, that a man _depends_ very much on a woman. men don't seem to grow up in the same way, though i suppose they are practical enough as men." "if it were one female," was the reply, "there'd be less to be found fault with. that poor young creature over there took her life for no better reason, even though the reason was turned inside out as you may say." i met the frightful, louring stare of the house. "what was her name?" i whispered--but into nothing, for, bolt upright as she was, mrs bowater had shut her eyes, as if in preparation for a nap. a thread-like tangle of song netted the air. we were, indeed, trespassers. i darted my glance this way and that, in and out of the pale green whispering shadows in this wild haunt. then, realizing by some faint stir in my mind that the stiff, still, shut-away figure beside me was only feigning to be asleep, i opened the rain-warped covers of my _sense and sensibility_, and began plotting how to be rid of her for a while, so that my solitude might summon my stranger, and i might recover fanny's letter. then once more i knew. raising my eyes, i looked straight across at him, scowling there beneath his stunted thorn in a drift of flowers like fool's parsley. he was making signs, too, with his hands. i watched him pensively, in secret amusement. then swifter than daphne into her laurel, instantaneously _he_ vanished, and _i_ became aware that its black eyes were staring out from the long face of the motionless figure beside me, as might an owl's into an aviary. "did you hear a bird, mrs bowater?" i inquired innocently. "when i was a girl," said the mouth, "sparrowhawks were a common sight, but i never heard one sing." "but isn't a sparrowhawk quite a large bird?" "we must judge," said mrs bowater, "not by the size, but the kind. elseways, miss, your old friend might have been found sleeping, as they say, at her box." she pretended to yawn, gathered her legs under her, and rose up and up. "i'll be taking a little walk round. and you shall tell your young acquaintance that i mean him no harm, but that i mean you the reverse; and if show himself he won't, well, here i sit till the day of judgment." an angry speech curled the tip of my tongue. but the simple-faced flowers were slowly making obeisance to mrs bowater's black, dragging skirts, and when she was nearly out of sight i sallied out to confront my stranger. his face was black with rage and contempt. "_that_ contaminating scarecrow; who's she?" was his greeting. "the days i have waited!" the resentment that had simmered up in me on his behalf now boiled over against him. i looked at him in silence. "that contaminating scarecrow, as you are pleased to call her, is the best friend i have in the world. i need no other." "and i," he said harshly, "have no friend in _this_ world, and need you." "then," said i, "you have lost your opportunity. do you suppose i am a child--to be insulted and domineered over only because i am alone? possibly," and my lips so trembled that i could hardly frame the words, "it is _your_ face i shall see when i think of those windows." i was speaking wiselier than i knew. he turned sharply, and by a play of light it seemed that at one of them there stood looking down on us out of the distance a shape that so had watched for ever, leering darkly out of the void. and there awoke in me the sense of this stranger's extremity of solitude, of his unhappy disguise, of his animal-like patience. "why," i said, "mrs bowater! you might far rather be _thanking_ her for--for----" "curses on her," he choked, turning away. "there was everything to tell you." "what everything?" "call her back now," he muttered furiously. "that," i said smoothly, "is easily done. but, forgive me, i don't know your name." his eyes wandered over the turf beneath me, mounted slowly up, my foot to my head, and looked into mine. in their intense regard i seemed to be but a bubble floating away into the air. i shivered, and turned my back on him, without waiting for an answer. he followed me as quietly as a sheep. mrs bowater had already come sauntering back to our breakfast table, and with gaze impassively fixed on the horizon, pretended not to be aware of our approach. i smiled back at my companion as we drew near. "this, mrs bowater," said i, "is mr anon. would you please present him to miss thomasina of bedlam?" for a moment or two they stood facing one another, just as i have seen two insects stand--motionless, regardful, exchanging each other's presences. then, after one lightning snap at him from her eye, she rose to my bait like a fish. "a pleasant morning, sir," she remarked affably, though in her bible voice. "my young lady and i were enjoying the spring air." back to memory comes the darkness of a theatre, and mrs monnerie breathing and sighing beside me, and there on the limelit green of the stage lolls ass-headed bottom the weaver cracking jokes with the fairies. my oberon addressed mrs bowater as urbanely as st george must have addressed the dragon--or any other customary monster. he seemed to pass muster, none the less, for she rose, patted her sheet, pushed forward her bonnet on to her rounded temples, and bade him a composed good-morning. she would be awaiting me, she announced, in an hour's time under my beech tree. "i think, perhaps, _two_, mrs bowater," i said firmly. she gave me a look--all our long slow evening firelit talks together seemed to be swimming in its smile; and withdrew. the air eddied into quiet again. the stretched-out blue of the sky was as bland and solitary as if a seraph sat dreaming on its eastern outskirts. mr anon and i seated ourselves three or four feet apart, and i watched the sidelong face, so delicately carved against the green; yet sunken in so sullen a stare. standing up on his feet against the background of mrs bowater's ink-black flounces, with his rather humped shoulders and straight hair, he had looked an eccentric, and, even to my view, a stunted figure. now the whole scene around us seemed to be sorting itself into a different proportion before my eyes. he it was who was become the unit of space, the yard-stick of the universe. the flowers, their roots glintily netted with spider-webs, nodded serenely over his long hands. a peacock butterfly with folded colours sipped of the sunshine on a tuft nearly at evens with his cheek. the very birds sang to his size, and every rift between the woodlands awaited the cuckoo. only his clothes were grotesque, but less so than in my parlour mr crimble's skirts, or even lady pollacke's treacherous bonnet. i folded my white silk gloves into a ball. a wren began tweeting in a bush near by. "i am going away soon," i said, "to the sea." the wren glided away out of sight amongst its thorns. i knew by his sudden stillness that this had been unwelcome news. "that will be very pleasant for me, won't it?" i said. "the sea?" he returned coldly, with averted head. "well, _i_ am bound still further." the reply fretted me. i wanted bare facts just then. "why are you so angry? what is your name? and where do you live?" it was my turn to ask questions, and i popped them out as if from a _little by little_. and then, with his queer, croaking, yet captivating voice, he broke into a long, low monologue. he gave me his name--and "mr anon" describes him no worse. he waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the house he lived in. but instead of apologizing for his ill-temper, he accused me of deceiving and humiliating him; of being, so i gathered, a toy of my landlady's, of betraying and soiling myself. why all this wild stuff only seemed to flatter me, i cannot say. i listened and laughed, pressing flat with both hands the sorry covers of my book, and laughed also low in my heart. "oh, contempt!" he cried. "i am used to that." the words curdled on his tongue as he expressed his loathing of poor mrs bowater and her kind--mere humanity--that ate and drank in musty houses stuck up out of the happy earth like warts on the skin, that battened on meat, stalked its puddled streets and vile, stifling towns, spread its rank odours on the air, increased and multiplied. monstrous in shape, automatic, blinded by habit, abandoned by instinct, monkey-like, degraded! what an unjust tirade! he barked it all out at me as if the blame were mine; as if _i_ had nibbled the apple. i turned my face away, smiling, but listening. did i realize, he asked me, what a divine fortune it was to be so little, and in this to be all. on and on he raved: i breathed air "a dewdrop could chill"; i was as near lovely naught made visible as the passing of a flower; the mere mattering of a dream. and when i died my body would be but a perishing flake of manna, and my bones.... "yes, a wren's picking," i rudely interrupted. "and what of my soul, please? why, you talk like--like a poet. besides, you tell me nothing new. i was thinking all that and more on my way here with my landlady. what has _size_ to do with it? why, when i thought of my mother after she was dead, and peered down in the place of my imagination into her grave, i saw her spirit--young, younger than i, and bodiless, and infinitely more beautiful even than she had been in my dreams, floating up out of it, free, sweet, and happy, like a flame--though shadowy. besides, i don't see how you can help _pitying_ men and women. they seem to fly to one another for company; and half their comfort is in their numbers." never in all my life had i put my thoughts into words like this; and he--a stranger. there fell a silence between us. the natural quietude of the garden was softly settling down and down like infinitesimal grains of sand in a pool of water. it had forgotten that humans were harbouring in its solitude. and still he maintained that his words were not untrue, that he knew mankind better than i, that to fall into their ways and follow their opinions and strivings was to deafen my ears, and seal up my eyes, and lose my very self. "the self everywhere," he said. and he told me, whether in time or space i know not, of a country whose people were of my stature and slenderness. this was a land, he said, walled in by enormous, ice-capped mountains couching the furnace of the rising sun, and yet set at the ocean's edge. its sand-dunes ring like dulcimers in the heat. its valleys of swift rivers were of a green so pale and vivid and so flower-encrusted that an english--even a kentish--spring is but a coarse and rustic prettiness by comparison. vine and orange and trees of outlandish names gave their fruits there; yet there also willows swept the winds, and palms spiked the blue with their fans, and the cactus flourished with the tamarisk. geese, of dark green and snow, were on its inland waters, and a bird clocked the hours of the night, and the conformation of its stars would be strange to my eyes. and such was the lowliness and simplicity of this people's habitations that the most powerful sea-glass, turned upon and searching their secret haunts from a ship becalmed on the ocean, would spy out nothing--nothing there, only world wilderness of snow-dazzling mountain-top and green valley, ravine, and condor, and what might just be nature's small ingenuities--mounds and traceries. yet within all was quiet loveliness, feet light as goldfinches', silks fine as gossamer, voices as of a watery beading of silence. and their life being all happiness they have no name for their god. and it seems--according to mr anon's account of it--that such was the ancient history of the world, that man was so once, but had swollen to his present shape, of which he had lost the true spring and mastery, and had sunk deeper and deeper into a kind of oblivion of the mind, suffocating his past, and now all but insane with pride in his own monstrosities. all this my new friend (and yet not so _very_ new, it seemed)--all this he poured out to me in the garden, though i can only faintly recall his actual words, as if, like moses, i had smitten the rock. and i listened weariedly, with little hope of understanding him, and with the suspicion that it was nothing but a tom o' bedlam's dream he was recounting. yet, as if in disproof of my own incredulity, there sat i; and over the trees yonder stood mrs bowater's ugly little brick house; and beyond that, the stony, tapering spire of st peter's, the high street. and i looked at him without any affection in my thoughts, and wished fretfully to be gone. what use to be lulled with fantastic pictures of paradise when i might have died of fear and hatred on mrs stocks's doorstep; when everything i said was "touching, touching"? "well," i mockingly interposed at last, "the farthing dip's guttering. and what if it's all true, and there _is_ such a place, what then? how am i going to get there, pray? would you like to mummy me and shut me up in a box and _carry_ me there, as they used to in basman? years and years ago my father told me of the pygmy men and horses--the same size as yours, i suppose--who lived in caves on the banks of the nile. but i doubt if i believed in them much, even then. i am not so ignorant as all that." the life died out of his face, just as, because of a cloud carried up into the sky, the sunlight at that moment fled from wanderslore. he coughed, leaning on his hands, and looked in a scared, empty, hunted fashion to right and left. "only that you might stay," he scarcely whispered. " ... i love you." instinctively i drew away, lips dry, and heart numbly, heavily beating. an influence more secret than the shadow of a cloud had suddenly chilled and darkened the garden and robbed it of its beauty. i shrank into myself, cold and awkward, and did not dare even to glance at my companion. "a fine thing," was all i found to reply, "for a toy, as you call me. i don't know what you mean." miserable enough that memory is when i think of what came after, for now my only dread was that he might really be out of his wits, and might make my beloved, solitary garden for ever hateful to me. i drew close my cape, and lifted my book. "there is a private letter of mine hidden under that stone," i said coldly. "will you please be so good as to fetch it out for me? and you are never, never to say that again." the poor thing looked so desperately ill and forsaken with his humped shoulders--and that fine, fantastic story still ringing in my ears!--that a kind of sadness came over me, and i hid my face in my hands. "the letter is not there," said his voice. i drew my fingers from my face, and glared at him from between them; then scrambled to my feet. out swam the sun again, drenching all around us with its light and heat. "next time i come," i shrilled at him, "the letter _will_ be there. the thief will have put it back again! oh, how unhappy you have made me!" chapter twenty-seven i stumbled off, feeling smaller and smaller as i went, more and more ridiculous and insignificant, as indeed i must have appeared; for distance can hardly lend enchantment to any view of _me_. not one single look did i cast behind; but now that my feelings began to quiet down, i began also to think. and a pretty muddle of mind it was. what had enraged and embittered me so? if only i had remained calm. was it that my pride, my vanity, had in some vague fashion been a punishment of him for fanny's unkindness to me? "but he stole, he _stole_ my letter," i said aloud, stamping my foot on a budding violet; and--there was mrs bowater. evidently she had been watching my approach, and now smiled benignly. "why, you are quite out of breath, miss; and your cheeks!... i hope you haven't been having words. a better-spoken young fellow than i had fancied; and i'm sure i ask his pardon for the 'gentleman.'" "ach," i swept up at my beech-tree, now cautiously unsheathing its first green buds in the lower branches, "i think he must be light in his head." "and that often comes," replied mrs bowater, with undisguised _bonhomie_, "from being heavy at the heart. why, miss, he may be a young nobleman in disguise. there's unlikelier things even than that, to judge from that trash of fanny's. while, as for fish in the sea--it's sometimes wise to be contented with what we can catch." who had been talking to me about fish in the sea--quite lately? i thought contemptuously of pollie and the dream book. "i am sorry," i replied, nose in air, "but i cannot follow the allusion." the charge of vulgarity was the very last, i think, which mrs bowater would have lifted a finger to refute. my cheeks flamed hotter to know that she was quietly smiling up there. we walked on in silence. that night i could not sleep. i was afraid. life was blackening my mind like the mould of a graveyard. i could think of nothing but one face, one voice--that scorn and longing, thought and fantasy. what if he did love me a little? i might at least have been kind to him. had i so many friends that i could afford to be harsh and ungrateful? how dreadfully ill he had looked when i scoffed at him. and now what might _not_ have happened to him? i seemed lost to myself. no wonder fanny.... my body grew cold at a thought; the palms of my hands began to ache. half-stifled, i leapt out of bed, and without the least notion of what i was doing, hastily dressed myself, and fled out into the night. i must find him, talk to him, plead with him, before it was too late. and in the trickling starlight, pressed against my own gatepost--there he was. "oh," i whispered at him in a fever of relief and shame and apprehensiveness, "what are you doing here? you must go away at once, at once. i forgive you. yes, yes; i forgive you. but--at once. keep the letter for me till i come again." his hand was wet with the dew. "oh, and never say it again. please, please, if you care for me the least bit in the world, never, never say what you did again." i poured out the heedless words in the sweet-scented quiet of midnight. "now--now go"; i entreated. "and indeed, indeed i am your friend." the dark eyes shone quietly close to mine. he sighed. he lifted my fingers, and put them to my breast again. he whispered unintelligible words between us, and was gone. no more stars for me that night. i slept sound until long after dawn.... softly as thistledown the days floated into eternity; yet they were days of expectation and action. april was her fickle self; not so mrs monnerie. her letter to mrs bowater must have been a marvel of tact. apartments had been engaged for us at a little watering-place in dorsetshire, called lyme regis. mrs bowater and i were to spend at least a fortnight there alone together, and after our return mrs monnerie herself was to pay me a visit, and see with her own eyes if her prescription had been successful. after that, perhaps, if i were so inclined, and my landlady agreed with mr pellew that it would be good for me, i might spend a week or two with her in london. what a twist of the kaleidoscope. i had sown never a pinch of seed, yet here was everything laughing and blossoming around me, like the wilderness in isaiah. indeed my own looking-glass told me how wan and languishing a miss m. was pining for change of scene and air. she rejoiced that fanny was enjoying herself, rejoiced that she was going to enjoy herself too. i searched mrs bowater's library for views of the sea, but without much reward. so i read over mr bowater's captain maury--on the winds and monsoons and tide-rips and hurricanes, freshened up my _robinson crusoe_, and dreamed of the angels with the vials. in the midst of my packing (and i spread it out for sheer amusement's sake), mr crimble called again. he looked nervous, gloomy, and hollow-eyed. i was fast becoming a mistress in affairs of the sensibilities. yet, when, kneeling over my open trunk, i heard him in the porch, i mimicked fanny's "dash!" and wished to goodness he had postponed his visit until only echo could have answered his knock. it fretted me to be bothered with him. and now? what would i not give to be able to say i had done my best and utmost to help him when he wanted it? here is a riddle i can find no answer to, however long i live: how is it that our eyes cannot foresee, our very hearts cannot forefeel, the future? and how should we act if that future were plain before us? yet, even then, what could i have said to him to comfort him? really and truly i had no candle with which to see into that dark mind. in actual fact my task was difficult and delicate enough. in spite of her vow not to write again, yet another letter had meanwhile come from fanny. if mr crimble's had afforded "a ray of hope," this had shut it clean away. it was full of temporizings, wheedlings, evasions--and brimming over with fanny. it suggested, too, that mrs bowater must have misread the name of her holiday place. the half-legible printing of the postmark on the envelope--fortunately i had intercepted the postman--did not even begin with an m. and no address was given within. i was to tell mr crimble that fanny was over-tired and depressed by the term's work, that she simply couldn't set her "weary mind" to anything, and as for decisions:-- "he seems to think only of himself. you couldn't believe, midgetina, what nonsense the man talks. he can't _see_ that all poor fanny's future is at stake, body and soul. tell him if he _wants_ her to smile, he must sit in patience on a pedestal, and smile too. one simply can't trust the poor creature with cold, sober facts. his mother, now--why, i could read it in your own polite little description of her at your grand reception--she smiles and smiles. so did the cheshire cat. "'but oh, dear fanny, time and your own true self, god helping, would win her over.' so writes h. c. that's candid enough, if you look into it; but it isn't sense. once hostile, old ladies are _not_ won over. they don't care much for mind in the young. anyhow, one look at me was enough for her--and it was followed by a sharp little peer at poor harold! she guessed. so you see, my dear, even for youthful things, like you and me, time gathers roses a jolly sight faster than we can, and it would have to be the _fait accompli_, before a word is breathed to her. that is, if i could take a deep breath and say, yes. "but i can't. i ask you: can you _see_ fanny bowater a right reverendissima? no, nor can i. and not even gaiters or an apron here and now would settle the question off-hand. why i confide all this in you (why, for that matter, it has all been confided in _me_), i know not. you want nothing, and if you did, you wouldn't want it long. now, would you? perhaps that is the secret. but fanny wants a good deal. she cannot even guess how much. so, while miss stebbings and beechwood hill for ever and ever would be hell before purgatory, h. c. and st peter's would be merely the same thing, with the fires _out_. and i am quite sure that, given a chance, heaven is our home. "oh, midgetina, i listen to all this; mumbling my heart like a dog a bone. what the devil has it got to do with _me_, i ask myself? who set the infernal trap? if only i could stop thinking and mocking and find some one--not 'to love me' (between ourselves, there are far too many of _them_ already), but capable of making me love him. they say a woman can't be driven. i disagree. she _can_ be driven--mad. and apart from that, though twenty men only succeed in giving me hydrophobia, one could persuade me to drink, if only his name was mr right, as mother succinctly puts it. "but first and last, i am having a real, if not a particularly sagacious, holiday, and can take care of myself. and next and last, play, i _beseech_ you, the tiny good samaritan between me and poor, plodding, blinded h. c.--even if he does eventually have to go on to jericho. "and i shall ever remain, your most affec.--f." how all this baffled me. i tried, but dismally failed, to pour a trickle of wine and oil into mr crimble's wounded heart, for his sake and for mine, not for fanny's, for i knew in myself that his "jericho" was already within view. "i don't understand her; i don't understand her," he kept repeating, crushing his soft hat in his small, square hands. "i cannot reach her; i am not in touch with her." out of the fount of my womanly wisdom i reminded him how young she was, how clever, and how much flattered. "you know, then, there are--others?" he gulped, darkly meeting me. "that, surely, is what makes her so precious," i falsely insinuated. he gazed at me, his eyes like an immense, empty shop-window. "that thought puts---- i can't," and he twisted his head on his shoulders as if shadows were around him; "i can't bear to think of her and--with--_others_. it unbalances me. but how can you understand?... a sealed book. last night i sat at my window. it was raining. i know not the hour: and spring!" he clutched at his knees, stooping forward. "i repudiated myself, thrust myself out. oh, believe me, we are not alone. and there and then i resolved to lay the whole matter before"--his glance groped towards the door--"before, in fact, her _mother_. she is a woman of sagacity, of proper feeling in her station, though how she came to be the mother of---- but that's neither here nor there. we mustn't probe. probably she thinks--but what use to consider it? one word to her--and fanny would be lost to me for ever." for a moment it seemed his eyes closed on me. "how can i bring myself to speak of it?" a remote voice murmured from beneath them. i looked at the figure seated there in its long black coat; and far away in my mind whistled an ecstatic bird--"the sea! the sea! you are going away--out, out of all this." so, too, was mr crimble, if only i had known it. it was my weak and cowardly acquiescence in fanny's deceits that was speeding him on his dreadful journey. none the less, a wretched heartless impatience fretted me at being thus helplessly hemmed in by my fellow creatures. how clumsily they groped on. why couldn't they be happy in just living free from the clouds and trammels of each other and of themselves? the selfish helplessness of it all. it was, indeed, as though the strange fires which fanny had burnt me in--which any sudden thought of her could still fan into a flickering blaze--had utterly died down. whether or not, i was hardened; a poor little earthenware pot fresh from the furnace. and with what elixir was it brimmed. i rose from my chair, walked away from my visitor, and peered through my muslin curtains at the green and shine and blue. a nursemaid was lagging along with a sleeping infant--its mild face to the sky--in a perambulator. a faint drift of dandelions showed in the stretching meadow. kent's blue hems lay calm; my thoughts drew far away. "mr crimble," i cried in a low voice: "is she _worth_ all our care for her?" "'our'--'our'?" he expostulated. "mine, then. when i gave her, just to be friends, because--because i loved her, a little ivory box, nothing of any value, of course, but which i have loved and treasured since childhood, she left it without a thought. it's in my wardrobe drawer--shall i show it to you? i _say_ it was nothing in itself; but what i mean is that she just makes use of me, and with far less generosity than--than other people do. her eyes, her voice, when she moves her hand, turns her head, looks back--oh, i know! but," and i turned on him in the light, "does it mean anything? let us just help her all we can, and--keep away." it was a treachery past all forgiveness: i see that now. if only i had said, "love on, love on: ask nothing." but i did not say it. a contempt of all this slow folly was in my brain that afternoon. why couldn't the black cowering creature take himself off? what concern of mine was his sick, sheepish look? what particle of a fig did he care for me? had he lifted a little finger when i myself bitterly needed it? i seemed to be struggling in a net of hatred. he raised himself in his chair, his spectacles still fixed on me; as if some foul insect had erected its blunt head at him. "then _you_ are against her too," he uttered, under his breath. "i might have known it, i might have known it. i am a lost man." it was pitiful. "lost fiddlesticks!" i snapped back at him, with bared teeth. "i wouldn't--i've never harmed a fly. who, i should like to know, came to _my_ help when...?" but i choked down the words. silence fell between us. the idiot clock chimed five. he turned his face away to conceal the aversion that had suddenly overwhelmed him at sight of me. "i see," he said, in a hollow, low voice, with his old wooden, artificial dignity. "there's nothing more to say. i can only thank you, and be gone. i had not realized. you misjudge her. you haven't the---- how could it be expected? but there! thinking's impossible." how often had i seen my poor father in his last heavy days draw his hand across his eyes like that? already my fickle mind was struggling to find words with which to retract, to explain away that venomous outbreak. but i let him go. the stooping, hatted figure hastened past my window; and i was never to see him again. chapter twenty-eight yet, in spite of misgivings, no very dark foreboding companioned me that evening. with infinite labour i concocted two letters:-- "dear mr crimble,--i regret my words this afternoon. bitterly. indeed i do. but still truth is important, isn't it? _one we know_ hasn't been too kind to either of us. i still say that. and if it seems inconsiderate, please remember shakespeare's lines about the beetle (which i came across in a birthday book the other day)--a creature i detest. besides, we can return good for evil--i can't help this sounding like hypocrisy--even though it is an extremely tiring exchange. i _feel_ small enough just now, but would do anything in the world that would help in the way we both want. i hope that you will believe this and that you will forgive my miserable tongue. believe me, ever yours sincerely,--m. m." my second letter was addressed to fanny's school, "c/o miss stebbings":-- "dear fanny,--he came again to-day and looks like a corpse. i can do no more. you must know how utterly miserable you are making him; that i can't, and won't, go on being so doublefaced. i don't call _that_ being the good samaritan. throw the stone one way or the other, however many birds it may kill. that's the bravest thing to do. a horrid boy i knew as a child once aimed at a jay and killed--a wren. well, there's only one wren that i know of--your m. "ps.--i hope this doesn't sound an angry letter. i thought only the other day how difficult it must be being as fascinating as you are. and, of course, we are _what_ we are, aren't we, and cannot, i suppose, help acting like that? you can't think how he looked, and talked. besides, i am sure you will enjoy your holiday much more when you have made up your mind. oh, fanny, i can't say what's in mine. every day there's something else to dread. and all that i do seems only to make things worse. _do_ write: and, though, of course, it isn't my affair, do have a '_sagacious_' holiday, too." mrs bowater almost squinted at my two small envelopes when she licked the stamps for me. "we can only hope," was her one remark, "that when the secrets of all hearts are opened, they'll excuse some of the letters we reach ourselves to write." but i did not ask her to explain. lyme regis was but a few days distant when, not for the first time since our meeting at mrs bowater's gatepost, i set off to meet mr anon--this time to share with him my wonderful news. when showers drifted across the sun-shafted sky we took refuge under the shelter of the garden-house. as soon as the hot beams set the raindrops smouldering, so that every bush was hung with coloured lights, we returned to my smoking stone. and we watched a rainbow arch and fade in the windy blue. he was gloomy at first; grudged me, i think, every moment that was to be mine at lyme regis. so i tempted him into talking about the books he had read; and about his childhood--far from as happy as mine. it hurt me to hear him speak of his mother. then i asked him small questions about that wonderful country he had told me of, which, whether it had any real existence or not, filled me with delight as he painted it in his imagination. he was doing his best to keep his word to me, and i to keep our talk from becoming personal. if i would trust myself to him, friend to friend--he suddenly broke out in a thick, low voice, when i least expected it--the whole world was open to us; and he knew the way. "what way?" said i. "and how about poor mrs bowater? how strange you are. where do you live? may i know?" there was an old farm-house, he told me, on the other side of the park, and near it a few cottages--at the far end of loose lane. he lodged in one of these. against my wiser inclinations he persuaded me to set off thither at once and see the farm for myself. on the further side of wanderslore, sprouting their pallid green frondlets like beads at the very tips of their black, were more yews than beeches. we loitered on, along the neglected bridle-path. cuckoos were now in the woods, and we talked and talked, as if their voices alone were not seductive enough to enchant us onwards. sometimes i spelled out incantations in the water; and sometimes i looked out happily across the wet, wayside flowers; and sometimes a robin flittered out to observe the intruders. how was it that human company so often made me uneasy and self-conscious, and nature's always brought peace? "now, you said," i began again, "that they have a god, and that they are so simple he hasn't a name. what did you mean by that? there can't be one god for the common-sized, and one for--for me; now, can there? my mother never taught me that; and i have thought for myself." indeed i had. "'god'!" he cried; "why, what is all this?" all this at that moment was a clearing in the woods, softly shimmering with a misty, transparent green, in whose sunbeams a thousand flies darted and zigzagged like motes of light, and the year's first butterflies fluttered and languished. "but if i speak," i said, "listen, now, my voice is just swallowed up. out of just a something it faints into a nothing--dies. no, no;" (i suppose i was arguing only to draw him out), "all this cares no more for me than--than a looking-glass. yet it is mine. can you see jesus christ in these woods? do you believe we are sinners and that he came to save us? i do. but i can see him only as a little boy, you know, smiling, crystal, intangible: and yet i do not _like_ children much." he paused and stared at me fixedly. "_my_ size?" he coughed. "oh, size," i exclaimed, "how you harp on that!"--as if _i_ never had. "did you not say yourself that the smaller the body is, the happier the ghost in it? bodies, indeed!" he plunged on, hands in pockets, frowning, clumsy. and up there in the north-west a huge cloud poured its reflected lights on his strange face. inwardly--with all my wits in a pleasant scatter--i laughed; and outwardly (all but) danced. solemnly taking me at my word, and as if he were reading out of one of his dry old books, he began to tell me his views about religion, and about what we are, qualities, consciousness, ideas, and that kind of thing. as if you could be anything at any moment but just that moment's whole self. at least, so it seemed then: i was happy. but since in his earnestness his voice became almost as false to itself as was mr crimble's when he had conversed with me about hell, my eyes stole my ears from him, and only a few scattered sentences reached my mind. nevertheless i enjoyed hearing him talk, and encouraged him with bits of questions and exclamations. did he believe, perhaps, in the pagan gods?--mars and all that? was there, even at this very moment, cramped up among the moss and the roots, a crazy, brutal pan in the woods? and those delicious nymphs and naiads! what would he do if one beckoned to him?--or pan's pipes began wheedling? "nymphs!" he grunted, "aren't you----" "oh," i cried, coming to a pause beside a holly-tree so marvellously sparkling with waterdrops on every curved spine of it that it took my breath away: "let's talk no more thoughts. they are only mice gnawing. i can hear _them_ at night." "you cannot sleep?" he inquired, with so grave a concern that i laughed outright. "sleep! with that mr crimble on my nerves?" i gave a little nod in my mind to my holly, and we went on. "crimble?" he repeated. his eyes, greenish at that moment, shot an angry glance at me from under their lids. "who is he?" "a friend, a friend," i replied, "and, poor man, as they say, in love. calm yourself, mr jealousy; not with me. i am three sizes too small. with miss bowater. but there," i went on, in dismay that mere vanity should have let this cat out of its bag, "that's not my secret. we mustn't talk of that either. what i really want to tell you is that we haven't much time. i am going away. let's talk of me. oh, mr anon, shall i ever be born again, and belong to my own world?" it seemed a kind of mournful serenity came over his face. "you say you are going away"; he whispered, pointing with his finger, "and yet you expect me to talk about _that_." we were come to the brink of a clear rain-puddle, perhaps three or four feet wide, in the moss-greened, stony path, and "_that_" was the image of myself which lay on its surface against the far blue of the sky--the under-scarlet of my cape, my face, fair hair, eyes. i trembled a little. his own reflection troubled me more than he did himself. "come," i said, laying a hand on his sleeve, "the time's so short, and indeed i _must_ see your house, you know: you have seen mine. ah, but you should see lyndsey and chizzel hill, and the stream in my father's garden. i often hear _that_ at night, mr anon. i would like to have died a child, however long i must live." but now the cloud had completely swallowed up the sun; a cold gust of wind swept hooting down on us, and i clung to his arm. we pushed on, emerged at last from the rusty gates, its eagles green and scaling, and came to the farm. but not in time. a cloud of hail had swirled down; beating on our heads and shoulders. it all but swept me up into the air. catching hands, we breasted and edged on up the rough, miry lane towards a thatched barn, open on one side and roofing a red and blue wagon. under this we scrambled, and tingling all over with the buffetings of the wind and the pelting of hailstones, i sat laughing and secure, watching, over my sodden skirts and shoes, the sweeping, pattering drifts paling the green. around us in the short straw and dust stalked the farmer's fowls, cackling, with red-eyed glances askew at our intrusion. ducks were quacking. doves flew in with whir of wing. i thought i should boil over with delight. and presently a sheep-dog, ears down and tail between its legs, slid round the beam of the barn door. half in, half out, it stood bristling, eyes fixed, head thrust out. my companion drew himself up and with a large stone in his hand, edged, stooping and stealthily--and very much, i must confess, like the picture of a fuegian i have seen in a book--between the gaudy wheels of the wagon, and faced the low-growling beast. i watched him, enthralled. for a moment or two he and the sheep-dog confronted each other without stirring. then with one sharp bark, the animal flung back its head, and with whitened eye, turned and disappeared. "oh, _bravissimo_!" said i, mocking up at mr anon from under my hood. "he was cowed, poor thing. _i_ would have made friends with him." we sate on in the sweet, dusty scent of the stormy air. the hail turned to rain. the wind rose higher. i began to be uneasy. so heavily streamed the water out of the clouds that walking back by the way we had come would be utterly impossible for me. what's to be done now?--i thought to myself. yet the liquid song of the rain, the gurgling sighs and trumpetings of the wind entranced me; and i turned softly to glance at my stranger. he sat, chin on large-boned hands, his lank hair plastered on his hollow temples by the rain, his eyes glassy in profile. "i am glad of this," he muttered dreamily, as if in response to my scrutiny. "we are here." a scatter of green leaf-sheaths from a hawthorn over against the barn was borne in by the wind. "i am glad too," i answered, "because when you are at peace, so i can be; for that marvellous land you tell me of is very far away. why, who----?" but he broke in so earnestly that i was compelled to listen, confiding in me some queer wisdom he had dug up out of his books--of how i might approach nearer and nearer to the brink between life and reality, and see all things as they are, in truth, in their very selves. all things visible are only a veil, he said. a veil that withdraws itself when the mind is empty of all thoughts and desires, and the heart at one with itself. that is divine happiness, he said. and he told me, too, out of his far-fetched learning, a secret about myself. it was cold in the barn now. the fowls huddled close. rain and wind ever and again drowned the low, alluring, far-away voice wandering on as if out of a trance. dreams, maybe; yet i have learned since that one half of his tale is true; that at need even an afflicted spirit, winged for an instant with serenity, may leave the body and, perhaps, if lost in the enchantments beyond, never turn back. but i swore to keep his words secret between us. i had no will to say otherwise, and assured him of my trust in him. "my very dear," he said, softly touching my hand, but i could make no answer. he scrambled to his feet and peered down on me. "it is not my peace. all the days you are away...." he gulped forlornly and turned away his head. "but that is what i mean. just nothing, all this"--he made a gesture with his hands as if giving himself up a captive to authority--"nothing but a sop to a dog." then stooping, he drew my cape around me, banked the loose hay at my feet and shoulders, smiled into my face, and bidding me wait in patience a while, but not sleep, was gone. the warmth and odour stole over my senses. i was neither hungry nor thirsty, but drugged with fatigue. with a fixed smile on my face (a smile betokening, as i believe now, little but feminine vanity and satisfaction after feeding on that strange heart), my thoughts went wandering. the sounds of skies and earth drowsed my senses, and i nodded off into a nap. the grinding of wheels awoke me. from a welter of dreams i gazed out through the opening of the barn at a little battered cart and a shaggy pony. and behold, on the chopped straw and hay beside me, lay stretched out, nose on paw, our enemy, the sheep-dog. he thumped a friendly tail at me, while he growled at my deliverer. thoughtful mr anon. he had not only fetched the pony-cart, but had brought me a bottle of hot milk and a few raisins. they warmed and revived me. a little light-witted after my sleep in the hay, i clambered up with his help into the cart and tucked myself in as snugly as i could with my draggled petticoats and muddy shoes. so with myself screened well out of sight of prying eyes, we drove off. all this long while i had not given a thought to mrs bowater. we stood before her at last in her oil-cloth passage, like adam and eve in the garden. her oldest bonnet on her head, she was just about to set off to the police station. and instead of showing her gratitude that her anxieties on my account were over, mrs bowater cast us the blackest of looks. leaving mr anon to make our peace with her, i ran off to change my clothes. as i emerged from my bedroom, he entered at the door, in an old trailing pilot coat many sizes too large for him, and i found to my astonishment that he and my landlady had become the best of friends. i marvelled. this little achievement of mr anon's made me _like_ him--all of a burst--ten times as much, i believe, as he would have been contented that i should _love_ him. indeed the "high tea" mrs bowater presided over that afternoon, sitting above her cups and saucers just like a clergyman, is one of the gayest memories of my life. and yet--she had left the room for a moment to fetch something from the kitchen, and as, in a self-conscious hush, mr anon and i sat alone together, i caught a glimpse of her on her return pausing in the doorway, her capped head almost touching the lintel--and looking in on us with a quizzical, benign, foolish expression on her face, like that of a grown-up peeping into a child's dolls' house. so swirling a gust of hatred and disillusionment swept over me at sight of her, that for some little while i dared not raise my eyes and look at mr anon. all affection and gratitude fled away. miss m. was once more an ishmael! lyme regis chapter twenty-nine out of a cab from a livery stable mrs bowater and i alighted at our london terminus next morning, to find positively awaiting us beside the wooden platform a first-class railway carriage--a palatial apartment. swept and garnished, padded and varnished--a miracle of wealth! at this very moment i seem to be looking up in awe at the orange-rimmed (i think it was orange) label stuck on the glass whose inscription i afterwards spelled out backwards from within: "mrs bywater and party." as soon as we and our luggage were safely settled, an extremely polite and fatherly guard locked the door on us. at this mrs bowater was a little troubled by the thought of how we should fare in the event of an accident. but he reassured her. "never fear, ma'am: accidents are strictly forbidden on this line. besides _which_," he added, with a solemn, turtle-like stare, "if i turn the key on the young lady, none of them young a-ogling don jooans can force their way in. strict orders, ma'am." to make assurance doubly sure, mrs bowater pulled down the blinds at every stopping-place. we admired the scenery. we read the warning against pickpockets, and i translated it out of the french. after examining the enormous hotels depicted in the advertisements, we agreed there was nothing like home comforts. mrs bowater continued to lose and find in turn our tickets, her purse, her spectacle-case, her cambric pocket-handkerchief, not to mention a mysterious little screw of paper, containing lozenges i think. she scrutinized our luxury with grim determination. and we giggled like two school-girls as we peeped together through the crevices of the blinded windows at the rich, furry passengers who ever and again hurried along, casting angry glances at our shrouded windows. it being so early in the year--but how mild and sweet a day--there were few occupants of the coach at axminster. as i had once made a (frequently broken) vow to do at once what scared me, i asked to be perched up on the box beside the lean, brick-faced driver. thus giddily exalted above his three cantering roan horses, we bowled merrily along. with his whip he pointed out to me every "object of interest" as it went floating by--church and inn, farm and mansion. "them's peewits," he would bawl. "and that's the selfsame cottage where lived the little old 'ooman what lived in a shoe." he stooped over me, reins in fist, with his seamed red face and fiery little eye, as if i were a small child home for the holidays. evening sunlight on the hill-tops and shadowy in the valleys. and presently the three stepping horses--vapour jetting from their nostrils, their sides panting like bellows--dragged the coach up a hill steeper than ever. "and that there," said the driver, as we surmounted the crest--and as if for emphasis he gave a prodigious tug at an iron bar beside him, "that there's the sea." the sea. flat, bow-shaped, hazed, remote, and of a blue stilling my eyes as with a dream--i verily believe the saltest tears i ever shed in my life smarted on my lids as the spirit in me fled away, to be alone with that far loveliness. a desire almost beyond endurance devoured me. "yes," cried hidden self to self, "i can never, never love him; but he shall take me away--away--away. oh, how i have wasted my days, sick for home." but small opportunity was given me for these sentimental reflections. nearly at the foot of even another hill, and one so precipitous that during its rattling descent i had to cling like a spider to the driver's strap, we came to a standstill; and in face of a gaping knot of strangers i was lifted down--with a "there! miss nantuckety," from the driver--from my perch to the pavement. the lodgings mrs monnerie had taken for us proved to be the sea rooms in a small, white, bow-windowed house on the front, commanding the fishing-boats, the harbour, and the stone cobb. i tasted my lips, snuffed softly with my nose, stole a look over the bay, and glanced at mrs bowater. was she, too, half-demented with this peculiar and ravishing experience? i began to shiver; but not with cold, with delight. face creased up in a smile (the wind had stiffened the skin), cheeks tingling, and ravenously hungry, i watched the ceremonious civilities that were passing between landlady and landlady: mrs bowater angular and spare; mrs petrie round, dumpy, smooth, and a little bald. my friend mrs monnerie was evidently a lady whose lightest word was sesame. every delicacy and luxury that lyme out of its natural resources can have squandered on king george iii. was ours without the asking. mrs bowater, it is true, at our sea-fish breakfast next morning, referred in the first place to the smell of drains; next to fleas; and last to greasy cooking. but who should have the privilege of calling the kettle black unless the pot? moreover, we were "first-class" visitors, and _had_ to complain of something. i say "we"; but since, in the first place, all the human houses that i have ever entered have been less sweet to the nose than mere country out-of-doors; since next (as i discovered when i was a child) there must be some ichor or acid in my body unpleasing to man's parasites; and since, last, i cannot bear cooked animals; these little inconveniences, even if they had not existed solely in mrs bowater's fancy, would not have troubled me. the days melted away. we would sally out early, while yet many of lyme's kitchen chimneys were smokeless, and would return with the shadows of evening. how mrs bowater managed to sustain so large a frame for so many hours together on a few hard biscuits and a bottle of cold tea, i cannot discover. her mood, like our weather that april, was almost always "set fair," and her temper never above a comfortable sixty degrees. we hired a goat-chaise, and with my flaxen hair down my back under a sunbonnet, i drove reuben up and down the esplanade--both of us passable ten-year-olds to a careless observer. my cheeks and hands were scorched by the sun; mrs bowater added more and more lilac and white to her outdoor attire; and mrs petrie lent her a striped, and once handsome parasol with a stork's head for handle, which had been left behind by a visitor--otherwise unendeared. on warm mornings we would choose some secluded spot on the beach, or on the fragrant, green-turfed cliffs, or in the uplyme meadows. though i could never persuade mrs bowater to join me, i sometimes dabbled in the sun in some ice-cold, shallow, seaweedy pool between the rocks. then, while she read the newspaper, or crocheted, i also, over book or needle, indulged in endless reverie. for hours together, with eyes fixed on the glass-green, tumbling water, i would listen to its enormous, far, phantom bells and voices, happier than words can tell. and i would lie at full length, basking in the heat, for it was a hot may, almost wishing that the huge furnace of the sun would melt me away into a little bit of glass: and what colour would that have been, i wonder? if a small heart can fall in love with the whole world, that heart was mine. but the very intensity of this greed and delight--and the tiniest shell or pebble on the beach seemed to be all but exploding with it--was a severe test of my strength. one late twilight, i remember, as we idled homeward, the planet venus floating like a luminous water-drop in the primrose of the western sky, we passed by a low white-walled house beneath trees. and from an open window came into the quiet the music of a fiddle. what secret decoy was in that air i cannot say. i stopped dead, looking about me as if for refuge, and drinking in the while the gliding, lamenting sounds. curiously perturbed, i caught at mrs bowater's skirt. sky and darkening headland seemed to be spinning around me--melting out into a dream. "oh, mrs bowater," i whispered, as if i were drowning, "it is strange for us to be here." she dropped herself on the grass beside me, brushing with her dress the scent of wild thyme into the dewy air, and caught my hands in hers. her long face close to mine, she gently shook me; "now, now; now, now!" she called. "come back, my pretty one. see! it's me, me, mrs bowater.... the love she's been to me!" i smiled, groped with my hand, opened my eyes in the dimness to answer her. but a black cloud came over them; and the next thing i recall is waking to find myself being carried along in her arms, cold and half lifeless; and she actually breaking ever and again into a shambling run, as she searched my face in what seemed, even to my scarcely conscious brain, an extravagant anxiety. four days afterwards--and i completely restored--we found on the breakfast table of our quiet sea-room an unusually bountiful post: a broad, impressive-looking letter and a newspaper for mrs bowater, and a parcel, from fanny, for me. time and distance had divided me from the past more than i had supposed. the very sight of her handwriting gave me a qualm. "fanny! oh, my heavens," cried a voice in me, "what's wrong now?" but removing the brown paper i found only a book, and it being near to my size as books go, i opened it with profound relief. my joy was premature. the book fanny had sent me was by bishop jeremy taylor, _holy living and dying: with prayers containing the whole duty of a christian_. i read over and over this title with a creeping misgiving and dismay, and almost in the same instant, detected, lightly fastened between its fly-leaves, and above its inscription--"to midgetina: in memoriam"--an inch or two of paper, pencilled over in fanny's minutest characters. a slow, furtive glance discovered mrs bowater far too deeply absorbed to have noticed my small movements. she was sitting bolt upright, her forehead drawn crooked in an unusual frown. an open letter lay beside her plate. she was staring into, rather than at, her newspaper. with infinite stealth i slipped fanny's scrap of paper under the tablecloth, folded it small, and pushed it into my skirt pocket. "a present from fanny," i cried in a clear voice at last. but mrs bowater, with drooping, pallid face, and gaze now fixed deep on a glass-case containing three stuffed, aquatic birds, had not heard me. i waited, watching her. she folded the newspaper and removed her spectacles. "on our return," she began inconsequently, "the honourable mrs monnerie has invited you to stay in her london house--not for a week or two; for good. that's all as it should be, i suppose, seeing that pay's pay and mine is no other call on you." the automatic voice ceased with a gasp. her thoughts appeared to be astray. she pushed her knotted fingers up her cheeks almost to her eyes. "it's said," she added with long, straight mouth, "that that unfortunate young man, mr crimble--is ill." she gave a glance at me without appearing to see me, and left the room. what was amiss? oh, this world! i sat trembling in empty dread, listening to her heavy, muffled footfall in the room above. the newspaper, with a scrawling cross on its margin, lay beside mrs monnerie's large, rough-edged envelope. i could bear the suspense no longer. on hands and knees i craned soundlessly forward over the white tablecloth, across the rank dish of coagulating bacon fat, and stole one or two of the last few lines of grey-black print at the foot of the column: "the reverend gentleman leaves a widowed mother. he was an only son, and was in his twenty-ninth year." "leaves"; "was"--the dingy letters blurred my sight. footsteps were approaching. i huddled back to my carpet stool on the chair. mrs petrie had come to clear away the breakfast things. stonily i listened while she cheerfully informed me that the glass was still rising, that she didn't recollect such weather not for the month for ten years or more. "you must be what i've heard called an 'alcyon, miss." she nodded her congratulations at me, and squinnied at the untasted bacon. "i am going for a breath of air, mrs petrie," came mrs bowater's voice through the crack of the door. "will you kindly be ready for your walk, miss, in half an hour?" left once more to myself, i heard the "alarm" clock on the mantelpiece ticking as if every beat were being forced out of its works, and might be its last. an early fly or two--my strange, familiar friends--darted soundlessly beneath the ceiling. the sea was shimmering like an immense looking-glass. more pungent than i had ever remembered it, the refreshing smell of seaweed eddied in at the open window. with dry mouth and a heart that jerked my body with its beatings, i unfolded fanny's scrap of paper:-- "wise m.,--i have thrown the stone. and now i am fey for my own poor head. could you--and--will you absolutely secretly send me any money you can spare? £ if possible. i'm in a hole--full fathom five--but mean to get out of it. i ask _you_, rather than mother, because i remember you said once you were putting money by out of that young lady's independence of yours. notes would be best: if not, a post office order to this address, _somehow_. i must trust to luck, and to your wonderful enterprise, if you would be truly a dear. it's only until my next salary. if you can't--or won't--help me, damnation is over my head: but i bequeathe you a kiss all honey and roses none the less, and am, _pro tem._, your desperate f. "ps.--be sure not to give m. this address: and in a week or two we shall all be laughing and weeping together over the prodigal daughter." fanny, then, had not heard our morning news. i read her scribble again and again for the least inkling of it, my thoughts in disorder. that sprawling cross on the newspaper; this gibbering and dancing as of a skeleton before my eyes; and "the stone," "the stone." what did it mean? the word echoed on in my head as if it had been shouted in a vault. i was deadly frightened and sick, stood up as if to escape, and found only my own distorted face in mrs petrie's flower-and-butterfly-painted chimney glass. "you, you!" my eyes cried out on me. and a furious storm--remorse, grief, horror-broke within. i knew the whole awful truth. like a shade in the bright light, mr crimble stood there beyond the table, not looking at me, its face turned away. unspeakable misery bowed my shoulders, chilled my skin. "but you said 'ill,'" i whispered angrily up at last at mrs bowater's bonneted figure in the doorway. "i have looked where the cross is. he is dead!" she closed the door with both hands and seated herself on a chair beside it. "i've trapsed that front, miss--striving to pick up the ends. it doesn't bear thinking of: that poor, misguided young man. it's hid away...." "what did he die of, mrs bowater?" i demanded. she caught at the newspaper, folded it close, nodded, shook her head. "four nights ago," she said. and still, some one last shred of devotion--not of fidelity, not of fear, for i longed to pour out my heart to her--sealed my lips. _holy living and dying: holy living and dying:_ i read over and over the faded gilt letters on the cover of fanny's gift, and she in her mockery, desperate, too. "damnation"--the word echoed on in my brain. but poor mrs bowater was awaiting no confession from me. she had out-trapsed her strength. when next i looked round at her, the bonneted head lay back against the rose-garlanded wallpaper, the mouth ajar, the eyelids fluttering. it was my turn now--to implore her to "come back": and failing to do so, i managed at last to clamber up and tug at the bell-pull. chapter thirty i surveyed with horror the recumbent, angular figure stretched out on the long, narrow, horsehair sofa. the shut eyes--it was selfish to leave me like this. "there, miss, don't take on," mrs petrie was saying. "the poor thing's coming round now. slipping dead off out of things--many's the time i've wished i could--even though you _have_ come down for a bit of pleasuring." but it was lyme regis's solemn, round-shouldered doctor who reassured me. at first sight of him i knew mrs bowater was not going to die. he looked down on her, politely protesting that she must not attempt to get up. "this unseasonable heat, perhaps. the heart, of course, not so strong as it might be." he ordered her complete rest in bed for a few days--light nourishment, no worry, and he would look in again. me he had not detected under the serge window-curtain, though he cast an uneasy glance around him, i fancied, on leaving the room. after remaining alone under the still, sunshiny window until i could endure it no longer, i climbed up the steep, narrow stairs to mrs bowater's bedroom, and sat a while clasping the hand that hung down from the bed. the blind gently ballooned in the breeze. raying lights circled across the ceiling, as carriage and cart glided by on the esplanade. fearful lest even my finger-tips should betray me to the flat shape beneath the counterpane, i tried hard to think. my mind was in a whirl of fears and forebodings; but there was but one thing, supremely urgent, facing me now. i must forget my own miseries, and somehow contrive to send fanny the money she needed. _somehow_; but how? the poor little hoard which i had saved from my quarterly allowances lay locked up on beechwood hill in my box beneath my bed. by what conceivable means could i regain possession of it, unknown to mrs bowater? conscience muttered harsh words in my ear as i sat there holding that cold, limp hand with mine, while these inward schemings shuttled softly to and fro. when my patient had fallen asleep, i got downstairs again--a more resolute, if not a better woman. removing latch and box keys from their ribbon round my neck, i enclosed them in an envelope with a letter:-- "dear mr. anon,--i want you, please, to help me. the large one of these two keys unlocks my little house door: the smaller one a box under my bed. would you please let yourself in at mrs bowater's to-morrow evening when it's dark--there will be nobody there--take out twenty pounds which you will find in the box, and send them to _miss fanny bowater, the crown and anchor hotel, b----_. i will thank you when i come. "believe me, yours very sincerely, "m. m." it is curious. many a false, pandering word had sprung to my tongue when i was concocting this letter in my mind beside mrs bowater's bed, and even with mrs petrie's stubby, ink-corroded pen in my hand. yet some last shred of honesty compelled me to be brief and frigid. i was simply determined to be utterly open with _him_, even though i seemed to myself like the dark picture of a man in a bog struggling to grope his way out. i dipped my fingers into a vase of wallflowers, wetted the gum, sealed down the envelope, and wrote on it this address: mr ----, lodging at a cottage near the farm, north-west of wanderslore, beechwood, kent. and i prayed heaven for its safe delivery. for fanny no words would come--nothing but a mere bare promise that i would help her as soon as i could--an idiot's message. the next three days were an almost insupportable solitude. from mr anon no answer could be expected, since in my haste i had forgotten to give him mrs petrie's address. i brooded in horror of what the failure of my letter to reach him might entail. i shared fanny's damnation. wherever i went, a silent mr crimble dogged my footsteps. meanwhile, mrs bowater's newspaper, i discovered, lay concealed beneath her pillow. at length i could bear myself no longer, and standing beside her bed, asked if i might read it. until that moment we had neither of us even referred to the subject. propped up on her pillows, her long face looking a strange colour against their whiteness, she considered my request. "well, miss," she said at last, "you know too much to know no more." i spread out the creased sheets on the worn carpet, and read slowly the smudged, matter-of-fact account from beginning to end. there were passages in it that imprinted themselves on my memory like a photograph. mr crimble had taken the evening service that last day looking "ill and worn, though never in what may be described as robust health, owing to his indefatigable devotion to his ecclesiastical and parochial duties." the service over, and the scanty congregation dispersed, he had sate alone in the vestry for so unusual a time that the verger of st peter's, a mr soames, anxious to get home to his supper, had at length looked in on him at the door, to ask if his services were required any further. mr crimble had "raised his head as if startled," and "had smiled in the negative," and then, "closing the eastern door behind him," had "hastened" out of the church. no other human eye had encountered him until he was found at . p.m. in an outhouse at the foot of his mother's garden. "the head of the unfortunate gentleman was wellnigh severed from the body." "he was an only son, and was in his twenty-ninth year. universal sympathy will be extended by all to the aged lady who is prostrated by this tragic occurrence." propped on my hands and knees, fearful that mrs bowater might interrupt me before i was prepared, i stared fixedly at the newspaper. i understood all that it said, yet it was as strange to me as if it had been written in hebrew. i had seen, i had known, mr crimble. who, then, was this? my throat drew together as i turned my head a little and managed to inquire, "what is an inquest, mrs bowater?" "fretting out the why's and wherefore's," came the response, muffled by a handkerchief pressed close to her mouth. "and--_this_ 'why'?" i whispered, stooping low. "that's between him and his maker," said the voice. "the poor young man had set his heart on we know where. as we make our bed so we must lie on it, miss. it's for nobody to judge: though it may be a lesson." "oh, mrs bowater, then you knew i knew." "no, no. not _your_ lesson, miss. i didn't mean that. it's not for you to fret yourself, though i must say---- i have always made it a habit, though without prying, please god, to be aware of more than interference could set right. fanny and i have talked the affair over till we couldn't look in each other's faces for fear of what we might say. but she's _mr_ bowater's child, through and through, and my firm hand was not firm enough, maybe. you did what you could. it's not in human conscience to ask more than the natural frame can bear." did what i could.... i cowered, staring at my knuckles, and it seemed that a little concourse of strangers, heads close together, were talking in my mind. my eyes were dry; i think the spectre of a smile had dragged up my lips. mrs bowater raised herself in her bed, and peered over at me. "it's the letters," she whispered at me. "if he hasn't destroyed them, they'll be read to the whole parish." i crouched lower. "you'll be thankful to be rid of me. i shall be thankful to be rid of myself, mrs bowater." she thrust a long, skinny arm clean out of the bed. "come away, there; come away," she cried. "oh," i said, "take me away, take me away. i can't bear it, mrs bowater. i don't _want_ to be alive." "there, miss, rest now, and think no more." she smoothed my hair, clucked a little low, whistling tune, as if for lullaby. "why, there now," she muttered sardonically, "you might almost suppose i had been a mother myself!" there was silence between us for a while, then, quietly raising herself, she looked down at me on the pillow, and, finding me to be still awake, a long smile spread over her face: "why, we don't seem neither of us to be much good at daytime sleeping." chapter thirty-one a morning or two afterwards we set out on our homeward journey--the sea curdling softly into foam on its stones, a solitary ship in the distance on its dim, blue horizon. we were a dejected pair of travellers, keeping each a solemn face turned aside at the window, thinking our thoughts, and avoiding, as far as we could, any interchange of looks that might betray them one to the other. for the first time in our friendship mrs bowater was a little short and impatient with me over difficulties and inconveniences which i could not avoid, owing to my size. her key in the lock of the door, she looked down on me in the porch, a thin smile between nose and cheek. "no place like home there mayn't be, miss," she began, "but----" the dark passage was certainly uninviting; the clock had stopped. "i think i'll be calling round for henry," she added abruptly. i entered the stagnant room, ran up my stairs, my heart with me--and paused. not merely my own ghost was there to meet me; but a past that seemed to mutter, never again, never again, from every object on shelf and wall. yet a faint, sweet, unfamiliar odour lay on the chilly air. i drew aside the curtain and looked in. fading on the coverlet of my bed lay a few limp violets, ivory white and faintly rosy. i was alone in the house, concealed now even from mr bowater's frigid stare. yet at sight of these flowers a slight vertigo came over me, and i had to sit on my bed for a moment to recover myself. then i knelt down, my heart knocking against my side, and dragged from out its hiding-place the box in which i kept my money. gritty with the undisturbed dust of our absence, it was locked. i drew back, my hand on my mouth. what could be the meaning of this? my stranger had come and gone. had he been so stupidly punctilious that, having taken out the twenty pounds, he had relocked an almost empty box? or had he, at the last moment...? this riddle distressed me so much that instantly i was seized with a violent headache. but nothing could be done for the present. i laid by the violets in a drawer, pushed back the box, and, making as good a pretence at eating my supper as i could, prepared for the night. one by one the clocks in hall and kitchen struck out the hours, and, the wind being in the east, borne on it came the chimes of st peter's. automatically i counted the strokes, turning this way and that, as if my life depended on this foolish arithmetic, yet ready, like job, to curse the day i was born. what had my existence been but a blind futility, my thought for others but a mask of egotism and selfishness? yet, in all this turmoil of mind, i must have slept, for suddenly i found myself stiff, drawn-up, and wideawake--listening to a cautious, reiterated tapping against my window-pane. a tallow night-light burned beside me in a saucer of water. for the first time in my life--at least since childhood--i had been afraid to face the dark. why, i know not; but i at once leapt out of bed and blew out that light. the night was moonless, but high and starry. i peered through the curtains, and a shrouded figure became visible in the garden--fanny's. curtain withdrawn, we looked each at each through the cold, dividing glass in the gloom--her eyes, in the night-spread pallor of her skin, as if congealed. the dark lips, with an exaggerated attempt at articulation, murmured words, but i could catch no meaning. the face looked almost idiotic in these contortions. i shuddered, shook my head violently. she drew back. terrified that she would be gone--in my dressing-gown and slippers i groped my way across the room and was soon, with my door open, in the night air. she had heard me, and with a beckon of her finger, turned as if to lead me on. "no, no," i signalled, "i have no key." with a gesture, she drew close, stooped, and we talked there together, muttering in the porch. "midgetina," she whispered, smiling bleakly, "it's this wretched money. i must explain. i'm at my wit's end--in awful trouble--without it." huddled close, i wasted no time in asking questions. she must come in. but this she flatly refused to do. yet money, money was her one cry: and that she must have before she saw her mother again. not daring to tell her that i was in doubt whether or not my savings were still in my possession, i pushed her hand away as she knelt before me on the uppermost step. "i must fetch it," i said. by good fortune my money-box was not the weightiest of my grandfather's french trunks--not the brass-bound friend-in-need of my younger days, and it contained little but paper. i hoisted it on to my bed, and, as i had lately seen the porters do at the railway station, contrived to push under it and raise it on to my shoulder. its edge drove in on my collar-bone till i thought it must snap. thus laden, i staggered cautiously down the staircase, pushed slowly across the room, and, so, out into the passage and towards the rounded and dusky oblong of the open door. on the threshold fanny met me, gasping under this burden, and at sight of me some blessed spirit within her seemed to give her pause. "no, no," she muttered, and drew back as if suddenly ashamed of her errand. on i came, however, and prudence prevailed. with a sound that might have been sigh or sob she snatched the load from me and gathered it in, as best she could, under her cloak. "oh, midgetina!" she whispered meaninglessly. "now we must talk." and having wedged back the catch of my door, we moved quickly and cautiously in the direction of wanderslore. we climbed on up the quiet hill. the cool, fragrant, night seemed to be luring us on and on, to swallow us up. yet, _there_ shone the customary stars; there, indeed, to my amazement, as if the heavenly clock of the universe had set back its hands on my behalf, straddled the constellation of orion. come to our beech-tree, now a vast indistinguishable tent of whispering, silky leaves, fanny seated herself upon a jutting root, and i stood panting before her. "well?" she said, with a light, desolate laugh. "oh, fanny, 'well'!" i cried. "can't you trust me?" "trust you?" "oh, oh, mocking-bird!--with all these riches?" i cast a glance up into the leafy branches, and seated myself opposite to her. "fanny, fanny. have you heard?" "'heard,' she says!" it was her turn to play the parrot. "what am i here for, but to hear more? but never mind; that's all over. has mother----" "'all over,' fanny!" i interrupted her. "all over? but, the letters?" "what letters?" she stared at me, and added, looking away, "oh, mine?" she gave out the word with a long, inexhaustible sigh. "that was all right. he did not hide, he burned.... neither to nor from; not even to his mother. every paper destroyed. i envy _her_ feelings! he just gave up, went out, _exit_. i envy that, too." "not even to you, fanny? not a word even to you?" the figure before me crouched a little closer together. "they said," was her evasive reply, "that there is melancholia in the family." i think the word frightened me even more than its meaning. "melancholia," i repeated the melodious syllables. "oh, fanny!" "listen, midgetina," her voice broke out coldly. "i can guess easily enough what's saving up for me when i come home--which won't be yet a while, i can assure you. i can guess, too, what your friends, lady pollacke and co., are saying about me. _let_ them rave. that can't be helped. i shall bear it, and try to grin. maybe there would be worse still, if worse were known. but your worse i won't have, not even from you. i was not his keeper. i did _not_ play him false. i deny it. could i prevent him--caring for me? was he man enough to come openly? did he say to his mother, 'take her or leave her, i mean to have her'--as _i_ would have done? no, he blew hot and cold. he temporized; he--he was a coward. oh, this everlasting dog-fight between body and mind! ages before you ever crept upon the scene he pestered and pestered me--until i have almost retched at the sound of church bells. what was it, i ask you, but sheer dread of what the man might go and _do_ that kept me shilly-shallying? and what's more, miss wren, who told me to throw the stone? pff, it sickens me, this paltering world. i can't and won't see things but with my reason. my reason, i tell you. what else is a schoolma'am for? did he want me for _my_ sake? who begged and begged that his beautiful love should be kept secret? there was once a philosopher called plato, my dear. he poisoned man's soul." flesh and spirit, fanny must have been very tired. her voice fluttered on like a ragged flag. "but listen, listen!" i entreated her. "i haven't blamed you for that, fanny. i swear it. i mean, you can't help _not_ loving. i know that. but perhaps if only we had---- it's a dreadful thing to think of him sitting there alone--the vestry--and then looking up 'with a smile.' oh, fanny, with a smile! i dare hardly go into his mind--and the verger looking in. i think of him all day." "and i all night," came the reply, barked out in the gloom. "wasn't the man a christian, then?" "fanny," i covered my eyes. "don't say that. we shall both of us just suffocate in the bog if you won't even let yourself listen to what you are saying." "well," she said doggedly, "be sure you shall suffocate last, miss midge. there's ample perch-room for you on fanny's shoulder." i felt, rather than saw, the glance almost of hatred that she cast at me from under her brows. "mock as you like at me," was my miserable answer, "i have kept my word to you--all but: and it was i who helped--oh yes, i know that." "ah! 'all but,'" her agile tongue caught up the words. "and what else, may i ask?" i took a deep breath, with almost sightless eyes fixed on the beautiful, mysterious glades stretching beneath us. "he came again. why, it was not very many days ago. and we talked and talked, and i grew tired, yes, and angry at last. i told him you were only making use of me. you were. i said that all we could do was just to go on loving you--and keep away. i know, fanny, i cannot be of any account; i don't understand very much. but that is true." she leaned nearer, as if incredulous, her face as tranquil in its absorption as the planet that hung in the russet-black sky in a rift of the leaves. "candid, and candid," she scoffed brokenly, and all in a gasp. the voice trailed off. her mouth relaxed. and suddenly my old love for her seemed to gush back into my heart. a burning, inarticulate pity rose up in me. "listen, midgetina," she went on. "that was honest. and i can be honest, too. i don't care _what_ you said. if you had called me the vilest word they can set their tongue to, i'd still have forgiven you. but would you have me give in? go under? have you ever _seen_ mother grundy? i tell you, he haunts me--the blackness, the deadness. that outhouse! do you suppose i can't see inside that? he sits by my bed. i eat his shadow with my food. at every corner in the street his black felt hat bobs and disappears. if even he hadn't been so solemn, so insignificant!..." her low, torturing laugh shook under the beechen hollow. "and i say this"--she went on slowly, as if i sat at a distance, "if he's not very careful i shall go the same way. i can't bear that--_that_ kind of spying on me. don't you suppose you can sin _after_ death? if only he had given me away--betrayed me! we should at least have been square. but that," she jerked back her head. "that's only one thing. i had not meant to humble myself like this. you seem not to care what humiliations i have to endure. you sit there, oh, how absurd for me, watching and watching me, null and void and meaningless. yet you are human: you feel. you said you loved me--oh, yes. but touch me, come here"--she laid her hand almost fondly on her breast--"and be humanly generous, no. that's no more your nature than--than a changeling's. contamination, perhaps!" her eyes fretted round her, as if she had lost her sense of direction. "and now there's this tongueless, staring ghost." she shuddered, hiding her face in her hands. "the misery of it all." "fanny, fanny," i besought her. "you know i love you." but the words sounded cold and distant, and some deadly disinclination held me where i was, though i longed to comfort her. "and at times, i confess it, i have hated you too. you haven't always been very kind to me. i was trying to cure myself. you were curing me. but still i go on--a little." "it's useless, useless," she replied, dropping her hands into her lap and gazing vacantly on the ground. "i can't care; i can't even cry. and all you say is only pity. i don't want that. would you still pity me, i wonder, if you knew that even though i had come to take this wretched money from you, i meant to taunt you, to accuse you of lying to me?" "taunt," "lying." my cheek grew hot. i drew back my head with a jerk and stared at her. "i don't understand you." "there. what did i say! she doesn't understand me," she cried with a sob, as if calling on the angels to bear witness to her amazement. "well, then, let fanny tell you, miss m., whoever and whatever you may be, that she, yes, even she, can understand that unearthliness, too. oh, these last days! i have had my fill of them. take all: give nothing. there's no other means of grace in a world like this." "but you said 'taunt' me," i insisted, with eyes fixed on the box that lay between the blunt-headed fronds of the springing bracken. "what did you mean by that? i did my best. your mother was ill. she fainted, fanny, when the newspaper came. i couldn't come back a single hour earlier. so i wrote to--to a friend, sending him my keys, and asking him to find the money for you. i know my letter reached him. perhaps," i hesitated, in dread of what might be hanging over our heads, "perhaps the box is empty." but i need not have wasted myself. the puzzle was not quite inexplicable. for the moment fanny's miseries seemed to have vanished. animation came into her face and voice and movements as she told me how, the night before, thinking that her mother and i might have returned from lyme regis, she had come tapping. and suddenly as she stood in the garden, her face close to the glass, an utterly strange one had thrust itself into view, and the figure of "a ghastly gloating little dwarfish creature" had appeared in the porch. at first she had supposed--but only for an instant--that it was myself. "of course, mother had mentioned him in her letters, but"--and fanny opened her eyes at me--"i never guessed he was, well, like _that_." then in her folly, and without giving him the least opportunity to explain his presence there, she had begun railing at him, and had accused him of forcing his way in to rob the house: "and he stood there, hunched up, looking at me--out of my own house." the very picture of fanny helplessly standing there at her own door, and of these two facing each other like that in the porch--this ridiculous end to my fine stratagem, filled me with a miserable amusement. i leaned back my head where i sat, shrilly and dismally laughing and laughing, until tears sprang pricklingly into my eyes. if any listener had been abroad in the woods that night, he would, i think, have hastened his departure. but fanny seemed to be shocked at my levity. she peered anxiously into the clear night-glooms around us. "and what!" i said, still striving to regain command over myself. "what happened then? oh, fanny, not a policeman?" but her memory of what had followed was confused, or perhaps she had no wish to be too exact. all that i could win from her for certain was that after an angry and bitter talk between herself and mr anon, he had simply slammed my door behind him and dared her to do her worst. "that was pretty brave of him," i remarked. "oh," said fanny amiably, "i am not blaming your friend, midgetina. he seemed to be perfectly _competent_." yet even now i remained unsatisfied. if fanny had come secretly to beechwood, as she had suggested, and had spent the night with a friend, solely to hear the last tidings of mr crimble, what was this other trouble, so desperate that she had lost both her wits and her temper at finding mr anon there? supposing the house had been empty? my curiosity overcame me, and the none too ingenuous question slipped from my tongue: "did you want some of the money for mourning, then, fanny?" her dark, pale face, above the black, enveloping cloak, met my look with astonishment. "mourning!" she cried, "why, that would be the very---- no, not mourning, midgetina. i owe a little to a friend--and not money only," she added with peculiar intensity. "of course, if you have any doubts about lending it----" "give, not lend," said i. "yes, but how are we to get at it? i can't lug _that_ thing about, and you say _he_ has the key. shall we _smash_ it open?" the question came so hurriedly that i had no time to consider what, besides money--and of course friendship--could be owed to a friend, and especially to a friend that made her clench her teeth on the word. "yes, smash it open," i nodded. "it's only a box." "but such a pretty little box!" with knees drawn up, and shivering now after my outburst of merriment, i watched her labours. my beloved chest might keep out moth and rust, it was no match for fanny. she wound up a large stone in her silk scarf. a few heavy and muffled blows, the lock surrendered, and the starlight dripped in like milk from heaven upon my hoard. "why, midgetina," whispered fanny, delicately counting the notes over between her long, white fingers, "you are richer than i supposed--a female croesus. wasn't it a great risk? i mean," she continued, receiving no answer, "no wonder he was so cautious. and how much may i take?" it seemed as if an empty space, not of yards but of miles, had suddenly separated us. "all you want," said i. "but i didn't--i _didn't_ taunt you, now, did i?" she smiled at me, with head inclined to her slim shoulder, as if in mimicry of my ivory hypnos. "there was nothing to taunt me about. mayn't _i_ have a friend?" "why," she retorted lightly, mechanically re-counting the bits of paper, "friend indeed! what about all those pollackes and monneries mother's so full of? you will soon be flitting to quite another sphere. it's the _old_ friends that then will be left mourning. you won't sit moon-gazing then, my dear." "no, fanny," i said stubbornly, "i've had enough of that, just for the present." "sst!" she whispered swiftly, raising her head and clasping the notes to her breast beneath her cloak, "what was that?" we listened. i heard nothing--nothing but sigh of new-born leaf, or falling of dead twig cast off from the parent tree. it was early yet for the nightingale. "only the wind," said she. "only the wind," i echoed scornfully, "or perhaps a weasel." she hurriedly divided my savings and thrust my share into my lap. i pushed it in under my arm. "good heavens, midgetina!" she cried, aghast. "you are almost naked. how on earth was i to know?" i clutched close my dressing-gown and stumbled to my feet, trying in vain to restrain my silly teeth from chattering. "never mind about me, fanny," i muttered. "they don't waste inquests on changelings." "my god!" was her vindictive comment, "how she harps on the word. as if i had nothing else to worry about." with a contemptuous foot she pushed my empty box under cover of a low-growing yew. seemingly wanderslore was fated to entomb one by one all my discarded possessions. turning, she stifled a yawn with a sound very like a groan. "then it's _au revoir_, midgetina. give me five minutes' start.... you know i am grateful?" "yes, fanny," i said obediently, smiling up into her face. "won't you kiss me?" she said. "_tout comprendre_, you know, _c'est tout pardonner_." "why, fanny," i replied; "no, thank you. i prefer plain english." but scarcely a minute had separated us when i sprang up and pursued her a few paces into the shadows, into which she had disappeared. to forgive all--how piteously easy now that she was gone. she had tried to conceal it, brazen it out, but unutterable wretchedness had lurked in every fold of her cloak, in the accents of her voice, in every fatigued gesture. her very eyes had shone the more lustrously in the starlight for the dark shadows around them. but understand her--i could not even guess what horrible secret trouble she had been concealing from me. and beyond that, too--a hideous, selfish dread--my guilty mind was haunted by the fear of what she might do in her extremity. "fanny, fanny," i called falsely into the silence. "oh, come back! i love you; indeed i love you." how little blessed it is at times even to give. no answer came. i threw myself on the ground. and i strove with myself in the darkness, crushing out every thought as it floated into my mind, and sinking on and on into the depths of unconsciousness. "oh, my dear, my dear," came the whisper of a tender, guttural voice in my ear. "you are deathly cold. why do you grieve so? she is gone. listen, listen. they have neither love nor pity. and i--i cannot live without you." i sat up, black with rage. my stranger's face glimmered obscurely in the gloom. "oh, if you spy on me again!" i rasped at him, "'live without me,' what do i care?--you can go and----" but, thank god, the _die without me_ was never uttered. i haven't _that_ to haunt me. some hidden strength that had been mine these few days melted away like water. "not now; not now!" i entreated him. i hastened away. london chapter thirty-two and then--well, life plays strange tricks. in a week or two london had swallowed me up. how many times, i wonder, had i tried in fancy to picture mrs monnerie's town house. how romantic an edifice fancy had made of it. impressive in its own fashion, it fell far short of these ignorant dreams. it was no. of about forty, set side by side, their pillared porticoes fronting a prodigious square. its only "garden," chiefly the resort of cats, children, nursemaids, an old whiskered gentleman in a bath chair, and sparrows, was visible to every passer-by through a spear-headed palisade of railings. broad paving-stones skirted its areas, and over each descent of steps hung a bell-pull. on cloudless days the sun filled this square like a tank with a dry glare and heat in which even my salamanderish body sometimes gasped like a fish out of water. when rain fell out of the low, grey skies, and the scaling plane-trees hissed and the sparrows chirped, my spirits seemed to sink into my shoes. and fair or foul, london soot and dust were enemies alike to my eyes, my fingers, and my nose. even my beloved cloud-burdened north-west wind was never quite free of smuts and grit; and when blew the east! but it must be remembered how ignorant and local i was. in my long carriage journey to mrs monnerie's through those miles and miles of grimed, huddling houses, those shops and hoardings and steeples, i had realized for the first time that its capital is not a part of _england_, only a sprawling human growth in it; and though i soon learned to respect it as _that_, i could never see without a sigh some skimpy weed struggling for life in its bricked-up crevices. it was nearly all dead, except for human beings, and that could not be said of lyndsey, or even of beechwood hill. maybe my imagination had already been prejudiced by a coloured drawing which mr wagginhorne had sent me once for a valentine when i was a child. it hangs up now in that child's nursery for a memento that i have been nearly dead. in the midst of it on a hill, in gold and faded carmine, encircled with great five-pointed blue stars, and with green, grooved valleys radiating from its castellated towers, is a city--_hierusalem_. a city surmounted by a narrow wreathing pennon on which, inscribed in silver, are the words: "who heareth the voice of my spirit? and how shall they who deceive themselves resort unto me?" scattered far and near about this central piece, and connected with it by thin lines like wandering paths radiating from its gates across mountain, valley, and forest, lie, like round web-like smudges, if seen at a distance, the other chief cities of the world, rome, venice, constantinople, paris, and the rest. london sprawls low in the left-hand corner. the strongest glass cannot exhaust the skill and ingenuity of the maker of this drawing (an artist who, mr wagginhorne told me, was mad, poor thing--a man in a frenzy distemper--his very words). for when you peer close into this london, it takes the shape of a tusked, black, hairy boar, sprawling with hoofs outspread, fast asleep. and between them, and even actually diapering the carcass of the creature, is a perfect labyrinth of life--a high crowned king and queen, honey-hiving bees, an old man with a beard as if in a swoon, robbers with swords, travellers with beasts and torches, inns, a cluster of sharp-coloured butterflies (of the same proportion) fluttering over what looks like a clot of dung, a winding river, ships, trees, tombs, wasted unburied bodies, a child issuing from an egg, a phoenix taking flight: and so on. there is no end to this poor man's devices. the longer you look, the more strange things you discover. yet at distance of a pace or two, his pig appears to fade into nothing but a cloudy-coloured cobweb--one of the many around his bright-dyed _hierusalem_. now i cannot help wondering if this peculiar picture may not already have tinged a young mind with a curious horror of london; even though my aversion may have needed no artificial aid. still i must not be ungrateful. these were vague impressions; and as an actual fact, mrs monnerie had transported me into the very midst of the world of rank and fashion. her no. was now my home. the spaciousness, the unnatural solitude, the servants who never so much as glanced at me until after my back was turned, the hushed _opulency_, the formality! it was impossible to be just my everyday miss m. my feet never found themselves twirling me round before their mistress was aware of it. i all but gave up gossiping with myself as i went about my little self-services. parochial creature that i was--i missed mrs bowater's "homeliness." to have things out of proportion to my body was an old story. to that, needless to say, i was perfectly accustomed. but here things were at first out of all proportion to my taste and habits, a very different thing. it is, in fact, extremely difficult in retrospect to get side by side again with those new experiences--with a self that was at one moment intoxicated and engrossed, and the next humiliated and desperately ill at ease, at the novelty of her surroundings. i had a maid, too, fleming, with a pointed face and greenish eyes, who, unlike mrs bowater, did not snort, but sniffed at things. whether i retired for the night or rose in the morning, it was always to the accompaniment of a half-audible sniff. and i was never perfectly certain whether that sniff was one of the mind, or of the body, or of both. i found it hard to learn to do _little_ enough for myself. fleming despised me--at least so i felt--even for emptying my wash-basin, or folding my nightgown. worse, i was never sure of being alone: she stole about so softly on her duties. and then the "company." not that the last black days at beechwood were not even blacker for the change. at first i tried to think them quietly over, to ravel out my mistakes, and to get straight with my past. but i couldn't in all that splendour. i had to spend much more time in bewaring of _faux pas_, and in growing accustomed to being a kind of tame, petted animal--tame even to itself, i mean. so mrs bowater's went floating off into the past like a dingy little house on the edge of a muddy river. amid that old horror and anxiety, even my dear pollie's wedding day had slipped by unheeded. how often my thoughts went back to her now. if only _she_ could have been my fleming. i tried to make amends for my forgetfulness--even to the extent of pocketing my pride, and commissioning fleming to purchase for me (out of the little stock of money left me by fanny) a cradle, as a wedding present for pollie, and a chest of tools for her husband. oddly enough, she did not sniff at this request. her green eyes almost sparkled. at the very word, wedding, she seemed to revive into a new woman. and pollie completely forgave me:-- "dear miss m.,--we was mother and all very sorry and grieved you couldn't come though it passed off very satisfactory. as for forgetting please don't mention the word, lyndsey have never been the same since the old house was empty. it all passed off very satisfactory though with such torrents of rain there was a great pool in the churchyard which made everybody in high spirits. and william and i can't thank you enough for those beautiful gifts you have sent us. will have been a carpenter since he was a boy but there's things there miss he says he never heard on in his born days but will be extreamly useful when he comes to know what for. and mother says it was just like your good kind heart to think of what you sent me. you can't think how handsome it looks in the new-papered room and i'm sure i hope if i may say so it may be quite as useful as will's tools, and its being pretty late to marry it isn't as if i was a slip of a girl. and of course i have mother. though if any does come you may be sure it will be a sunday treat being too fine for ordinary. "please god miss i hope you are keeping well and happy in your new suroundings and that dream will come true. it was a dreadful moment that day by the shops but i'm thankful all came well. if you ever writes to mrs. b. i trust you will mention me to her kindly not being much of a letter writer. if you could have heard the things she said of you your ears would burn miss you were such a treasure and to judge from her appearance she must have seen her troubles. and being a married woman helps to see into things though thank god i'm well and happy and william hopes to keep me so. "well i must close now trusting that you are in the best of health. your old pollie. "miss fenne have been very poorly of late so i've heard though not yet took to her bed--more peculiar than ever about church and such like. adam waggett being w's oldest friend though not my choice was to have been best man but he's in service in london and couldn't come." but if i pined for pollie's company, how can i express what the absence of mrs bowater meant to me? even when i had grown used to my new quarters, i would sometimes wake myself calling her name in a dream. she had been almost unendurably kind to me that last may morning in wanderslore, when she had come to fetch me from yet another long adieu--to mr anon. after he had gone, she and i had sat on for a while in that fresh spring beauty, a sober and miserable pair. miserable on my side for miserable reasons. then, if ever, had been the moment wherein to clear my breast and be in spirit as well as heart at one with her. yet part for honesty and part for shame, i had remained silent. i could only comfort myself with remembering that we should soon meet again, and that the future might be kinder. well, sometimes the future is kinder, but it is never the same thing as the past. "they may perhaps talk about that unfortunate ... about that poor young mr crimble, miss," was one of my landlady's last remarks, as she sat staring rigidly at the great, empty house. "we all take good care to spread about each other's horrors; and what else is a newspaper for? if so; well, i shouldn't ask it, i suppose. but i've been thinking maybe my fanny wasn't _everything_ to blame. we've had it out together, she and i, though only by letter. she was frightened of me as much as anything, though goodness knows i tried to bring her up a god-fearing child. she had no one, as she thought, to go to--and him a weak creature for all his obstinacy and, as you might say, penned in by his mother and his cloth. they say the cartholics don't marry, and there's nothing much to be wondered at in that. poor young fellow, he won't bear much thinking on, even when he's gone out of mind. i'm fearing now that what's come about may make her wilder and harder. help her all you can, if only in your thoughts, miss: she sets more store by you than you might guess." "indeed, indeed, i will," i said. "you see, miss," mrs bowater monotoned on, "i'm nothing much better than an aunt for fanny, with no children of my own for guidance; and him there helpless with his broken leg in buenos ayres." the long, bonneted face moved round towards me. "do you feel _any_ smouldering affections for the young gentleman that's just gone?" this was an unexpected twist to our talk, but, in some little confusion, i met it as candidly as i could. "i am fonder of fanny--and, of course, of you, mrs bowater; oh, far, far. but--i don't quite know how to express it--i am, as you might say, in my own _mind_ with him. i think he knows a little what i am, in myself i mean. and besides, oh, well, it isn't a miserable thing to feel that just one's company makes _anybody_ happy." mrs bowater considered this reply for some little time. "he didn't _look_ any too happy just now, to judge from his back view," she remarked oracularly. "and when i was.... but there, miss, i'm thinking only of your comfort, and i'm not quite as comfortable as might be over that there mrs monnerie. generous she may be, though not noticing it much perhaps from a purse with no bottom to it, judging from what i've seen. god bless you, one way or the other. and perhaps you'll sometimes remember the bits of sundays we've shared up there--you and the old dragon." a smile and a tear battled for the dark eye that looked down on me. indeed, seldom after came a sunday evening with its clanking bells and empty, london hush, but it brought back to me with a pang my hymns and talks with "the old dragon." not that any one i ever saw at mrs monnerie's appeared to work so hard as to _need_ a day of rest. there was merely a peculiar empty sensation on sundays of there being nothing "to do." a flight of stone steps and a pillared porch led up to her great ornamental door. beyond was a hall compared with which the marbles of brunswick house were mere mosaic. an alabaster fountain, its jet springing lightly from a gilded torch held by a crouching faun, cooled, and discreetly murmured a ceaseless hush! in the air. on either hand, a wide, shallow staircase ascended to an enormous gilded drawing-room, with its chairs and pictures; and to the library. the dining-room stood opposite the portico. when mrs monnerie and i were alone, we usually shared a smaller room with her parrot, chakka; her little chinese dog, cherry--whose whimper had a most uncomfortable resemblance to the wild and homesick cry of my seagulls at lyme regis--and her collections of the world's smaller rarities. it is only, i suppose, one more proof of how volatile a creature i used to be that i took an intense interest in the contents of these cabinets for a few days, and then found them nothing but a vexation. no doubt this was because of an uneasy suspicion that mrs monnerie had also collected _me_. she could be extremely tactful in her private designs, yet she "showed me off" in a fashion that might have turned a far less giddy head than her _protégée's_, and perhaps cannot have been in the best of taste. so sure had she been of me that, when i arrived, a room on the first floor of no. had already been prepared for my reception. a wonderful piece of fantasticalness--like a miniature fairy palace, but without a vestige of any _real_ make-believe in it. it was panelled and screened with carvings in wood, inlaid with silver and mother-of-pearl--dwarfs and apes and misshapen gods and goddesses leering and gaping out at one from amidst leafy branches, flowers, and fruits, and birds, and butterflies. the faintest sniff of that indian wood--whatever it was--recalls to this day that nightmare scenery. its hangings were of a silk so rich that they might have stood on edge on the floor. these screens and tapestries guarded a privacy that rarely, alas, contained a miss m. worth being in private _with_. the one piece of chagrin exhibited by mrs monnerie in those early days of our acquaintance was at my insistence on bringing at least a few of my familiar sticks of furniture and chattels with me from mrs bowater's. their plain sheraton design, she thought, was barbarously out of keeping with the rest. it was; but i had my way. not the least precious of these old possessions, though dismal for its memories, was the broken money chest which fanny had pushed in under the yew in the garden at wanderslore. tacked up in canvas, its hinges and lock repaired, it had been sent on to me a week or two after my farewells to beechwood, by mr anon. inside it i found the nightgown i had buried in the rabbit's hole, fanny's letter from under its stone, my _sense and sensibility_, and last, pinned on to a scrap of kingfisher coloured silk, a pair of ear-rings made out of two old gold coins. apart from a few withered flowers, they are the only thing i possess that came from wanderslore. long afterwards, i showed these ear-rings to sir w. p. he told me they were quarter rose nobles of edward iii.'s reign, and only a quarter of a quarter of an ounce in weight. they weigh pretty heavy for me now, however. my arrangement with mrs monnerie had been that, however long i might stay with her, i should still be in the nature of a visitor; that no. , in fact, should be my town house, and mrs bowater's my country. but i was soon to realize that she intended mrs bowater to have a very small share in me. she pretended to be jealous of me, to love me for my own sweet sake; and even while i knew it was mere pretence, it left its flattery on my mind; and for the first time in my life i feigned to be even smaller than i was; would mince my speeches, affect to be clever, even ogle the old lady, until it might be supposed we were a pair of queerly-assorted characters in a charade. nevertheless, i had had the obstinacy to insist that i should be at liberty to stay with mrs bowater whenever i wished to do so; and i was free to invite any friend to visit me i chose. "and especially, my dear, any one an eighth as exquisite," mrs monnerie had kindly put it. it may seem a little strange that all these obligations should have been on her side. but mrs monnerie's whims were far more vigorous than most people's principles. the dews of her loving kindness descended on me in a shower, and it was some little time before i began to feel a chill. not the least remarkable feature of no. was its back view. the window of my room came down almost to the floor. it "commanded" an immense zinc cistern--george, by name--a virginia creeper groping along a brick wall, similar cisterns smalling into the distance, other brick walls and scores of back windows. once, after contemplating this odd landscape for some little time, it occurred to me to speculate what the back view from the house of life was like; but i failed to conceive the smallest notion of it. i rarely drew my curtains, and, oddly enough, when i did so, was usually in a vacant or dismal mood. my lights were electric. one simply twisted a tiny ivory button. at first their clear and coloured globes, set like tiny tulips in a candelabra, charmed my fancy. but, such is custom, i soon wearied of them, and pined for the slim, _living_ flame of candles--even for my coarse old night-light swimming in its grease in a chipped blue and white saucer. chapter thirty-three mrs monnerie had rifled her collections for my use--pygmy venetian glass, a silver-gilt breakfast and tea service, pygmy porcelain. there were absurd little _mechanical_ knick-knacks--piping birds, a maddening little operatic clock of which i at last managed to break the mainspring, a musical chair, and so on. my bath was of jade; my table a long one of ebony inlaid with ivory, with puffing cherub faces at each corner representing the four winds. my own few possessions, i must confess, looked not only worn but provincial by comparison. but i never surprised myself actually talking to any of mrs monnerie's exquisite novelties as to my other dumb, old, wooden friends. she delighted in them far more than i. i suppose, really to enjoy such pomp and luxury, one should be positively born in the purple; and then, i suppose, one must be careful that the dye does not go to the bone. whether or not, i have long since come to the conclusion that i am vulgar by nature--like my mother tongue. and at times, in spite of my relief at being free of the blackness that had craped in my last days at beechwood, i often found myself hungering for my bowater parlour--even for its smell. another thing i learned gradually at no. was that i had been desperately old-fashioned; and that is, to some extent, to belong to the dead. mrs monnerie's chief desire, no doubt, was to give her new knick-knack a suitable setting. but it may also have reminded her childlessness--for she, too, like mrs bowater, was "nothing much better than an aunt"--of her childhood. of course i affected as much pleasure in it as i could, and was really grateful. but she greatly disliked being thanked for anything, and would blandly shut her eyes at the least manifestation of gratitude. "humour me, humour me, humour me," she once petulantly nodded at me; "there are at least a hundred prayers in the prayer book, my pet, to one thanksgiving, and that's human nature all over." it was what my frame must have _cost_ that scandalized me. when, one day, after rhapsodizing (not without a shudder) over a cape and hat, which she had given me, composed solely of the shimmering emerald feathers of the humming-bird, i rather tactlessly reminded her of my £ a year, and of my determination to live within it, her eyelids pinched me a glance as if i had explained in public that i had been bitten by a flea. yet as time went on, a peculiar affection sprang up in me for this crowded and lonely old woman. it has survived sore trials. she was by turns generous and mean, honeyed and cantankerous, impulsive and scheming. like mrs bowater, she disapproved of the world in general, and yet with how different a result. a restless, darting mind lay hidden behind the great mask of her countenance, with its heavy-lidded eyes and tower of hair. she loved to sit indolently peering, musing, and gossiping, twiddling the while perhaps some little antique toy in her capacious lap. i can boast, at any rate, that i was a spellbound listener, and devoured her peculiar wandering, satirical talk as if it had been manna from heaven. it was the old, old story. talking to me was the next most private thing to talking to herself; and i think she enjoyed for a while the company of so queer a confessor. once, i remember, she confided to me the whole story of a girlish love affair, at least forty years old. i could hardly believe my eyes as i watched her; she looked so freshened and demure and spirited. it was as if she were her own twenties just dressed up. but she had a dry and acrid tongue, and spared nothing and nobody. to her and to mrs bowater i owe nearly all my stock of worldly wisdom. and now i shall never have time, i suppose, to sort it out. mr monnerie, as fleming confided in me one day--and the aristocracy was this extremely reticent and contemptuous creature's favourite topic of conversation--mr monnerie had been a banker, and had made a late and dazzling marriage; for mrs monnerie's blood was as blue as caddis bay on a cloudless morning. i asked fleming if she had ever seen "lord b.," and what kind of man he was. she never had; but remarked obscurely that he must have lived mainly on porridge, he had sown so many wild oats. this information reminded me of an old rhyme i had once learned as a child, and used to shout about the house:-- "come all you young men, with your wicked ways; sow your wild, wild oats in your youthful days; that we may live happy when we grow old-- happy, and happy, when we grow old: the day is far spent, the night's coming on; so give us your arm, and we'll joggle along--joggle and joggle and joggle along." fleming herself, i learned, had come from ash, and was therefore, i suppose, of an anglo-saxon family, though she was far from stupid and rather elegant in shape. because, i suppose, i did not like her, i was rather aggrieved she had been born in kent. mr and mrs monnerie, she told me, had had no children. the fair young man, percy maudlen, with the tired smile and beautiful shoes, who came to tea or luncheon at no. at least once a week, was mrs monnerie's only nephew by blood; and the still fairer susan monnerie, who used to float into my room ever and anon like a zephyr, was the only one mrs monnerie cared to see of her three nieces by marriage. and yet the other two, when they were invited to luncheon, were far more docile and considerate in the opinions and sentiments they expressed. _that_ seemed so curious to me: there was no doubt that mrs monnerie belonged to the aristocracy, and yet there always appeared to be quarrels going on in the family--apart, of course, from births, deaths, and marriages, which seemed of little consequence. she enjoyed relatives in every county in england and scotland; while i had not one, now, so far as i knew, not even in kent. marvell, the butler--he had formerly been mr monnerie's valet--was another familiar object of my speculations. his rather solemn, clean-shaven countenance and steady grey eyes suggested a severe critic of mankind. yet he seemed bent only on giving pleasure and smoothing things over, and stooped my dish of sliced cherries or apricots over my shoulder with a gesture that was in itself the cream of flattery. it astonished me to hear that he had a grown-up son in india; and though i never met mrs marvell, i felt a prodigious respect for her. i would look up and see him standing so smooth and benevolent behind mrs monnerie's chair that he reminded me of my bishop, and i doubt if ever she crisply uttered his delightful name but it recalled the pleasant chime of a poem which my mother had taught me: _the nymph complaining of the death of her fawn_. i should have liked to have a long talk with mr marvell--any time of the day when he wasn't a butler, i mean--but the opportunity never came. one day, when he had left us to ourselves, i ventured to quote a stanza of this poem to mrs monnerie:-- "with sweetest milk and sugar first i it at my own fingers nursed; and as it grew, so every day it waxed more white and sweet than they-- it had so sweet a breath! and oft i blushed to see its foot more soft and white--shall i say?--than my hand, nay, any lady's in the land...." "charming, charming, poppet," she cooed, much amused, pushing in a nut for chakka. "many shades whiter than _your_ wrinkled old claw, you old wretch. _another_ sagacious old bird, my dear, though past blushing, i fear, at any lady's hand." nothing would content her but that i must recite my _bon mot_ again when her nephew percy dandled in to tea that afternoon. he sneered down on me with his pale eyes, and with finger and thumb exposed yet another inch of his silk sock, but made no comment. "manners, my dear percy, maketh man," said his aunt. "congratulate miss m." if percy maudlen had had no manners at all, i think i should at that moment have seen the pink tip of his tongue; for if ever any human being detested my small person it was he. for very good reasons, probably, though i never troubled to inquire into them, i disliked him, too, beyond expression. he was, of course, a superior young man with a great many similar ancestors looking out of his face, yet he resembled a weasel. but susan monnerie--the very moment i saw her i loved her; just as one loves a field of buttercups or a bush of may. for some little time she seemed to regard me as i suppose a linnet regards a young cuckoo that has been hatched out in her nest (though, of course, a squab cuckoo is of much the same size as its fostermother). but she gradually grew accustomed to me, and even realized at last that i was something a little more--and also perhaps less--human than either chakka or cherry or a dresden china shepherdess. i would look at her just for pleasure's sake. her hair was of the colour of undyed silk, with darker strands in it; her skin pale; and she had an odd little stutter in her light young voice when she was excited. i would often compare her with fanny. what curious differences there were between them. she was graceful, but as if she had been taught to be. unlike fanny, she was not so fascinatingly just a beautiful body--with that sometimes awful someone looking out of its windows. there was a lovely delicacy in her, as if, absurd though it may sound, every bit of her had been selected, actually picked out, from the finest materials. perhaps it was her food and drink that had helped to make her so; for i don't think miss stebbings's diet was more than wholesome, or that following the sea in early life makes a man rich enough to afford many dainties for his children. anyhow, there was nothing man-made in fanny; and if there are women-shaped mermaids i know what looks will be seen in their faces. however that may be, a keen, roving spirit dwelt in susan's clear, blue eyes. i never discovered in her any malice or vanity, and this, i think, frequently irritated mrs monnerie. susan, too, used to ask me perfectly sane and ordinary questions; and i cannot describe what a flattery it was. i had always supposed that men and women were _intended_ to talk openly to one another in this world; but it was an uncommonly rare luxury for me at mrs monnerie's. i could talk freely enough to susan, and told her a good deal about my early days, though i kept my life at beechwood hill more or less to myself. and that reminds me that mrs bowater proved to have been a good prophet. it was one day at luncheon. mrs monnerie happened to cast a glance at the _morning post_ newspaper which lay open on a chair near by, showing in tall type at the top of the column, "sudden death of sir jasper goodge." sir jasper goodge, whose family history, it seemed, was an open book to her, reminded her whimsically of another tragedy. she put back her head and, surveying me blandly as i sat up beside her, inquired if i had known at all intimately that unfortunate young man, mr crimble. "i remember him bobbing and sidling at me that delightful afternoon when--what do you think of it, susan?--poppet and i discovered in each other an unfashionable taste for the truth! a bazaar in aid of the pollacke blanket fund, or something of the kind." the recollection seemed to have amused her so much that for the moment i held my breath and ignored her question. "but why was mr crimble unfortunate?" inquired susan, attempting to make cherry beg for a bread-crumb. i glanced in consternation at marvell, who at the moment was bringing the coffee things into the room. but he appeared to be uninterested in mr crimble. "mr crimble was unfortunate, my dear," said mrs monnerie complacently, "because he cut his throat." "ach! how horrible. how can you say such things! get down, you little silly! please, aunt alice, there must be something pleasanter to talk about than that? everybody knows about the hideous old sir jasper goodge; so it doesn't much matter what one says of him. but...." in spite of her command the little dog still gloated on her fingers. "there may be things pleasanter, my dear susan," returned mrs monnerie complacently, "but there are few so illuminating. in greek tragedy, i used to be told, all such horrors have the effect of what is called a purgation. did mr crimble _seem_ that kind of young man, my dear? and why was he so impetuous?" "i think, mrs monnerie," said i, "he was in trouble." "h'm," said she. "he had a very sallow look, i remember. so he discussed his troubles? but not with _you_, my fairy?" "surely, aunt alice," exclaimed susan hotly, "it isn't quite fair or nice to bring back such ghastly memories. why," she touched my hand with the tips of her light fingers, "she is quite cold already." "poppet's hands are always cold," replied her aunt imperturbably. "and i suspect that she and i know more about this wicked world than has brought shadows to your young brow. we'll return to mr crimble, my dear, when susan is butterflying elsewhere. she is so shockingly easily shocked." but it was susan herself who returned to the subject. she came into my room where i sat reading--a collection of the tiniest little books in the most sumptuous gilt morocco had been yet another of mrs monnerie's kindnesses--and she stood for a moment musing out through my silk window blinds at the vast zinc tank on the roof. "was that true?" she said at last. "did you really know some one who killed himself? who was he? what was he like?" "he was a young man--in his twenty-ninth year," i replied automatically, "dark, short, with gold spectacles, a clergyman. he was the curate at st peter's--beechwood, you know." i was speaking in a low voice, as if i might be overheard. it was extraordinary how swiftly mr crimble had faded into a vanishing shadow. from the very instant of his death the world had begun to adjust itself to his absence. and now nothing but a memory--a black, sad memory. but susan's voice interrupted these faint musings. "a clergyman!" she was repeating. "but why--why did he--do that?" "they said, melancholia. i suppose it was just impossible--or _seemed_ impossible--for him to go on living." "but what made him melancholy? how awful. and how can aunt alice have said it like that?" "but surely," argued i, in my old contradictory fashion, and spying about for a path of evasion, "it's better to call things by their proper names. what is the body, after all? not that i mean one has any right to--to _not_ die in one's own bed." "and do you really think like that?--the body of no importance? you? why, miss m., aunt alice calls you her 'pocket venus,' and she means it, too, in her own sly way." "it's very kind of her," said i, breathing more freely. "some one i know always calls me midgetina, or miss midge, anything of that sort. i don't mean, miss monnerie, that it doesn't _matter_ what we are called. why, if that were so, there wouldn't be any society at all, would there? we should all be--well--anonymous." deep inside i felt myself smile. "not that that makes much difference to good poetry." susan sighed. "how zigzaggedly you talk. what has poetry to do with mr crimble?--that was his name, wasn't it?" "well, it hasn't very much," i confessed. "he hadn't the time for it." susan seated herself on a cushion on the floor--and with how sharp a stab reminded me of fanny and the old, care-free days of _wuthering heights_. surely--in spite of fanny--life had definitely taken a tinge of miss brontë's imagination since then. but it was only the languor of susan's movements, and that because she seemed a little tired, rather than merely indolent. and if from fanny's eyes had now stooped a serpent and now a blinded angel; from these clear blue ones looked only a human being like myself. even as i write that "like myself," i ponder. but let it stay. "so you really did know him?" susan persisted. "and it doesn't seem a nightmare even to think of him? and who, i say, made it impossible for him to go on living?" so intense was her absorption in these questions that when they ceased her hands tightened round her knees, and her small mouth remained ajar. "you said '_what_' just now," i prevaricated, looking up at her. at this her blue eyes opened so wide i broke into a little laugh. "no, no, no, miss monnerie," i hastened to explain, "not _me_. it isn't my story, though i was in it--and to blame. but please, if you would be so kind, don't mention it again to mrs monnerie, and don't think about it any more." "not think about it! _you_ must. besides, thoughts sometimes think themselves. i always supposed that things like that only happened to quite--to different people, you know. was _he_?" "_different?_" i couldn't follow her. "he was the curate of st peter's--a friend of the pollackes." "oh, yes, the pollackes," said she; and having glanced at me again, said no more. the smallest confidence, i find, is a short cut to friendship. and after this little conversation there was no ice to break between susan monnerie and myself, and she often championed me in my little difficulties--even if only by her silence. chapter thirty-four miss monnerie's visits were less punctual though more frequent than percy maudlen's. "and where is the toadlet?" i heard him drawl one afternoon as i was being carried downstairs by the light-footed fleming, on the padded tray which mrs monnerie had had made for the purpose. "the toadlet, my dear percy, is about to take a little gentle exercise with me in the garden, and you shall accompany us. if you were the kind of fairy-tale hero i used to read of in my nursery, you would discover the charm, and live happy ever after. but i see nothing of the heroic in you, and little of the hereafter. miss m. is a feast of mercies." "h'm. providence packs his mercies into precious small quarters at times," he yawned. "which suggests an uncivil speculation," replied his aunt, "on the size of your hat." "but candidly, aunt alice," he retorted, "is your little _attachée_ quite all there--i mean, all of her that there is? personally i wouldn't touch her, if i could help it, with a pair of tongs.... a nasty trick!" then, "hah!" cried mrs monnerie in a large, pleasant voice, "here is miss m. percy has been exposing a wounded heart, precious one. he is hurt because you look at him as if there were positively nothing more of him than what is there to see." "not at all, aunt alice," percy drawled, with a jerk of his cane. "it was for precisely the opposite reason. who knows you ain't a witch, miss m.? distilled? heavens, aunt alice! you are not bringing cherry _too_?" yes, cherry was coming too, with his globular eye and sneering nose. and so poor percy, with a cold little smile on his fine pale features, had to accommodate himself to mrs monnerie's leisurely pace, and she to mine, while cherry disdainfully shuffled in our rear. we were a singular quartette, though there were only two or three small children in the palisaded garden to enjoy the spectacle; and they, after a few polite and muffled giggles, returned to their dolls. it was a stifling afternoon. as i trod the yellow gravel the quivering atmosphere all but blinded me with its reflected glare. the only sounds to be heard were the clang of a milkman's hand-cart, and the pirouettes of a distant piano. "and what," mrs monnerie suddenly inquired, looking down on me, with mauve-tinted cheek, from under her beribanded, long-handled parasol, "what is miss m. thinking about?" as a matter of fact i was walking at that moment in imagination with mrs bowater at lyme regis, but i seized the opportunity of hastening round from between aunt and nephew so that i could screen myself from the sun in mrs monnerie's ample shadow, and inquired why london gardeners were so much attached to geraniums, lobelias, calceolarias, and ice-plants? mightn't one just as well _paint_ the border, mrs monnerie, red, yellow, and blue? then it would last--rain, snow, anything. "now i'll wager, percy, you hadn't noticed _that_," said mrs monnerie in triumph. "i make it a practice," he replied, "never to notice the obvious. it is merely a kind of least common denominator, as i believe you call 'em, and," he wafted away a yawn with his glove, "i take no interest in vulgar fractions." i took a little look at him out of the corner of my eye, and wished that as a child i had paid more heed to my arithmetic lessons. "look, mrs monnerie," i cried piteously, "poor cherry's tongue is dangling right out of his head. he looks _so_ hot and tired." she swept me a radiant, if contorted, gleam. "percy, would you take pity on poor dear cherry? twice round, i think, will be as much as i can comfortably manage." so percy had to take poor dear cherry into his arms, just like a baby; and the quartette to all appearance became a trio. but my existence at no. was not always so monotonous as that. mrs monnerie, in spite of her age, her ebony cane, and a tendency to breathlessness, was extremely active and alert. if life is a fountain, she preferred to be one of the larger bubbles as near as possible to its summit. she almost succeeded in making me a minute replica of herself. we shared the same manicurist, milliner, modiste, and coiffeur. and since it was not always practicable for mahometta to be carried off to these delectable mountains, they were persuaded to attend upon her, and that as punctually as the fawn-faced man, mr godde, who came to wind the clocks. whole mornings were spent in conclave in mrs monnerie's boudoir--susan sometimes of our company. julius cæsar, so my little roman history told me, had hesitated over the crossing of one rubicon. mrs monnerie and i confabulated over the fording of a dozen of its tributaries a day. a specialist--a singularly bald man in a long black coat--was called in. he eyed me this way, he eyed me that--with far more deference than i imagine mr pellew can have paid me at my christening. he assured mrs monnerie of his confirmed belief that the mode of the moment was not of the smallest consequence so far as i was concerned. "the hard, small hat," he smiled; "the tight-fitting sleeve!" and yet, to judge by the clothes he did recommend, i must have been beginning to look a pretty dowd at mrs bowater's. "but even if madam prefers to dress in a style of her own choice," he explained, "the difference, if she will understand, must still be _in_ the fashion." but he himself--though mrs monnerie, i discovered after he was gone, had not even noticed that he was bald--he himself interested me far more than his excellent advice; and not least when he drew some papers out of a pocket-book, and happened to let fall on the carpet the photograph of a fat little boy with an immense mop of curls. so men--quite elderly, practical men, can blush, i thought to myself; for dr phelps had rather flushed than blushed; and my father used only to get red. since nothing, perhaps, could make me more exceptional in appearance than i had been made by providence, i fell in with all mrs monnerie's fancies, and wore what she pleased--pushing out of mind as well as i could all thought of bills. i did more than that. i really began to enjoy dressing myself up as if i were my own doll, and when alone i would sit sometimes in a luxurious trance, like a lily in a pot. yet i did not entirely abandon my old little bowater habit of indoor exercise. when i was alone in my room i would sometimes skip. and on one of fleming's afternoons "out" i even furbished up what i could remember of my four kinds of kentish hopscotch, with a slab of jade for dump. but in the very midst of such recreations i would surprise myself lost in a kind of vacancy. apart from its humans and its furniture, no. was an empty house. i do not mean that mrs monnerie was concerned only with externals. sir william forbes-smith advised that a little white meat should enrich my usual diet of milk and fruit, and that i should have sea-salt baths. the latter were more enjoyable than the former, though both, no doubt, helped to bring back the strength sapped out of me by the west end. my cheekbones gradually rounded their angles; a livelier colour came to lip and skin, and i began to be as self-conscious as a genuine beauty. one twilight, i remember, i had slipped across from out of my bath for a pinch of the "crystals" which mrs monnerie had presented me with that afternoon; for my nose, also, was accustoming itself to an artificial life. an immense cheval looking-glass stood there, and at one and the same instant i saw not only my own slim, naked, hastening figure reflected in its placid deeps, but, behind me, that of fleming, shadowily engrossed. with a shock i came to a standstill, helplessly meeting her peculiar stare. only seven yards or so of dusky air divided us. caught back by this unexpected encounter, for one immeasurable moment i stood thus, as if she and i were mere shapes in a picture, and reality but a thought. then suddenly she recovered herself, and with a murmur of apology was gone. huddled up in my towel, i sat motionless, shrunken for a while almost to nothing in the dense sense of shame that had swept over me. then suddenly i flung myself on my knees, and prayed--though what about and to whom i cannot say. after which i went back and bathed myself again. the extravagances of youth! no doubt, the worst pang was that though vaguely i knew that my most secret solitude had been for a while destroyed, that long intercepted glance of half-derisive admiration had filled me with something sweeter than distress. if only i knew what common-sized people really feel like in similar circumstances. biographies tell me little; and can one trust what is said in novels? the only _practical_ result of this encounter was that i emptied all mrs monnerie's priceless crystals forthwith into my bath, and vowed never, never again to desert plain water. so, for one evening, my room smelt like a garden in damascus. as for fleming, she never, of course, referred to this incident, but our small talk was even smaller than before. if, indeed, to percy, "toadlet" was the aptest tag for me; for fleming, i fancy, "stuck-up" sufficed. instinct told her that she was only by courtesy a _lady's_-maid. less for her own sake than for mine, mrs monnerie and i scoured london for amusement, even though she was irritated a little by my preference for the kind which may be called instructive. the truth is, that in all this smooth idleness and luxury a hunger for knowledge had seized on me; as if (cat to grass) my mind were in search of an antidote. mrs monnerie had little difficulty in securing "private views." she must have known everybody that is anybody--as i once read of a countess in a book. and i suppose there is not a very large number of this kind of person. whenever our social engagements permitted, we visited the show places, galleries, and museums. unlike the rest of london, i gazed at amenhotep's mummy in the late dusk of a summer evening; and we had much to say to one another; though but one whiff of the huge round library gave me a violent headache. when the streets had to be faced, fleming came with us in the carriage, and i was disguised to look as much like a child as possible--a process that made me feel at least twenty years older. the tower of london, the zoo, westminster abbey, st paul's--each in turn fell an early prey to my hunger for learning and experience. as for the thames; the very sight of it seemed to wash my small knowledge of english history clear as crystal. mrs monnerie yawned her way on--though my comments on these marvels of human enterprise occasionally amused her. i made amends, too, by accompanying her to less well-advertised show-places, and patiently sat with her while she fondled unset and antique gems in a jeweller's, or inspected the china, miniatures, and embroideries in private collections. if the mere look of the books in the british museum gave me a headache, it is curious that the chamber of horrors at madame tussaud's wax works did not. and yet i don't know; life itself had initiated me into this freemasonry. i surveyed the guillotine without a shudder, and eyed mr hare and charles peace with far less discomposure than general tom thumb, or even robert burns in the respectable gallery above. my one misfortune was that i could look at no murderer without instantly recomposing the imaginary scene of his crime within my mind. and as after a while mrs monnerie decided to rest on a chair set for her by the polite attendant under the scaffold, and we had the chamber nearly to ourselves, i wandered on alone, and perhaps supped rather too full of horrors for one evening. mrs monnerie would often question me. "well, what do you think of that, mammetinka?" or, "now, then, my inexhaustible little miss aristotle, discourse on that." and like a bullfinch i piped up in response to the best of my ability. my answers, i fear, were usually evasive. for i had begun to see that she was making experiments on my mind and senses, as well as on my manners and body. she was a "fancier." and one day i ogled up at her with the pert remark that she now possessed a pocket barometer which would do its very utmost to remain at °, if that was possible without being "very dry." she received this little joke with extraordinary good humour. "when i come down in the world, my dear," she said, "and these horrid anarchists are doing their best to send us all sky-high first, we'll visit the courts of europe together, like count boruwlaski. do you think you could bring yourself to support your old friend in her declining years in a declining age?" i smiled and touched her glove. "where thou goest, i will go," i replied; and then could have bitten off my tongue in remorse. "pah," gasped a secret voice, "so that's going the same way too, is it?" yet heaven knows i was not a puritan--and never shall be. i just adored things bright and beautiful. music, too, in moderation, was my delight; and susan monnerie with her small, sweet voice would sometimes sing to me in one room while--in an almost unbearable homesickness--i listened in another. concerts in general, however, left every muscle of my body as stiff with rheumatism as it was after my visit to mr moss's farm-house. the unexpected blare of a brass band simply froze my spine; and a really fine performance on the piano was sheer torture. once, indeed, when mrs monnerie's carriage was one of a mellay clustered together while the queen drove by, in the appalling clamour of the lancers' trombones and kettledrums, i fell prostrate in a kind of fit. so it was my silly nerves that cheated me of my one and only chance to huzza a crowned head not, if i may say so without disrespect, so very many sizes larger than my own. alas, mrs monnerie was an enthusiast for all the pleasures of the senses. i verily believe that it was only my vanity which prevented me from becoming as inordinately fat as sir william forbes-smith's white meat threatened to make me. brightest novelty of all was my first visit to a theatre--the london night, the glare and clamour of the streets, the packed white rows of faces, the sea-like noise of talk, the glitter, shimmer, dazzle--it filled my veins with quicksilver; my heart seemed to be throbbing in my breast as fast as mrs monnerie's watch. fortunately she had remembered to take our seats on the farther side from the brass and drums of the orchestra. i restrained my shivers; the lights went out; and in the congregated gloom softly stole up the curtain on the ballet. perched up there in the velvet obscurity of our box, i surveyed a woodland scene, ruins, distant mountains, a rocky stream on which an enormous moon shone, and actually moved in the theatrical heavens. and when an exquisite figure floated, pale, gauzy, and a-tiptoe, into those artificial solitudes, drenched with filmy light; with a far cry of "fanny!" my heart suddenly stood still; and all the old stubborn infatuation flooded heavily back upon me once more. susan sat ghostlike, serenely smiling. percy's narrow jaws were working on their hinges like those of a rabbit i had seen through my grandfather's spyglass nibbling a root of dandelion. mrs monnerie reclined in her chair, hands on lap, with pursed-up mouth and weary eyes. there was nobody to confide in, then. but when from either side of the brightening stage flocked in winged creatures with lackadaisical arms and waxlike smilings, whose paint and powder caught back my mind rather than my feelings, my first light-of-foot was hovering beneath us close to the flaring footlights; and she was now no more fanny than the circle of illuminated parchment over her head was the enchanting moon. what a complicated world it was with all these _layers_! the experience filled me with a hundred disquieting desires, and yet again, chiefest of them was that which made sensitive the stumps where, if i turned into a bird, my wings would grow, and which bade me "escape." "she's getting devilish old and creaky on her pins," yawned percy, when the curtain had descended, and i had sighingly shrunk back into my own tasselled nook from the noise and emptiness of actuality. "no," said mrs monnerie, "it is you, percy, who are getting old. you were born blasé. you'll be positively yawning your head off at the last trump." "dear aunt alice," said percy, squinting through his opera-glasses, "nothing of the kind. i shall be helping you to find the mislaid knucklebones. besides, it's better to be born----" but the rest of his sentence--and i listened to him only because i hated him--passed unheeded, for all my attention had been drawn to susan. the hand beside me had suddenly clutched at her silk skirt, and a flush, gay as the queen's union jacks in bond street, had mounted into her clear, pale cheek, as with averted chin she sat looking down upon some one in the stalls. at sight of her blushing, a richer fondness for her lightened my mind. i followed her eye to its goal, and gazed enthralled, now up, now down, stringing all kinds of little beads of thoughts together; until, perhaps conscious that she was being watched, she turned and caught me. flamed up her cheeks yet hotter; and now mine too; for my spirits had suddenly sunk into my shoes at the remembrance of wanderslore and my "ghostly, gloating little dwarfish creature." then once more darkness stole over the vast, quieting house, and the curtain re-ascended upon romance. chapter thirty-five instead of its being a month as had been arranged, it was over six weeks before i was deposited again with my elegant dressing-case--a mere flying visitor--on mrs bowater's doorstep. a waft of cooked air floated out into the june sunshine through the letter-box. then, in the open door, just as of old, flushed and hot in her black clothes, there stood my old friend, indescribably the same, indescribably different. she knelt down on her own doormat, and we exchanged loving greetings. once more i trod beneath the wreathing, guardian horns, circumnavigated the age-stained eight-day clock, and so into my parlour. nothing was changed. there stood the shepherdess ogling the shepherd; there hung mr bowater; there dangled the chandelier; there angled the same half-dozen flies. not a leg, caster, or antimacassar was out of place. yet how steadfastly i had to keep my back turned on my landlady lest she should witness my discomfiture. faded, dingy, crowded, shrunken--it seemed unbelievable, as i glanced around me, that here i could have lived and breathed so many months, and been so ridiculously miserable, so tragically happy. all that bygone happiness and wretchedness seemed, for the moment, mere waste and folly. and not only that--"common." i climbed mr bates's clumsy staircase, put down my dressing-case, and slowly removing my gloves, faced dimly the curtained window. beyond it lay the distant hills, misty in the morning sunbeams, the familiar meadows all but chin-high with buttercups. "oh, mrs bowater," i turned at last, "here i am. you and the quiet sky--i wish i had never gone away. what is the use of being one's self, if one is always changing?" "there comes a time, miss, when we don't change; only the outer walls crumble away morsel by morsel, so to speak. but that's not for you yet. still, that's the reason. me and the old sticks are just what we were, at least to the eye; and you--well, there!--the house has been like a cage with the bird gone." she stood looking at me with one long finger stretching bonily out on the black and crimson tablecloth, a shining sea of loving kindness in her eyes. "i can see they have taken good care of you and all, preened the pretty feathers. why, you are a bit plumper in figure, miss; only the voice a little different, perhaps." the last words were uttered almost beneath her breath. "my voice, mrs bowater; oh, they cannot have altered _that_." "indeed they have, miss; neater-twisted, as you might say; but not scarcely to be noticed by any but a very old friend. maybe you are a little tired with your long drive and those two solemnities on the box. i remember the same thing--the change of voice--when fanny came back from her first term at miss stebbings'." "how is she?" i inquired in even tones. "she has never written to me. not a word." but, strange to say, as mrs bowater explained, and not without a symptom of triumph, that's just what fanny _had_ done. her letter was awaiting me on the mantelpiece, tucked in behind a plush-framed photograph. "now, let me see," she went on, "there's hot water in your basin, miss--i heard the carriage on the hill; a pair of slippers to ease your feet, in case in the hurry of packing they'd been forgot; and your strawberries and cream are out there icing themselves on the tray. so we shan't be no time, though disturbing news has come from mr bowater, his leg not mending as it might have been foreseen--but that can wait." an unfamiliar miss m. brushed her hair in front of me in the familiar looking-glass. it was not that her monnerie raiment was particularly flattering, or she, indeed, pleasanter to look at--rather the contrary: and i gazed long and earnestly into the glass. but art has furtive and bewitching fingers. while in my home-made clothes i had looked just myself, in these i looked like one or other of my guardian angels, or perhaps, as an unprejudiced fleming would have expressed it--the perfect lady. how gradual must have been the change in me to have passed thus unnoticed. but i didn't want to think. i felt dulled and dispirited. even mrs bowater had not been so entranced to see me as i had anticipated. it was tiresome to be disappointed. i rummaged in a bottom drawer, got out an old gown, made a grimace at myself in my mind, and sat down to fanny's letter. but then again, what are externals? who was this cool-tempered miss m. who was now scanning the once heartrending handwriting? "dear midgetina,--when this will reach you, i don't know. but somehow i cannot, or rather i can, imagine you the cynosure of the complete peerage, and prefer that my poor little letter should not uprear its modest head in the midst of all that granjer. you may not agree--but if a few weeks of a high life that may possibly continue into infinity has made _no_ difference to you, then fanny is not among the prophets. "we have not met since--we parted. but did you ever know a "dead past" bury itself with such ingratiating rapidity? have you in your sublime passion for nature ever watched a sexton beetle? but, mind you, i have helped. the further all that slips away, the less i can see i was to blame for it. what's in your blood needs little help from outside. cynical it may sound; but imagine the situation if i _had_ married him! what could existence have been but a nightmare-life-in-death? (_vide_ s. t. coleridge). now the dream continues--for us both. "oh, yes, i can see your little face needling up at this. but you must remember, dear midgetina, that you will never, never be able to see things in a truly human perspective. few people, of course, try to. you do. but though your view may be delicate as gossamer and clear as a glass marble, it can't be full-size. boil a thing down, it isn't the _same_. what remains has the virtues of an essence, but not the volume of its origin. this sounds horribly _school-booky_; but i am quite convinced you are too concentrated. and i being what i am, only the full volume can be my salvation. enough. the text is as good as the sermon--far better, in fact. "now i am going to be still more callous. my own little private worries have come right--been made to. i'm tit for tat, that is, and wiser for it beyond words. some day, when society has taught you all its lessons, i will explain further. anyhow, first i send you back £ of what i owe you. and thank you. next i want you to find out from mrs mummery (as mother calls her--or did), if among her distinguished acquaintance she knows any one with one or two, or at most three, small and adorable children who need an excellent governess. things have made it undesirable for me to stay on here much longer. it shall be i who give notice, or, shall we say, terminate the engagement. "be an angel, then. first, wake up. candidly, to think me better than i am is more grossly unfair than if i thought you taller than you are. next, sweet cynosure, find me a sinecure. don't trouble about salary. (you _wouldn't_, you positive acorn of quixoticism, not if i owed you half a million.) but remember: _wanted by the end of august at latest, a lady, wealthy, amiable, with two cherubic doves in family, boys preferred_. the simple, naked fact being that after this last bout of life's fitful fever, i pine for a nap. "of course mother can see this letter if she wishes to, and you don't mind. but personally i should prefer to have the bird actually fluttering in my hand before she contemplates it in the bush. "i said _pine_ just now. do you ever find a word suddenly so crammed with meaning that at any moment it threatens to explode? well, midgetina, them's my sentiments. penitent i shall never be, until i take the veil. but i have once or twice lately awoke in a kind of glassy darkness--beyond all moonshine--alone. then, if i hadn't been born just thick-ribbed, unmeltable ice--well.... vulgar, vulgar fanny! "fare thee well, midgetina. 'one cried, "god bless us," and "amen," the other.' prostituted though he may have been for scholastic purposes, w. s. knew something of life. "yours,--f." what was the alluring and horrifying charm for me of fanny's letters? this one set my mind, as always, wandering off into a maze. there was a sour taste in it, and yet--it was all really and truly fanny. i could see her unhappy eyes glittering through the mask. she saw _herself_--perhaps more plainly than one should. "vulgar fanny." as for its effect on me; it was as if i had fallen into a bed of nettles, and she herself, picking me up, had scoffed, "poor little midgekin," and supplied the dock. her cynicism was its own antidote, i suppose. the selfishness, the vanity, and impenetrable hardness--even love had never been so blind as to ignore all that, and now what love remained for her had the sharpest of sharp eyes. and yet, though my little bowater parlour looked cheap and dingy after the splendours of no. , fanny somehow survived every odious comparison. she was very _intelligent_, i whispered to myself. mrs monnerie would certainly approve of that. and i prickled at the thought. and i--i was too "concentrated." in spite of my plumping "figure," i could never, never be full-size. if only fanny had meant that as a compliment, or even as a kind of explanation to go on with. no, she had meant it for the truth. and it must be far easier for a leopard to change his spots than his inside. the accusation set all the machinery of my mind emptily whirring. my glance fell on my paris frock, left in a shimmering slovenly ring on the floor. it wandered off to fanny's postal order, spread over my lap like an expensive antimacassar. she had worked for that money; while i had never been anything more useful than "an angel." in fancy i saw her blooming in a house as sumptuous as mrs monnerie's. bloom indeed! i hated the thought, yet realized, too, that it was safer--even if for the time being not so profitable--to be life-size. and, as if out of the listening air, a cold dart pierced me through. suppose my messrs harris and harris and harris might not be such honest trustees as miss fenne had vouched for. suppose they decamped with my £ per annum!--i caught a horrifying glimpse of the wolf that was always sniffing at fanny's door. mrs bowater brought in my luncheon, and--as i insisted--her own, too. the ice from mr tidy, the fishmonger's, had given a slightly marine flavour to the cream, and i had to keep my face averted as much as possible from the scorched red chop sprawling and oozing on her plate. how could she bring herself to eat it? we are such stuff as dreams are made on, said hamlet. so then was mrs bowater. what a mystery then was this mutton fat! but chop or no chop, it was a happy meal. having waved my extremely "fannyish" letter at her, i rapidly dammed that current of her thoughts by explaining that i had changed my clothes not (as a gleam from her eye had seemed to suspect) because i was afraid of spoiling my london finery, but in order to be really at home. for the first time i surprised her muttering a grace over the bone on her plate. then she removed the tray, accepted a strawberry, folded her hands in her lap, and we began to talk. she asked a hundred and one questions concerning my health and happiness, but never once mentioned mrs monnerie; and at last, after a small pause, filled by us both with the same thought, she remarked that "that young mr anon was nothing if not persistent." since i had gone, not a week had passed, she told me, but he had come rapping at the door after dusk to inquire after me. "though why he should scowl like a pitchpot to hear that you are enjoying the lap of luxury----" the angular shoulders achieved a shrug at least as parisian as my discarded gown. "why doesn't he write to me, then? twice in ten weeks!" "well it's _six_, miss, i've counted, though _seemingly_ sixty. but that being the question, he is there to answer it, at any time this evening, or at six to-morrow morning, if london ways haven't cured you of early-rising." so we went off together, mrs bowater and i, in the cool of the evening about half an hour after sunset--she, alas, a little ruffled because i had refused to change back again into my monnerie finery. "but mrs bowater, imagine such a thing in a real wild garden!" i protested, but without mollifying her, and without further explaining--how could i do that?--that the gown which miss sentimentality (or miss coquette) was actually wearing was that in which she had first met mr anon. chapter thirty-six i trod close in mrs bowater's track as she convoyed me through a sea of greenery breaking here and there to my waist and even above my hat. summer had been busy in wanderslore. honeysuckle and acid-sweet brier were in bloom; sleeping bindweed and pimpernel. the air was liquidly sweet with uncountable odours. and the fading skies dyed bright the frowning front of the house, about which the new-come swifts shrieked in their play over my wilderness. mr anon looked peculiar, standing alone there. having bidden him a gracious good-evening, mrs bowater after a long, ruminating glance at us, decided that she would "take a stroll through the grounds." we watched her black figure trail slowly away up the overgrown terraces towards the house. then he turned. his clear, dwelling eyes, with that darker line encircling the grey-black iris, fixed themselves on me, his mouth tight-shut. "well," he said at last, almost wearily. "it has been a long waiting." i was unprepared for this sighing. "it has indeed," i replied. "but it is exceedingly pleasant to see beechwood hill again. i wrote; but you did not answer my letter, at least not the last." my voice dropped away; every one of the fine little speeches i had thought to make, forgotten. "and now you are here." "yes," i said quickly, a little timid of any silence between us, "and that's pleasant too. you can have no notion what a stiff, glaring garden it is up there--geraniums and gravel, you know, and windows, windows, windows. they are wonderfully kind to me--but i don't much love it." "then why stay?" he smiled. "still, you are, at least, safely out of _her_ clutches." "clutches!" i hated the way we were talking. "thank you very much. you forget you are speaking of one of my friends. besides, i can take care of myself." he made no answer. "you are so gloomy," i continued. "so--oh, i don't know--about everything. it's because you are always cooped up in one place, i suppose. one must take the world--a little--as it is, you know. why don't you go away; travel; _see_ things? oh, if i were a man." his eyes watched my lips. everything seemed to have turned sour. to have waited and dreamed; to have actually changed my clothes and come scuttling out in a silly longing excitement--for this. why, i felt more lonely and helpless under wanderslore's evening sky than ever i had been in my cedar-wood privacy in no. . "i mean it, i mean it," i broke out suddenly. "you domineer over me. you pamper me up with silly stories--'trailing clouds of glory,' i suppose. they are not true. it's every one for himself in this world, i can tell you; and in future, please understand, i intend to be my own mistress. simply because in a little private difficulty i asked you to help me----" he turned irresolutely. "they have dipped you pretty deep in the dye-pot." "and what, may i ask, do you mean by that?" "i mean," and he faced me, "that i am precisely what your friend, miss bowater, called me. what more is there to say?" "and pray, am i responsible for everything my friends say? and to have dragged up _that_ wretched fiasco after we had talked it out to the very dregs! oh, how i have been longing and longing to come home. and this is what you make of it." he turned his face towards the west, and its vast light irradiated his sharp-boned features, the sloping forehead beneath the straight, black hair. fume as i might, resentment fainted away in me. "you don't seem to understand," i went on; "it's the waste--the waste of it all. why do you make it so that i can't talk naturally to you, as friends talk? if i am alone in the world, so are you. surely we can tell the truth to one another. i am utterly wretched." "there is only one truth that matters: you do not love me. why should you? but that's the barrier. and the charm of it is that not only the gods, but the miserable humans, if only they knew it, would enjoy the sport." "love! i detest the very sound of the word. what has it ever meant to me, i should like to know, in this--this cage?" "scarcely a streak of gilding on the bars," he sneered miserably. "still we are sharing the same language now." the same language. self-pitying tears pricked into my eyes; i turned my head away. and in the silence, stealthily, out of a dark woody hollow nearer the house, as if at an incantation, broke a low, sinister, protracted rattle, like the croaking of a toad. i knew that sound; it came straight out of lyndsey--called me back. "s-sh!" i whispered, caught up with delight. "a nightjar! listen. let's go and look." i held out my hand. his sent a shiver down my spine. it was clammy cold, as if he had just come out of the sea. thrusting our way between the denser clumps of weeds, we pushed on cautiously until we actually stood under the creature's enormous oak. so elusive and deceitful was the throbbing croon of sound that it was impossible to detect on which naked branch in the black leafiness the bird sat churring. the wafted fragrances, the placid dusky air, and far, far above, the delicate, shallowing deepening of the faint-starred blue--how i longed to sip but one drop of drowsy mandragora and forget this fretting, inconstant self. we stood, listening; and an old story i had read somewhere floated back into memory. "once, did you ever hear it?" i whispered close to him, "there was a ghost came to a house near cirencester. i read of it in a book. and when it was asked, 'are you a good spirit or a bad?' it made no answer, but vanished, the book said--i remember the very words--'with a curious perfume and most melodious twang.' with a curious perfume," i repeated, "and most melodious twang. there now, would you like _me_ to go like that? oh, if i were a moth, i would flit in there and ask that old death-thing to catch me. even if _i_ cannot love you, you are part of all this. you feed my very self. mayn't that be enough?" his grip tightened round my fingers; the entrancing, toneless dulcimer thrummed on. i leaned nearer, as if to raise the shadowed lids above the brooding eyes. "what can i give you--only to be your peace? i do assure you it is yours. but i haven't the secret of knowing what half the world means. look at me. is it not _all_ a mystery? oh, i know it, even though they jeer and laugh at me. i beseech you be merciful, and keep me what i am." so i pleaded and argued, scarcely heeding the words i said. yet i realize now that it was only my mind that wrestled with him there. it was what came after that took the heart out of me. there came a clap of wings, and the bird swooped out of its secrecy into the air above us, a moment showed his white-splashed, cinder-coloured feathers in the dusk, seemed to tumble as if broken-winged upon the air, squawked, and was gone. the interruption only hastened me on. "still, still listen," i implored: "if time would but cease a while and let me breathe." "there, there," he muttered. "i was unkind. a filthy jealousy." "but think! there may never come another hour like this. know, know now, that you have made me happy. i can never be so alone again. i share my secretest thoughts--my imagination, with you; isn't that a kind of love? i assure you that it is. once i heard my mother talking, and sometimes i have wondered myself, if i am quite like--oh, you know what they say: a freak of nature. tell me; if by some enchantment i were really and indeed come from those snow mountains of yours, and that sea, would you recognize me? would you? no, no; it's only a story--why, even all this green and loveliness is only skin deep. if the old world were just to shrug its shoulders, mr anon, we should all, big and little, be clean gone." my words seemed merely to be like drops of water dripping upon a sponge. "wake!" i tugged at his hand. "look!" kneeling down sidelong, i stooped my cheek up at him from a cool, green mat of grass, amid which a glow-worm burned: "is this a--a _stranger's_ face?" he came no nearer; surveyed me with a long, quiet smile of infinitely sorrowful indulgence. "a stranger's? how else could it be, if i love you?" intoxicated in that earthy fragrance, washed about with the colours of the motionless flowers, it seemed i was merely talking to some one who could assure me that i was still in life, still myself. a strand of my hair had fallen loose, and smiling, its gold pin between my lips, i looped it back. "oh, but you see--haven't i told you?--i can't love you. perhaps; i don't know.... what shall i do? what shall i say? now suppose," i went on, "i like myself _that_ much," and i held my thumb and finger just ajar, "then i like _you_, think of you, hope for you, why, that!"--and i swept my hand clean across the empty zenith. "_now_ do you understand?" "oh, my dear, my dear," he said, and smiled into my eyes. i laughed out in triumph at the success of my device. and he laughed too, as if in a conspiracy with me--and with misery, i could see, sitting like an old hag at the door from which the sound came. and out of the distance the nightjar set again to its churring. "then i have made you a little--a little less unhappy?" i asked him, and hid my face in my hands in a desolate peace and solitude. he knelt beside me, held out his hand as if to touch me, withdrew it again. all presence of him distanced and vanished away in that small darkness. i prayed not to think any more, not to be exiled again into--how can i explain my meaning except by saying--myself? would some further world have withdrawn its veils and have let me in then and for ever if that lightless quiet could have continued a little longer? is it the experience of every human being seemingly to trespass at times so close upon the confines of existence as that? it was his own harsh voice that broke the spell. "wake, wake!" it called in my ear. "the woman is looking for you. we must go." my hands slipped from my face. a slow, sobbing breath drew itself into my body. and there beneath evening's vacancy of twilight showed the transfigured scene of the garden, and, near me, the anxious, suffering face of this stranger, faintly greened by the light of the worm. "wake!" he bade me, rapping softly with his bony finger on my hand. i stared at him out of a dream. chapter thirty-seven time and circumstance have strangely divided me from the miss m. of those days. i look back on her, not with shame, but with a shrug of my shoulders, a sort of incredulous tolerance--almost as if she too were a stranger. perhaps a few years hence i shall be looking back with an equal detachment on the miss m. seated here at this moment with her books and her pen in the solitude of her thoughts, vainly endeavouring to fret out and spin together mere memories that nobody will ever have the patience to read. shall i then be able to tell myself what i want now, give words to the vague desires that still haunt me? shall i still be waiting on for some unconceived eventuality? there is, too, another small riddle of a different kind, which i cannot answer. in memory and imagination, as i steadily gaze out of this familiar room recalling the past, i am that very self in that distant garden of wanderslore. but even as i look, i am not only _within_ myself there, but also outside of myself. i seem, i mean, actually to be contemplating, as if with my own eyes, those two queer, silent figures returning through the drowsying, moth-haunted flowers and grasses to the black, vigilant woman awaiting them beside the garden house. "alas, you poor, blind thing," i seem, like a ghost, to warn the one small creature, "have a care; seize your happiness; it is vanishing!" all that i write, then, is an attempt only to tell, not to explain. i realize that sometimes i was pretending things, yet did not know that i was pretending; that often i acted with no more conscience or consciousness, maybe, than has a carrion crow that picks out the eyes of a lamb, or a flower that draws in its petals at noon. yet i know--know absolutely, that i was, and am, responsible not only for myself, but for everything. for my whole world. and i cannot explain this either. at times, as if to free myself, i had to stare at what appalled me. i am sure, for instance, that mrs monnerie never dreamed that her mention of mr crimble sent me off in fancy at the first opportunity to that woeful outhouse in his mother's garden to look in on him there--again. but i did so look at him, and was a little more at peace with him after that. why, then, cannot i be at peace with one who loved me? maybe if i could have foreseen how i was to come to wanderslore again, i should have been a less selfish, showy, and capricious companion to him that june evening. but i was soon lapped back into my life in london; and thought only of mr anon, as i am apt to think of god: namely, when i needed his presence and his help. as a matter of fact, i had small time to think. even the doubts and misgivings that occasionally woke me in the night melted like dreams in the morning. every morrow blotted out its yesterday--as faded flowers are flung away out of a vase. in that vortex of visits and visitors, that endless vista of amusements and eating and drinking--some hidden spring of life in me began to fail. what a little self-conscious affected donkey i became, shrilly hee-hawing away; the centre of a simpering throng plying me with flattery. what airs i put on. if this life of mine had been a biography, the author of it would have had the satisfaction of copying out from a pygmy blue morocco diary the names of all the celebrated and distinguished people i met at no. . a few of them underlined in red! the amusing thing is that, like my father, i was still a radical at heart and preferred low life--flea-bane and chickweed--to the fine flowers of culture; which only means, of course, that in this i am a snob inside out. nevertheless, the attention i had shunned i now began to covet, and, like a famous artist or dancer, would go sulky to bed, if i had been left to blush at being unseen. i forced myself to be more and more fastidious: and tried to admire as little as possible. i would even imitate and affect languid pretentiousnesses and effronteries; and learned to be downright rude to people in a cultivated way. as for small talk, i soon accumulated a repertory of that, and could use the fashionable slang and current "conversations" like a native. all this intensely amused mrs monnerie. for, of course, the more like the general run of these high livers i was, the more conspicuous i became. the truth is, the lioness's head was in peril of being turned, and, like a blind kitten in a bucket of water, i came very near to being drowned in the social cream-bowl. for what little i gained in public by all this silly vanity i paid a heavy price when alone. i began to be fretful and utterly useless to myself--just lived on from excitement to excitement. and fleming soon had better reasons for detesting me than merely because i was horribly undersized. perhaps i am exaggerating; but the truth is i find it extremely difficult to keep patience with mrs monnerie's pampered _protégée_. she was weak and stupid. yet learning had not lost its charm. my mind persisted in being hungry, however much satiated were my senses and fine feelings. i even infected susan with my enthusiasm for indigestible knowledge. for since mrs monnerie had begun to find my passion for shells, fossils, flints, butterflies, and stuffed animals a little wearisome, it was her niece who now accompanied me to my many meccas in her stead. by a happy chance we often met on these pilgrimages the dark, straight-nosed young man whom i had looked down upon at my first ballet, and who also apparently was a fanatic. however deeply engrossed in mementoes of the dark or stone ages he might be, he never failed to see us the moment we entered his echoing gallery. he would lift his eyebrows; his monocle would drop out; and he would come sauntering over to meet us, looking as fresh as apples cold with dew. i liked captain valentine. so much so that i sent an almost rapturous description of him to mr anon. he did not seem in the least to mind being seen in my company. we had our little private jokes together. we both enjoyed the company of susan. he was so crisp and easy and quick-witted, and yet--to my unpractised eye--looked delightfully domesticatable. even the crustiest old caretaker, at a word and a smile from captain valentine, would allow me to seat myself on the glass cases. so i could gloat on their contents at leisure. and certainly of the three of us i was by far the most diligent student. long hours, too, of the none too many which will make up my life would melt away like snow in mrs monnerie's library. a button specially fixed for me in the wainscot would summon a manservant. having ranged round the lofty walls, i would point up at what books i wanted. they would be strewn around me on the floor--gilded and leathery volumes, some of them almost of my own height, and many times my weight. i would open the lid, turn the great pages, and carefully sprawling on my elbows between them, would pore for hours together on their coloured pictures of birds and flowers, gems and glass, ruins, palaces, mountains--hunting, cock-fighting, fashions, fine ladies, and foreign marvels. and i dipped into novels so like the unpleasanter parts of my own life that they might just as well have been autobiographies. the secret charm of all this was that i was alone; and while i was reading i ceased to worry. i just drugged my mind with books. i would go rooting and rummaging in mrs monnerie's library, like a little pig after truffles. there was hardly a subject i left untasted--old plays, and street ballads; johnson's enormous dictionary, that extraordinary book on melancholy with its borage and hellebore and the hatted young man in love; _bel and the dragon_, the _newgate calendar_. i even nibbled at debrett--and clean through all its "m's." the more i read, the more ignorant i seemed to become; and quite apart from this smattering jumble of knowledge, i pushed my way through memoirs and romances at the very sight of which my poor godmother would have fainted dead off. they may have been harmful; but i certainly can't say that i regret having read them--which may be part of the harm. you could tell the really bad ones almost at a sniff. they had bad smells, like a beetle cupboard or a scented old man. i read on of witchcraft and devils, yet hated the cloud they cast over me--like some horrible treacle in the mind. but as for the authors who just reasoned about time and god and miracles, and so on, i poked about in them willingly enough; but my imagination went off the other way--with my heart in its pocket. possibly without knowing it. but i do know this: that never to my dying day shall i learn what a common-sized person with a pen or a pencil, can _not_ make shocking, or be shocked at. it seemed to me that to some of these authors the whole universe was nothing better than a squid, and a very much scandalized young woman would attempt to replace their works on the shelves. when in good faith i occasionally ventured to share (or possibly to show off) some curious scrap of information with mrs monnerie, i thought her eyes would goggle out of her head. it was perhaps my old _mole_ habit that prevented me from dividing things up into the mentionable and unmentionable. possibly i carried this habit to excess; and yet, of course, remained the slave of my own small pruderies. still, i don't think it was either mrs monnerie's or percy's pruderies that i had to be careful about. to make _him_ laugh was one of the most hateful of my experiences at no. . i have read somewhere that the human instincts are "unlike apollyon, since they always degrade themselves by their disguises. they dress themselves up as apes and mandrils; he as a ringed, supple, self-flattering, seductive serpent." possibly that has something to do with it. or is it that my instincts are also on a petty scale? i don't know. i hate and fear pain even more than most people, and have fought pretty hard in the cause of self-preservation. on the other hand, i haven't the faintest wish in the world to "perpetuate my species." not that i might not have been happy in a husband and in my children. i suppose that kind of thing comes on one just as naturally as breathing. nevertheless, i suspect i was born to be an old maid. calling up spirits from the vasty deep has always seemed to me to be a far more dreadful mystery than death. it is not, indeed, the ghosts of the dead and the past which i think should oppress the people i see around me, but those of the children to come. i thank god from the bottom of my heart for the happiness and misery of having been alive, but my small mind reels when i brood on what the gift of it implies. well, well, well; of one burden at least i can absolve mrs monnerie--that of making me so sententious. somehow or other, but ever more sluggishly, those few crowded summer months of my twentieth year wore away. it is more of a mercy than a curse, i suppose, that time never stands still. meanwhile two events occurred which, for the time being, sobered and alarmed me. a few days before i had actually planned to pay a second visit to mrs bowater's, the almost incredible news reached me that she was sailing for south america. it would hardly have surprised me more to hear that she was sailing for sirius. she came to bid me good-bye. it was _mr_ bowater, she told me. she had been too confident of the "good nursing." far from mending in this world, his leg threatened "to carry him off into the next." at these tidings shame thrust out a very ugly head at me from her retreat. i had utterly forgotten the anxiety my poor old friend was in. she put on her spectacles with trembling fingers, and pushed her husband's letter across to me. the handwriting was bold and thick, yet i fancied it looked a little weak in the loops:-- "dear emily,--the leg's giving me the devil in this hole of a place. it looks as if i shouldn't get through with it. i should be greatly obliged if you would come out to me. they'll give you all the necessary information at the shipping office. ask for pullen. my love to fanny. what's she looking like now? i should like to see her before i go; but better say nothing about it. you've got about a month or three weeks, i should think; if that. "i remain, your affec. husband, "joseph bowater." "easy enough in _appearance_," was mrs bowater's comment, as she folded up this stained and flimsy letter again, and stuffed it into her purse, "but it's past even mr bowater to control what can be read between the lines." she looked at me dumbly; the skin seemed to hang more loosely on her face. in vain i tried to think of a comforting speech. the tune of "eternal father," one of the hymns we used to sing on windy winter sunday evenings together, had begun droning in my head. the thought, too, was worrying me, though i did not put it into words, that mr bowater, far rather than in buenos ayres, would have preferred to find his last resting-place in nero deep or the virgin's trough--those enormous pits of blue in the oceans which i myself had so often gloated on in his atlas. we were old friends now, he and i. he was fanny's father. the very ferocity of his look had become a secret understanding between us. and now--at this very moment perhaps--he was dying. the jaunty "_devil_" in his letter, i am afraid, affected me far more than mrs bowater's troubled face or even her courage. without a moment's hesitation she had made up her mind to face the atlantic's thousands of miles of wind and water to join the husband she had told me had long been "worse than" dead. the very tone in which she uttered the word "steamer," was even more lugubrious than the enormous, mocking hoot of a vessel that had once alarmed me out of the sea one still evening at lyme regis. it was a horrifying prospect, yet she just quietly said, "steamer," and looked at me over her spectacles. while she was away, the little house on beechwood hill, "bought, thank god, with my own money," was to be shut up, but it was mine if i cared to return to it, and would ask a neighbour of hers, mrs chantry, for the key. it would be fanny's if anything "happened" to herself. so dismal was all this that mrs bowater seemed already lost to me, and _i_ twice an orphan. we talked on together in low, cautious voices. after a single sharp, cold glance at my visitor, fleming had left us to ourselves over an enormous silver teapot. i grew so nervous at last, watching mrs bowater's slow glances of disapproval at her surroundings; her hot, tired face; and listening to her long drawn sighs, that again and again i lost the thread of what she was saying, and could answer yes, or no, only by instinct. what with an antiquated time-table, a mislaid railway ticket, and an impudent 'bus-conductor, her journey had been a trying experience. i discovered, too, that mrs bowater disliked the west end. she had first knocked at no. by mistake. its butler had known nothing whatever at all about any miss m., and mrs bowater had been too considerate to specify my dimensions. she had then shared a few hot moments in the porch of no. with a more fashionable visitor--to neither's satisfaction. a manservant had admitted her to mrs monnerie's marble halls and "barefaced" statuary, and had apparently thought the large parcel she carried in her arms should have been delivered in the area. she bore no resentment, though i myself felt a little uneasy. life was like that, she seemed to imply, and she had been no party to it. there was no doubt a better world where things would be different--it was extraordinary what a number of conflicting sentiments she could convey in a pause or a shut of her mouth. black and erect, she sat glooming over that alien teapot, sipping mrs monnerie's colourless china tea, firmly declining to grimace at its insipidity, until she had told me all there was to tell. at last, having gathered herself together, she exhorted me to write to that young mr anon. "i see a fidelity one might almost say dog-like, miss, on that face, apart, as i have reasons for supposing, from a sufficiency in his pocket. though, the lord knows, you are young yet and seemingly in no need of a home." parcel, reticule, umbrella--she bent over me with closed eyes, and muttered shamefacedly that she had remembered me in her will, "and may god bless you, miss, i'm sure." i clutched the gloved hand in a sudden helpless paroxysm of grief and foreboding. "oh, mrs bowater, you forgive----" i choked, and still no words would come. she was gone, past recall; and all the love and gratitude and remorse i had longed to express flooded up in me. yet, stuck up there in my chair, my chief apprehension had been that fleming might come in again, and cast yet another veiled, sneering glance at my visitor. peering between the gilded balusters, i watched my old friend droop away stiffly down the mild, lustrous staircase, bow to the man who opened the door for her, and emerge into the sunny emptiness. maybe the thought had drifted across her mind that i had indeed been dipped in the dye-pot. but now--these many years afterwards--there is no more risk of misunderstanding. it is eight o'clock; the light is fading. chizzel hill glows green. i hear her feebling step on the stairs. she will peer at me over spectacles that now always straddle her nose. i must put my pen and papers away; and i, too, have made my will. chapter thirty-eight mrs bowater's departure from england--and it seemed as if its very map in my mind had become dismally empty--was not my only anxiety. my solicitors had hitherto been prompt; their remittances almost monotonously identical in amount. but my quarterly allowance on midsummer day, had been followed by a letter a week or two after her good-bye. it seemed to be in excellent english, and yet it was all but unintelligible to me. every re-reading of it--the paper had apparently been dipped in water and dried--increased its obscurity and my alarm. i knew nothing about money matters, and the encyclopædia i consulted only made me more dejected and confused. i remembered with remorse my poor father's last troubles. to answer the harrises was impossible, and further study of their letter soon became unnecessary, for i had learned it by heart. the one thing certain was that fanny's wolf had begun scratching at my door: that my income was in imminent danger. i had long since squandered the greater part of what remained out of my savings (after fanny had helped herself) on presents and fal-lals; merely, i am afraid, to show mrs monnerie that i, too, could be extravagant. how much i owed her i could not even conjecture, and had not dared to inquire. to ask her counsel was equally impossible. she was almost as remote from me in this respect as mrs bowater, now in the centre of the atlantic. as for fanny, i had returned her postal orders and had heard no more. for days and days gloom hung over me like a thundercloud. wherever i went i was followed by the spectres of the harrises. then, for a time, as do all things, foreboding and anxiety gradually faded off. i plunged back into the cream-bowl with the deliberate intention of drowning trouble. meanwhile, i had not forgotten fanny's "sinecure." one mackerel-skied afternoon, mrs monnerie and i and susan were returning across the park from an "at home"--"to meet miss m." a small child of the house had richly entertained the company by howling with terror at sight of me, until he had been removed by his nurse. i bear him no grudge; he made a peg on which to hang fanny's proposal. "and what can miss bowater do? what are her qualifications?" mrs monnerie inquired pleasantly. "she is--dark and--pale," i replied, staring a little giddily out of the carriage at the sheep munching their way over the london grass. "dark and pale?" mused mrs monnerie. "well, that goes nearer the bone, perhaps, than medals and certificates and that sort of thing. still, a rather jane eyreish kind of governess, eh, susan?" unfortunately i was acquainted with only one of the miss brontës, and that not charlotte. "miss bowater is immensely _clever_, mrs monnerie," i hurried on, "and extremely popular with--with the other mistresses, and that sort of thing. she's not a bit what you might guess from what you might suppose." "which means, i gather," commented mrs monnerie affably, "that miss bowater is the typical landlady's daughter. a perfect angel in--or out of--the house, eh, miss innocent?" "no," said i, "i don't think miss bowater is an angel. she is so interesting, so _herselfish_, you know. she simply couldn't be happy at miss stebbings's--the school where she's teaching now. it's not salary, mrs monnerie, she is thinking of--just two nice children and their mother, that's all." this vindication of fanny left me uncomfortably hot; i continued to gaze fixedly into the green distances of the park. yet all was well. mrs monnerie appeared to be satisfied with my testimonial. "you shall give me her address, little binbin; and we'll have a look at the young lady," she decided. yet i was none too happy at my success. those familiar old friends of mine--motives--began worrying me. would the change be really good for fanny? would it--and i had better confess that this troubled me the most--would it be really good for me? i wanted to help her; i wanted also to show her off. and what a joy it would be if she should change into the fanny of my dreams. on the other hand, supposing she didn't on the whole, i rather dreaded the thought of her appearance at no. . susan followed me into my room. "who _is_ this miss bowater?" she inquired, "besides, i mean, being your landlady's daughter, and that kind of thing?" but my further little confidences failed to satisfy her. "but why is she so _not_ an angel, then? clever and lovely--it's a rather unusual combination, you know. and yet"--she reflectively smiled at me, all candour and gentleness--"well not unique." i ran away as fast as ever i could with so endearing a compliment--and tossed it back again over my shoulder: "you don't mean, susan, that _you_ are not clever?" "i do, my dear; indeed i do. i am so stupid that unless things are as plain and open as the nose on my face, i feel like suffocating. i'm dreadfully out of the fashion--a horrible discredit to my sex. as for miss bowater, i was merely being odious, that was all. to be quite honest and hateful--i didn't like the sound of her. and aunt alice is so easily carried away by any new scent. if a thing's a novelty, or just good to look at, or what they call a work of art--why, the hunt's up. there wouldn't have been any use for the serpent in _her_ eden. mere things, of course, don't matter much: except that they rather lumber up one's rooms; and i prefer not to live in a museum. it's when it comes to persons. still, it isn't as if miss bowater was coming here." i remained silent, thinking this speech over. had it, i speculated, "come to" being a "person" in my own case? "did you meet any other interesting people there?" miss monnerie went on, as if casually, turning off and on the while the little cluster of coloured electric globes that was on my table. "i mean besides miss bowater and that poor, dreadful--you know?" "no," i said bluntly, "not many." "you don't mind my asking these questions? and just in exchange, you solemn thing, i'll tell _you_ a secret. it will be like shutting it up in the delightfullest, delicatest little rosebud of a box!" in that instant's pause, it was as if a dream had passed swiftly, entrancingly, across the grave, smiling face. "look!" she said, stooping low, and laying her slim left hand, palm downwards, across my table. i did look; and the first thing i noticed was how like herself that hand was, and how much less vigorous and formidable than fanny's. and then i caught her meaning. "oh, susan," i cried in a woeful voice, gazing at the smouldering stones ringing that long slim third finger, "wherever i turn, i hear that." "hear what?" "why, of love, i mean." "but why, why?" the narrow brows lifted in faint distress, "i am going to be ever so happy." "ah, yes, i know, i know. but why can't you be happy alone?" she looked at me, and a faint red dusked the delicate cheek. "not _so_ happy. not _me_, i mean." "you do love him, then?" the words jerked out. "why, you strange thing, how curiously you speak to me. of course i love him. i am going to marry him." "but how do you know?" i persisted. "does it mean more to you--well--than the secret of everything? i mean, what comes when one is almost nothing? does it make you more yourself? or just break you in two? or melt you away?--oh, like a mist that is gone, and to every petal and blade of grass its drop of burning water?" a shade of dismay, almost of fear--the look a timid animal gives when startled--stole into her eyes. "you ask such odd questions! how can i answer them? i know this--i would rather die than _not_. is that what you mean?" "oh," my voice fainted away--disappointment, darkness, ennui; "only that!" "but what do you mean? what are you saying? have you been told all this? it disturbs me; your face is like----" "yes! what is it like?" i cried in distress, myself sinking back into myself, as if hiding in a lair. "i can't say," she faltered. "i didn't know...." we talked on. but though i tried to blur over and withdraw what i had said, she remained dissatisfied. a thin edge of formality had for the moment pushed in between us. that night i addressed a belated letter to wanderslore, reproaching mr anon for not writing to me, telling him of mrs bowater's voyage, and begging him to assure the garden-house and the fading summer flowers that they had not been deserted in my dreams. at a quarter to twelve one morning, soon after this, i was sitting with mrs monnerie on a stool beneath chakka's cage, and susan was just about to leave us--was actually smoothing on the thumb of her glove; when marvell announced that a miss bowater had called. i turned cold all over and held my breath. "ah," whispered mrs monnerie, "your future mrs rochester, my pet." every thought scuttled out of my head; my needle jerked and pricked my thumb. i gazed at the door. never had i seen anything so untransparent. then it opened; and--there was fanny. she was in dark gray--a gown i had never seen before. a tight little hat was set demurely on her hair. in that first moment, she had not noticed me, and i could steal a long, steady look at the still, light, vigilant eyes, drinking in at one steady draught their new surroundings. her features wore the thinnest, unfamiliar mask, like a flower seen in an artificial light. what wonder i had loved her. my hands went numb, and a sudden fatigue came over me. then her quiet, travelling glance descended and hovered in secret colloquy with mine. she dropped me a little smiling, formal nod, moistened her lips, and composed herself for mrs monnerie. and it was then i became conscious that susan had quietly slipped out of the room. it was a peculiar experience to listen to the catechism that followed. from the absorption of her attitude, the large, sidelong head, the motionless hands, it was clear that mrs monnerie found a good deal to interest her in the dark, attentive figure that stood before her. if fanny had been joan of arc, she could not have had a more single-minded reception. yet i was enjoying a duel: a duel not of wits, but of intuitions, between the sagacious, sardonic, watchful old lady, soaked in knowledge of humanity but, as far as i could discover, with extraordinarily small respect for it, and--fanny. and it seemed to me that fanny easily held her own; just by being herself, without revealing herself. face, figure, voice; that was all. i could not take my eyes away. if only, i thought, my own ghost would keep as quiet and hidden as that in the presence of others. perhaps i exaggerate. love, living or dying, even if it is not blind, cannot, i suppose, focus objects very precisely. it sees only itself or disillusionment. whether or not, the duel was interrupted. in the full light of the window, fanny turned softly at the opening of the door. marvell was announcing another caller. at his name my heart leapt up like william wordsworth's at the rainbow. it was sir walter pollacke. "this is _your_ visitor, poppet," mrs monnerie waggishly assured me, "you shall have half an hour's _tête-à-tête_." chapter thirty-nine so it was with a deep sigh--half of regret at being called away, and all of joy at the thought of seeing my old friend again--that i followed marvell's coat-tails over the threshold. with a silly, animal-like affection i brushed purposely against fanny's skirts as i passed her by; and even smirked in a kind of secret triumph at percy maudlen, who happened to be idling on the staircase as i hastened from room to room. the door of the library closed gently behind me, as if with a breath of peace. i paused--looked across. sir walter was standing at the further end of its high, daylit, solemn spaciousness. he was deep in contemplation of a white marble bust that graced the lofty chimney-piece--so rapt, indeed, that until i had walked up into the full stream of sunshine from a nearer window and had announced my approach with a cough, he did not notice my entrance. then he flicked round with an exclamation of welcome. "my dear, dear young lady," he cried, beaming down on me from between his peaked collar-tips, over his little black bow, the gold rim of his large eye-glasses pressed to his lip, "a far--far more refreshing sight! would you believe it, it was the pleasing little hobby of that oiled and curled monstrosity up there--heliogabalus--to smother his guests in roses--literally, smother them? now," and he looked at me quizzically as if through a microscope, "the one question is how have _you_ survived what i imagine must have been a similar ordeal? not quite at the last gasp, i hope? _comparatively_ happy? it's all we can hope for, my dear, in this world." i nodded, hungrily viewing him, meeting as best i could the bright blue eyes, and realizing all in a moment the dark inward of my mind. those other eyes began thinking as well as looking. "well, well, that's right. and now we must have a little quiet talk before his eminence reappears. so our old friend mrs bowater has gone husband-hunting? gallant soul: she came to see me." squatted up on a crimson leather stool, i must have looked the picture of astonishment. "yes," he assured me, "there are divinities that shape our ends; and mrs bowater is one of them. if anything can hasten her husband's recovery---- but never mind that. she has left me in charge. and here i am. the question is, can we have too many trustees, guardians? perhaps not. look at the koh-i-noor, now." i much preferred to continue to look at sir walter, even though, from the moment i had entered the room, at least five or six voices had begun arguing in my mind. and here, as if positively in answer to them, was his very word--_trustee_. i pounced on it like a wasp on a plum. it was a piece of temerity that saved me from--well, as i sit thinking things over in quiet and leisure in my old stonecote, the house of my childhood, i don't know what it hasn't saved me from. "too many trustees, sir walter?" i breathed. "i suppose, not--if they are _honest_." "but bless me, my dear young lady," his face seemed to be shining like the sun's in mist; "whose heresies are these? have they given you a french maid?" "fleming; oh, no," i replied, laughing out, "she's a woman of kent, all _but_. what i was really thinking is, that i would, if i may--and please forgive me--very much like to show you a letter. i simply can't make head or tail of it. but it's dreadfully--suggestive." "my dear, i came in certain hope of being shown nothing less vital than your heart," he retorted gallantly. so off i went--with my visitor all encouraging smiles as he opened the door for me--to fetch my lawyer's bombshell. glasses on tip of his small, hawklike nose, sir walter's glittering eyes seemed to master this obscure document at one swoop. "h'm," he said cautiously, and once more communed with the bust of heliogabalus. "now what did you think of it all? was it _worth_ six and eightpence, do you think?" "i couldn't think. it frightened me. 'the shares,' you know. whose shares? of what? i'm terribly, terribly ignorant." "ah," he echoed, "the shares--as the blackbird said to the cherry tree. and there was nobody, you thought, to discuss the letter with? you didn't answer it?" "nobody," said i, with a shake of my head, and smoothing my silk skirts over my knees. "why, of course not," he sparkled. "you see how admirably things work out. miss fenne, mr pellew, mrs bowater, my wife, tom o' bedlam, hypnos, mrs monnerie, mr bowater, mrs bowater, the harrises, _me_. 'pon my word, you'd think it was a plot. now, supposing i keep this letter--could you trust it with me for a while?--and supposing i see these gentlemen, and make a few inquiries; and that in the meantime--we--we bottle the cherries? but first, i must have a little more information. your father, my dear. let's just unbosom ourselves of all this horrible old money-grubbing, and see exactly how we stand." i needed no second invitation, and poured out helter-skelter all (how very little, in my girlish folly) that i knew about my father's affairs, and of how i had been "left." "and miss fenne, now?" he peered out, as if at my godmother herself. "why didn't she send word to france? where is this providential step-grandfather, monsieur pierre de ronvel, all this time? not dead too?" shamefully i had to confess that i did not know; had not even inquired. "it is my miserable ingratitude. i just blow hot and cold; that is my nature." "well, well, it may be so." he smiled at me, as if out of the distance, with the serenest kindliness. "but you and i are going to share the temperate zone--a cool, steady, trade wind." "if only," i smiled, taking him up on this familiar ground, "if only i could keep clear of the tropics--and that sargasso sea!" at this little sally he gleamed at me as goldenly as the spade guinea that dangled on his waistcoat. then he rose and surveyed one by one a row of silent, sumptuous tomes in their glazed retreat: "the sargasso sea; h'm, h'm, h'm; and one might suppose," he cast a comprehensive glance at the taciturn shelves around and above us, "one might suppose the tuppenny box would afford some of these a more sociable haven." but this was greek to me. "mrs monnerie is generous?" he went on, "indulgent? groundsel, seed, sugar, _and_ a fleming. yet perhaps the door might be pushed just an inch or two farther open, eh? what i'm meaning, my dear, is, will you perhaps wait in patience a little? and if anything should go amiss, will you make me a promise to send just a wisp of a word and a penny stamp to an old friend who will be doing his best? the first lawyer, you know, was a waif that was adopted by a tortoise and a fox. now _i_'m going to be a mole--with its fur on the bias, as miss rossetti happened to notice--and burrow. so you see, all will come well!" i must have been sitting very straight and awkward on my stool, and not heeding what my face was telling. "is there anything else distressing you, my dear?" he asked anxiously, almost timidly. "only myself," i muttered. "there doesn't seem to be any end to it all. i grope on and on, and--the kindness only makes it worse. _can_ there be a riddle, sir walter, that hasn't any answer? i remember reading in a book that was given me that man 'comes into the world like morning mushrooms.' don't you think that's true; even, i mean, of--everybody?" but his views on this subject were not to be shared with me for many a long day. our half-hour was over; and there stood mrs monnerie, mushroom-shaped, it is true, but suggesting nothing of the evanescent, as she looked in on us from the mahogany doorway. "how d'ye do, sir walter," she greeted him. "if it hadn't been for an exceedingly interesting young creature disguised, i understand, as a miss bowater, i should have had the happiness of seeing you earlier. and how is our peri looking, do you think?" "how is our peri looking?" he repeated musingly, poising himself, and eyeing me, on his flat, gleaming boots; "why, mrs monnerie, as i suppose a peri _should_ be looking--into paradise." "then, my peri," said mrs monnerie blandly, "ask sir walter to be a complete angel, and stay to luncheon." mrs monnerie, i remember, was in an unusually vivacious humour at that meal; and devoured immense quantities of salmon mayonnaise. one might have supposed that fanny's influence had added a slim crescent of silvery light to her habitual earthshine. none the less, when our guest was gone, she seemed to subside into a shallow dejection; and i into a much deeper. we sate on together in an uneasy silence, she pushing out her lips, restlessly prodding cherry with her foot, and occasionally uttering some inarticulate sound that was certainly not intended as conversation. i think mrs monnerie was in secret a more remarkable woman than she affected to be. however thronged a room might be, you could never be unaware that she was in it. and in the gentle syllabub of polite conversation her silence was like that of an ancient rock with the whispering of the wavelets on the sands at its base. i remember once seeing a comic picture of an old lady with a large feather in her bonnet placidly sitting on a camp-stool beneath a pollard willow on one side of a stream, while a furious, frothing bull stood snorting and rampaging on the other. i think the old lady in the picture was meant to be britannia; but, whoever or whatever the bull might represent, mrs monnerie reminded me of her. she sat more heavily, more passively, in her chair than any one i have ever seen. of course--quite apart from intelligence--there must be many, many _layers_ in society, and i cannot say at all how far mrs monnerie was from the topmost. but i am sure she was able to look down on a good many of them; while i was born always to be "looking up." i was looking up at mrs monnerie now from my stool. widespread in her chair, she had closed her eyes, and to judge from her face, she was dreaming. it looked more faded than usual. the puckers gave it a prunish look. queer, contorting expressions were floating across her features. her soul seemed gently to rock in them, like an empty boat at night on a dark river. in the pride of my youth--and a little uneasy over my confidences with sir walter--i examined my patroness with a slight stirring of dismay. "oh, no, no! never to grow old, not me," a voice was saying in me. yet, after all, i reminded myself, i was looking only at mrs monnerie's outer case. but then, after all, _was_ it only that? "the resurrection of the body." one may see day at a little hole; says an old proverb--i hope a kentish proverb. and from mrs monnerie, my thoughts drifted away to fanny. she would grow old too. should we know one another then? should we understand, and remember what it was to be young? we had had our secrets. i came out of these reflections to find mrs monnerie's sleepy eyes fixed full upon me; and herself marvellously cheered up by her nap. she had thought very well of miss bowater, she told me. so well that she not only very soon found her a charming engagement as a morning governess to the two little girls of a rich fashionable widow--just fanny's "sinecure"--but invited her to stay at no. as a "companion" to herself, until a more permanent post offered itself. "you and i want more company," she assured me; "otherwise the flint will use up all the tinder, or vice versa, my dear. a pretty creature and no fool. she sings a little, too, she tells me. so we shall have music wherever she goes." that afternoon both flint and tinder--whichever of us was which--were kept very busy. mrs monnerie fell into one of her long monologues, broken only by chakka's griding on his bars, and cherry's whimpering in his dreams. it was another kind of "white meat" for me: and though, no doubt, i was incapable of digesting _all_ mrs monnerie's views on life, society, and the world at large, i realized that if in the course of time it might be my fate to wither and wizen away, i should still have my own company and plenty of internal entertainment. i actually saw myself a little bent-up, old, midget woman creeping down some stone steps out of a porch, with a fanlight, under a street lamp. it curdled my blood, that picture. and yet, i thought, what must be, must be. i will _endure_ to be a little, bent-up, old, midget woman, creeping down stone steps out of a porch with a fanlight. and i even nodded up at the street lamp. in response to a high-spirited scrawl from fanny, i sent her all that was left of my savings to purchase "those horrible little etceteras that just feather down the scales, midgetina. it would be saintlike of you, and you won't miss it _there_." it was a desperate wrench to me to see the last of my money disappear. i knew no more than the man in the moon where the next was to come from. i counted the days to fanny's coming; and dressed myself for the occasion in the most expensive gold and blue afternoon gown i possessed. it must have been with a queer, mixed motive in my head. i sat waiting for her, while beyond the gloom-hung window raged a london thunderstorm, with dense torrents of rain. my little silver clock struck three, and she entered my room like a black swan, tossing from her small, velveted head, as she did so, a few beads of rain. from top to toe in deadest black. she must have noticed my glance of wonderment. "when you want to make a favourable impression on your social superiors, midgetina, the meeker you look the better," she said. but this was not the only reason for her black. only a day or two before, she told me, a letter had come from her mother.... "my father is dead." the words dropped out as if they were quite accustomed to one another's company. but those which followed--"blood-poisoning," "mortification," hung up in my mind--in that interminable gallery--a hideous picture. i could only sit and stare at the motionless figure outlined against the sepulchral window. "it is awful, awful, fanny!" i managed to whisper at last. "it never stops. one after another they all go. think how he must have longed to be home. and now to be buried--out there--nothing but strangers." a vacancy came over my mind in which i seemed to see the dead mr bowater of my photograph rising like lazarus in his grave-cloths out of his foreign tomb, and looking incredulously around him. "and your mother, fanny! out there, too--those miles and miles of sea away!" fanny made no movement, though i fancied that her eyes wandered uneasily towards the door. "i quite agree, midgetina; it's awful!" she said. "but really and truly, it's worse for me. i think i am like my father in some ways. mother never really understood him. you can't _talk_ a man different; and for that matter holding your tongue at him is not much good either. you must just lie in wait for him with--well, with your charms, i suppose." the word sounded like a sneer. "still, i don't mean to say that it was all pure filial bliss for me when he _was_ at home, until, at least, i grew up. then he and i quarrelled too; but that's pleasure itself by comparison with listening to other people at it. he did his best to spoil me, i suppose. he wanted to make a lady of me." she turned and smiled out of the window; her under-lip quivering and casting a faint shadow on the smooth skin beneath. "so here i am; though i fear you can't make ladies of _quite_ the correct consistency out of dressmaker's clothes and a smatter of latin. the salt will out. but there," she flung a little gesture with her glove, "as i say, here i am." and as if for welcome, a gleam of lightning danced at the window, illumining us there, and a crackling peal of thunder rolled hollowly off over the roof-tops of the square. we listened until the sound had emptied itself into quiet; and only the rain in the gutters gurgled and babbled. "do you know," she went on, with a far-away challenging thrill in her low, mournful voice, "i don't think i have a solitary relation left in the world now--except mother. 'they are all gone into a world of light'--though i've now and then suspected that a few of the disreputable ones have been buried alive. there's nothing very dreadful in that. life consists, of course, in shedding various kinds of skin--and tanning the remainder." fanny, then, _was_ unaware that mrs bowater was not her real mother. and i think she never guessed it. "nor have i," i said, "not one." as i looked at it there, it seemed a fact more curious than tragic. besides, in the brooding darkness of that room it was fanny and i who were strange, external beings, not the memoried phantoms of my mother and father. we had still to go on, to live things out. "so you see, fanny," i continued, after a pause, "i do know what it means--a little; and we must try more than ever to be really one another's friend, mustn't we? i mean, if you think i can be." "why, i owe you pounds and pounds," cried fanny gaily, pushing back her handkerchief into her bodice. "here we are--not quite in the same box, perhaps; still strangers and pilgrims. of course we must help one another.... just think of this house! the servants! the folly of it, and all for madame monnerie--though i wouldn't mind being in her shoes, even for one season. socialism, my dear, is all a question of shoes. and this is poppetkin's little boudoir? a pygmy palace, my dear, and if only the lightning would last a little longer i might get a real glimpse of that elfin little exquisite over there in her beautiful blue brocade. but then; it will be roses all the way with you, miss m. you are independent, and valued for yourself alone." "how different people are, fanny. you always think first of the use of a thing, and i, stupidly, just of it--itself." "do we?" she said indifferently, and rose from her chair. "anyhow i'm here to be of use. and who," she remarked, with a little yawn, as she came to a pause again beside the streaming window. "who was that prim, colourless girl with the pale blue eyes? engaged to be married." "but fanny, she had her gloves on that morning, i remember it as clearly as--as i always remember everything where you are: how could you possibly tell that susan monnerie was engaged?" it was quite a simple problem, fanny tranquilly assured me: "the ring bulged under the suède." her scornfulness piqued me a little. "anyhow," i retorted, "susan's eyes are not _pale_ blue. they are almost cornflower--chicory colour; like the root of a candle-flame." "please, midgetina," fanny begged me, "don't let me canker your new adoration. perhaps you preened your pretty feathers in them when they were fixed on the demigod. 'susan'! i thought all the susans perished in the 'sixties, or had fled down the area. and who is _he_?" but she did not follow up her question. all things come to him who waits, she had rambled on inconsequently, if he waits long enough; and no doubt god would temper the wind to the shorn orphan even if she did look a perfect frump in mourning. "you know you could never look a frump," i replied indignantly, "even if you hadn't a rag on." fanny shrugged her dainty shoulders. "alas!" she said. but her "orphan" had brought me back with a guilty shock to what, no doubt, was an extremely fantastic panorama of buenos ayres; and that swiftly back again to mr crimble. for an instant or two i looked away. perhaps it was my caution that betrayed me. "it's no use, midgetina," she sang across at me from her window. "whether it's because the chemical reactions of your pat little brain are more intense than ordinary people's, or because you and i are _en rapport_, i can't say. but there's one thing we must agree upon at once: never, never again to mention his name--at least in _this_ house. the crimble chapter is closed." closed indeed. but so sharp were her tones i hadn't the courage to warn her that even susan had read most of it. fanny came near, and, stooping as susan had stooped, began fidgeting with the button of my electric chandelier. the little lamps shone wanly in our faces in the cloud-darkened room. "you see, my dear," she said playfully, "you think me all mockery and heartlessness. and no doubt you are right. but i want ease and security: just like that--as if i were writing an essay--'ease and security.' i don't care a dash about affection--at least without the aforesaid e. and s. i intend to please mrs monnerie, and she is going to be grateful to me. don't think i am being 'candid.' i should have no objection to saying just the same thing to mrs monnerie herself: she'd enjoy it. wait, you precious inchy image--wait until you need a sup of fatted calf's-foot jelly, not because you are sick of husks, but because you are deadly poor. then you will understand. these sumptuosities! wait till they haven't a ha'penny in their pockets, real or moral, for their next meal. they only look at things--if that; they can't know what they are. even to be decently charitable one must have been a beggar--and cursed the philanthropists. oh, i know: and fanny's race is for success." "but surely, fanny, a thing is its looks, if only you look long enough. and i should just like to hear you talking if you were in my place. besides, what is the use of success--in the end, i mean? you should see some of the actresses and singers and authors and that kind of thing mrs monnerie knows? you wouldn't have realized the actresses were even beautiful unless you had been told so. why, you couldn't even say the _world_ is a success, except in the country. what is truly the use of it, then?" i had grown so eager in my argument that i had got up from my chair. "the use, you poor thing?" laughed fanny; "why, only as a kind of face-cream to one's natural pride." the day was lightening now; but at that the whole darkness of my own situation drew close about me. success, indeed. what was i? nothing but a halfpennyless, tame pet in no. . what salve could restore to me _my_ natural pride? chapter forty in happier circumstances, the next morning's post might have reassured me. two letters straddled my breakfast tray, for i always had this meal in my own room. one of them was from wanderslore--a long, crooked, roundabout letter, that seemed to taunt, upbraid, and entreat me, turn and turn about. it ended with a proposal of marriage. in most of the novels i have read, the heroine simply basks in such a proposal, even though scarcely her finger-tips are warmed by its rays. for my part, this letter, far from making me happy or even complacent, produced nothing but a feeling of fretfulness and shame. thrusting it back into its envelope, i listened a while as if an eavesdropper might have overheard my silent reading of it--as if i must hide. then, with eyes fixed on my small coffeepot, i sank into a low, empty reverie. the world had not been so tender to my feelings as to refrain from introducing me to general tom thumb and miss mercy lavinia bump warren. "a pair of them! how quaint! how romantic! how _touching_!" i saw myself--gossamer veil, dwarfed orange-blossom, and gypsophila bouquet, all complete. perhaps mr. pellew--perhaps even miss fenne's bishop, would officiate. possibly percy would be persuaded to "give me away." and what a gay little sniggling note in the _morning post_. i came out of these sardonic thoughts with cold hands and a sneer on my lips, and the thought that i had seen quite as conspicuously paired human mates even though their size was beyond reproach. thank goodness, when i read my letter again, slightly better feelings prevailed. after all, the merest cinder of love would have made my darkness light. i shouldn't have cared for a thousand "touching's" then. i was still myself, a light-headed, light-hearted, young woman, for all my troubles and follies. if i had loved him, the rest of the world--much truer and sweeter within than it looks from without--would have vanished like a puff of smoke. but not even love's ashes were in my heart, except, perhaps, those in which fanny had scrawled her name. i beat about, bruising wings and breast, hating life, hating the friend who had suddenly slammed-to another door in my gilded cage. "you can never, never go back to wanderslore now," muttered my romantic heart. friends we could have remained--only the closer for adversity. now all that was over; and two human beings who might have been a refuge and reconciliation to one another, amused--as well as amusing--observers of the world at large, had been by this one piece of foolish excess divided for ever. i simply couldn't bear to look ridiculous in my own eyes. my other letter was from sir w. p. he had seen the harrises. those foxy tortoises had advanced a ridiculous £ s. d. of my september allowance--the price of a pair of monnerie bedroom slippers! it was enclosed--and sir walter begged me not to worry. might he be my bank? would i be so kind as to break it as soon as ever i wished? meanwhile he would be making further inquires into my affairs. perhaps because sir w. p. was a business man, he was less persuasive with his pen than with his tongue. i thought he was merely humouring me, fell into a violent rage, and tore up not only his letter, but--noodle that i was--the harris order too--into the tiniest pieces, and heaped them up, like a soufflé, on my tray. mr anon's i locked up in my old money-box, with the nightgown and the miss austen. both letters wore like acid into my mind. from that day on--except for a few half-stifled or excited hours--they were never out of remembrance. even the most valuable and expensive pet may become a vexation if it is continually showing ill-temper and fractiousness. mrs monnerie merely puckered her lips or shrugged her shoulders at my outbursts of vanity and insolence. but drops of water will wear away a stone. from being court favourite i gradually sank to being court fool. in sheer ennui and desperation i waggled my bells and brandished my bladder. a cat may look at a queen, but it should, i am sure, make faces only at her ladies-in-waiting. fanny inherited yet another sinecure; and it was not envy on my side that helped her to shine in it, though i had my fits of jealousy. she was determined to please; and when fanny made up her mind, circumstances seemed just to fawn at her feet. life became a continuous game of chess, the moves of which at times kept me awake and brooding in a far from wholesome fashion in my bed. pawn of pawns, and one at the point of being sacrificed, i could only squint at the board. indeed, i deliberately shut my eyes to my own insignificance, strutted about, sulked, sharpened my tongue like a serpent, and became a perfect pest to myself when alone. yet i knew in my heart that those whom i hoped to wound merely laughed at me behind my back, that i was once more proving to the world that the smaller one is the greater is one's vanity. in the midst of this nightmare, by a curious coincidence rose like a jack-in-the-box from out of my past the queerest of phantoms--and proved himself real. i was sullenly stewing in my thoughts in the library one morning over a book which to this day i never weary of reading; gilbert white's _natural history of selborne_. it was the nearest i could get to the country. the whim took me to try and become a little better acquainted with "william markwick, esq., f.l.s.," who had himself seen the _sphinx stellatarum_ inserting its proboscis into the nectary of a flower while "keeping constantly on the wing." there seemed to be something in common, just then, between myself and the _sphinx_. i pressed my wainscot bell. after an unusual delay in a drastically regulated household, the door behind me gently opened. i began simpering directions over my shoulder in the percy way with servants--and presently realized that all was not quite as it should be. i turned to look, and saw thrust in at the doorway an apparently bodiless, protuberant head, with black, buttony eyes on either side a long, long nose. then the remainder of this figure squeezed reluctantly in. it was adam waggett. guy fawkes himself, caught lantern in hand among his powder barrels, must have looked like adam waggett at this moment. for a while i could only return his stare from the midst of a vortex of memories. when at last i found my tongue and inquired peremptorily how he came there, and what he was doing in the house, he broke into a long, gurgling, strangulated guffaw of laughter. i was already in a sour temper--in spite of the sweetness of selborne. as a boy he had been my acute aversion; and here he was a grown man and as doltish and ludicrous as when he had roared at me in the moonlight from outside the kitchen window at stonecote. his stupidity and disrespect made me almost inarticulate with rage. maybe the foolish creature, feeling as strange as a cat in a new house, was only expressing his joy and affection at sight of a familiar face. but i had no time to consider motives. in a fever of apprehension that his noise might be overheard, my one thought now was to bring him to his senses. i shook my fists at him! and stamped my foot on the turkey carpet--as if in snow. he watched me in a stupefaction of admiration, but at length his face solemnified, and he realized that my angry gestures were not intended for his amusement. his mouth stood open, he shook his head, and, unless my eyes deceived me, set back his immense ears. "beg pardon, miss, i'm sure," he stuttered, "it was the sc-hock, and you inside the book there, and the old times like; and even though they was telling me that there was such a--such a young lady in the house.... but i won't utter a word, miss, not me. only," he stared round at the closed door and lowered his voice to an even huskier whisper, "except to tell you that pollie's doing very nicely, and whenever i sees her--well, miss, that thunderstorm and the old cow!" at this his features gathered together for another outburst, which i succeeded in stifling only by warning him that so long as he remained at mrs monnerie's he must completely forget the old cow and the thunderstorm, and never address me in company, or even glance in my direction if we happened to be together in the same room. "mrs monnerie would be extremely angry, adam, to hear you laughing in the library; and i am anxious that you should be a credit to lyndsey in your new situation." "but you rang, miss--at least the library did," he replied, now thoroughly contrite, "and mr marvell said, 'you go along, there, waggett, second door right, first staircase,' so i come." "yes," i said, "but it was a mistake. a mistake, you understand. now go away; and remember!" a few minutes afterwards, marvell himself discreetly entered the room; merely, as it would appear, to adjust the angles of a copy of the _spectator_ that lay on the table. "it's very close this morning," i remarked, with as much dignity as i could muster. "it is indeed, miss," said marvell, stooping sedately to examine my bell-push. he rose and brushed his fingers. "they say, miss, the electricity gets into the wires, when thunder's in the air. a wonderful invention, but not, as i am told, entirely independent of changes in the weather. i hope, miss, you haven't been disturbed...." when susan, even paler and quieter than usual, presently looked into the library, she found its occupant still on the floor and brooding over the browns and greys, the roses and ochres, of a complete congregation of _sphingidæ_. she stooped over me, sprawling in so ungainly a fashion across my book. "moths, this morning? what a very learned person you will become." her voice was a little flat, yet tender; but i was still in the sulks, and made no answer. "i suppose," she began again, as if listlessly, and straying over to the window, "i suppose it is very pleasant for you, seeing so much of your friend, miss bowater?" caution whispered a warning, and i tried to wriggle out of an answer by remarking that fanny's mother was the kindest woman in the whole world. "where is she now?" "in buenos ayres." "really? how curious family traits are. the very moment i saw miss bowater i was quite certain that she was intended for an adventurous life; and didn't you say that her father was an officer in the merchant service? what is he like?" "mr bowater? he died--out there, only a week or two ago." "how very, very sad," breathed susan. "and for miss bowater. i never even guessed from her manner that she was in trouble of that kind. and that, i suppose, shows a sort of courage. you were perfectly right; she is lovely and clever. the face a little hard, don't you think, but _very_ clever. she seems to be prepared for what aunt alice is going to say long before she says it. and i, you know, sometimes don't notice even the sting till--till the buzzing is over." she paused. "and you were able to make a real friend of her?" susan had not the patience to wait until i could sort out an answer to this question. "i don't want to be intrusive," she went on hurriedly, "to--to ask horrid questions; but is it true, you dear thing, that you may some day be leaving us?" "leaving you?" i echoed, my thoughts crouching together like chicks under a hen. the reply came softly and reluctantly in that great cistern of air. "why, i understood--to be married." i leant heavily on my hands, seeing not the plumes and colours of the sphinxes that swam up at me from the page, but, as if in a mist between them and me, the softly smiling face of fanny. at last i managed to overcome the slight physical sickness that had swept over me. "susan"; i said, "if a friend betrayed the very soul out of your body, what would you do? where would you go?" "betray! i, my dear?" and she broke into a confused explanation. it was a remark of percy's she had been referring to, a silly, trivial remark, not, she was sure, intended maliciously. why, every one teased every one. didn't she know it? and especially about the things that were most personal, "and, well, sacred." it was nothing. just that; and she should not have repeated it. "tell me exactly, please," said i. "well, aunt alice was talking of marriage; and miss bowater smiled. and aunt alice--you know her mocking way--asked how, at her age--miss bowater's--she had learned to look at the same time both charming and cynical. 'don't forget, my dear,' they were her very words, 'that the cynicism wears the longer.' but miss bowater laughed, and changed the subject by asking if she could do anything for your headache. it was the afternoon, you remember, when you were lying down. that was all." "and mr maudlen?" the fair cheek reddened. "oh, percy made a joke--about you. just one of his usual horrid jokes. my dear"--she came and knelt down beside me and laid her gentle hand on my shoulder; "don't look so--so awful. it's only how things go." i drew the hand down. it smelled as fresh and sweet as jessamine. "don't bother about me, susan," i said coldly. "just leave me to my moths. i could show you scorpions and hornets ten times more dangerous than a mere death's head. you don't suppose i care? why, as you say, even god has his little joke with some of us. i'm quite used to it." "don't, don't," she implored me. "you are over-tired, you poor little thing. you go on reading and reading. why, your teeth are chattering." a faint brazen reverberation from out of the distance increased in intensity and died away. it was adam performing on the gong. susan had tried to be kind to me, to treat me as if i were a normal fellow-being. i pressed the cool fingers to my lips. "there, susan," i said, with cheerful mockery, "except for my father and mother, i do believe you are the first life-size or any-size person i have ever kissed. a midget's gratitude!" ever so slightly the fingers constricted beneath my touch. no doubt there was a sensation of the spidery in my embrace. chapter forty-one but a devil of defiance had entered into me. with a face as snakily sweet as i could make it, i made my daintiest bow to mrs monnerie's guests--to lord chiltern, a tall, stiffish man, who blinked at our introduction almost as solemnly and distastefully as had mrs bowater's henry, and to lady diana templeton. a glance at this lady reminded me spitefully of an old suspicion of mine that mrs monnerie usually invited her duller friends to luncheon and the clever to dinner. not that she failed to enjoy the dull ones, but it was in a different way. a long, gilded queen anne mirror hung opposite my high chair, so that whenever i glanced across i caught sight not only of myself with cheeks like carnations above my puffed blue gown, but also of adam waggett. ever and again his red hand was thrust over my shoulder--the hand that had held the wren. and i was so sick at heart--on yet another wren's behalf--that i could hardly repress a shudder. poor adam; whenever i think of him it is of a good, yet weak and silly man. he has found his eden, so i have heard, in new zealand now, and i hope he has forgiven my little share in his life. throughout that dull luncheon my tongue went mincing on and on--in sheer desperation lest any one should detect the state of mind i was in. with pale eyes percy sniggered over his soup. susan was silent and self-conscious. captain valentine frowned and nibbled his small moustache. lady diana templeton smiled like a mauve-pink snapdragon, and mrs monnerie led me on. it was my last little success. luncheon over, i was helped down from my chair, and allowed "to run away." what was it lord chiltern was saying? i paused on the threshold: "an exquisite little performance. but isn't it a little selfish to hide her light under your admirable bushel, mrs monnerie? the stage, now?" "the stage!" exclaimed mrs monnerie in consternation. "the child's as proud as lucifer. she would faint at the very suggestion. you have heard her deliciously sharp little tongue, but her tantrums! still, she's a friendly and docile little creature, and i am very well satisfied with her." "and not merely that"; paced on the rather official voice. "i was noticing that something in the eyes. almost disconcertingly absent yet penetrating. she thinks. she comes and goes in them. i noticed the same peculiarity in poor willie arbuthnot's. and this little creature is scarcely more than a child." "i think it is _perfectly_ sad, lord chiltern," broke in a reedy, vibrating voice. "in some circumstances it would be _tragic_. it's a mercy she does not realize ... _habit_, you know...." listeners seldom hear such good things of themselves. why, then, was it so furious an eavesdropper that hastened away with a face and gesture worthy of a sarah siddons! no: my box remained locked. yet, thought i, as i examined its contents, any dexterous finger could have opened that tiny lock--with a hairpin. and how else could my secret have been discovered? fleming or fanny--or both of them: it maddened me to think of them in collusion. i would take no more risks. i tore mr anon's letter into fragments, and these again into bits yet smaller, until they were almost like chaff. these i collected together and put into an envelope, which i addressed in sprawling capitals to miss fanny bowater, at no. . then for a sombre half-hour i communed intensely at the window with my tank. it was hot and taciturn company--not a breath of air stirred my silk window-blind--yet it managed to convey a few home truths, and even to increase the light a little in which i could look at the "bushel." there _were_ "mercies," i suppose. out of the distance rolled the vague reverberation of the enormous city. i watched the sparrows, and they me. when the time came for my afternoon walk, i put on my hat, with eyes fixed on my letter, and, finally--left it behind me. was it for discretion's sake, or in shame? i cannot say, but i remember that during my slow descent to the empty hall i kept my eyes fixed with peculiar malignity on the milk-white figure of a venus (not life-size, thank heaven), who had been surprised apparently in the very act of entering the water for a bathe. why i singled her out for contempt i cannot say; for she certainly looked a good deal more natural and modest than many of the fine ladies who heedlessly passed her by. it was merely my old problem of the social layers over again. and my mind was in such a state of humiliation and discomfort that i hadn't the energy even to smile at a marble goddess. fanny was awaiting me on my return. a strand of hair was looped demurely and old-fashionedly round each small ear; her clear, unpowdered skin had the faint sheen of a rose. she stood, still and shimmering, in the height of pleasant spirits, yet, i thought, watchful and furtive through it all. she had come, she said, to congratulate me on my "latest conquest." mrs monnerie, she told me, had been pleased with my entertainment of the late first commissioner of--was it good works? but i must beware. "once a coquette, midgetina, soon _quite_ heartless," she twitted me. to which i called sourly, as i stood drying my hands, that pretty compliments must be judged by where they come from. "come from, indeed," laughed fanny. "he's a positive peer of the realm, and baths, my dear, every morning in the fount of honours. you wouldn't be so flippant if ... hallo! what's this? a letter--addressed to me! where on earth did this come from?" heels to head, a sudden heat swept over me. "oh," said i hollowly, "that's nothing, fanny. only a little joke. and now you are here---- but surely," i hurried on, "you don't really like that starched-up creature?" but fanny was holding up my envelope between both her thumbs and forefingers, and steadily smiling at me, over its margin. "a joke, midgetina; and one of your very own. how exciting. and how bulgy. may i open it? i wouldn't miss it for the world." "please, fanny, i have changed my mind. let me have it. i don't feel like jokes now." "but honestly, _i_ do. some jokes have such a deliciously serious side. besides, as you have just come in, why didn't this go out with you?" to which i replied stubbornly that it was not her letter; that i had thought better of it; and that she had no right to question me if i didn't want to answer. "i see." her voice had glided steadily up the scale of suavity. "it's a bit more of the dead past, is it? and you don't like the--the fragrance. but surely, if we are really talking about rights--and, according to my experience, there are none too many of them knocking about in this world--surely i have the right to ask what pulpy mysteries are enclosed in an envelope addressed to me in what appears to be a feigned ca--calligraphy? look. i am putting the thing on the floor so that we shall be on--well--fairly equal terms. even your sensitive sukie could not be more considerate than that, could she? all i want to know is, what's inside that envelope? if you refuse to say, well and good. i shall retire to my maidenly couch and feed on the blackest suppositions." it was a cul-de-sac; and the only thing to do was to turn back boldly and get out of it. "well, fanny; i have told you that i thought better of sending it. but i am not ashamed. even if i am wrong, i suppose you are at liberty to have your little jokes too, and so is percy maudlen. it's a letter, torn up; that's all." "a letter--so i guessed. who from?" i gazed at her silently. "yes?" "it's hateful of you, fanny.... from the hunchback." her astonishment, surely, could not have been pretence. "and what the devil, you dear, stammering little midgelet, has your miserable little hunchback to do with me? why send his scrawls to _me_--and in bits?" "because," said i, "i thought you had been making fun of him and me to--the others." the light hands lifted themselves; the dark head tilted a little back and askew. "_what_ a roundabout route," she sighed. but her face was false to the smooth, scornful accents. "so you suspected me of spying on you? _i_ see. and gentle susan monnerie was kind enough to smear a little poison on the fangs. well, midgetina love, i tell you this. it's safer sometimes to lose your reputation than your temper. but there's a limit----" "hush," i whispered, for i had sharper ears than fanny even when rage had not deafened her own. i pounced on the envelope--but only just in time. "it's mr percy, miss," announced fleming, "and may he come in?" "hallo!" said that young man, lounging greyly into view, "a bad penny, miss m. i happened to be passing buszard's just now, and there was the very thing! miss bowater says you have a sweet tooth, and they really are rather neat." he had brought me the daintiest little box of french doll bonbons. i glared at it; i glared at him--hardly in the mood for any more of his little jokes--not even one tied up with pale-blue ribbon. "there's another thing," he went on. "susan told us that your birthday was coming along--august th, isn't it? and i have proposed a grand birthday party, sort of general rag. miss m. in the chair. don't you think it's a ripping idea of mine, miss bowater?" "_most_ ripping," said fanny, meeting his long, slow, sneaking glance with a slight and seemingly involuntary lift of her narrow shoulder. a long look i could not share passed between them; i might have been a toy on the floor. "but you don't look positively in the pink," he turned to me. "now, does she? late hours, eh? you look crumpled, doesn't she? cherry, too: we must have in another vet." the laugh died on his long lips. his eyes roved stealthily from point to point of the basking afternoon room, then once more sluggishly refastened on fanny. i sat motionless, watching his every turn and twist, and repeating rapidly to myself, "go away, my friend; go away, go away." some nerve in him must have taken the message at last, or he found fanny's silence uneasy. he squinnied a glinting, curious look at me, and as jauntily as self-consciousness permitted, took his departure. the door shut. his presence fainted out into a phantasm, and that into nothing at all. and for sole evidence of him basked on my table, beneath a thread of sunlight, his blue-ribboned box. "_is_n't he a ninny?" sighed fanny. "and yet, my dear: there--but for the grace of god--goes mr fanny bowater." her anger had evaporated. there stood my familiar fanny again, slim as a mast, her light eyes coldly shining, her bearing, even the set of her foot showing already a faint gilding of mrs monnerie. she laughed--looking straight across at me, as if with a challenge. "yes, my dear, it's quite true. i'm not a bit cross now. milk and honey. so you see even a fool may be a lightning conductor. i forgive," she pouted a kiss from the tips of her fingers, "i forget." and then she was gone too, and i alone. what an easy, consoling thing--not to care. but though fanny might forgive, she must have found it unamusing to forget. the next evening's post brought me an exquisitely written little fable, signed "f. b.," and entitled _asteroida and the yellow dwarf_. i couldn't enjoy it very much; though no doubt it must have been exceedingly entertaining when read aloud. still fanny did not _care_. while i myself was like those railway lines under the green bank i had seen on my journey to lyme regis. a day's neglect, a night's dews, and i was stained thick with rust. a dull and heedless wretchedness took possession of me. the one thought that kept recurring in every instant of solitude, and most sharply in those instants which pounced on me in the midst of strangers, was, how to escape. i put away the envelope and its contents into my box again. and late that night, when i was secure from interruption, i wrote to wanderslore. nibbling a pen is no novelty to me, but never in all my life have i spent so blank and hideous an hour merely in the effort to say no to one simple question so that it should sound almost as pleasant as yes, and far more unselfish. "throw the stone," indeed; when my only desire was to heal the wound it might make. thank goodness my letter was kinder than i felt. my candelabra burned stilly on. cold, in the blues, i stood in my dressing-gown and spectacling my eyes with my hands, looked out of the chill glass into the london night. only one high garret window shone out in the dark face of the houses.... who, where, was willie arbuthnot with the peculiar eyes? had lord chiltern a tank on his roof--his back-yard? what a fool i had been to abandon myself and come here. if they only knew how i despised them. and the whole house asleep. so much i despised them that not until i was dressing the following morning did i stoop into my indian mirror to see if i could discover what lord chiltern had meant. during the next few weeks mrs monnerie--with ample provocation--almost yawned at sight of me. in a bitter instant of rebellion our eyes met. she detected the "ill-wish" in mine, and was so much taken aback by it that i should hardly have recognized the set face that glared at me as hers at all. well, the fancier had wearied of her fancy--that was all. if i had been just an ordinary visitor, she would soon have washed her hands of me. but i was notorious, and not so easily exchanged as bronchitic cherry had been for her new pekinese, plum. possibly, too, the kind of aversion she now felt against me was a closer bond than even virtuosity or affection. she would sit with a sullen stare under her heavy eyelids watching me grow more and more heated and clumsy over my scrap of embroidery or my game of patience. meanwhile chakka would crack his nut, and with stagnant eye sidle thievishly up and down the bars of his cage; while plum gobbled up dainties or snored on his crimson cushion. we three. usually i was left pretty much alone; and what plans mrs monnerie was turning over to dispose of me were known only to herself. what to do; where to hide; how to "make myself small" during those torpid august days, i hardly knew. my one desire was to keep out of sight. one afternoon, i remember, after brooding for some hours under a dusty lilac bush in the square garden, i strayed off--my eyes idly glancing from straw to hairpin to dead match in the dust--down a narrow deserted side street that led to a mews. a string of washing hung in the sunlight from the windows. skirting a small public house, from which the smell of beer and spirits vapoured into the sunshine, i presently found myself in a black-green churchyard among tombstones. a clear shadow slanted across the porch, the door of the church stood open, and after pausing for a moment on its flagstones, i went in. it was empty. stone faces gazed sightlessly from its walls. two red sanctuary lamps hung like faint rubies in the distant chancel. i dragged out a cushion and sat down under the font. the thin, cloudy fragrance that hung in the gloom of the coloured windows stole in through my nostrils, drugged my senses. propping my chin on my hands, i looked up through the air into the dark roof. a pendulum ticked slowly from on high. quiet began to steal over me--long centuries of solitude had filled this vacancy as with a dream. it was as if some self within me were listening to the unknown--but to whom? i could not answer; i might as well have been born a pagan. was this church merely the house of a god? there were gods and temples all over the world. was it a house of _the_ god? or only of "their" god? in a sense i knew it was also _my_ god's, but how much more happily confident of his secret presence i had been in wild-grown wanderslore. did this mean that i was actually so much alone in my world as to be different from all other human beings? a fluttering panic swept through my mind at the muffled thumping of the invisible pendulum. i had forgotten that time never ceased to be wasting. and the past stretched its panorama before my eyes: no. ; the public house with the solitary thinking man i had seen, pot in hand, staring into the sawdust; and this empty, cavernous silence. then back and back--lyme regis, mrs bowater's--and fanny, lyndsey, my mother and father, the garden. no sylphs of the air, no trancing music out of the waters now! it was as if the past were surrounded with a great wall; and the future clear and hard as glass. you might explore the past in memory: you couldn't scale its invisible walls. and there was mr crimble--an immeasurable distance away; yet he had still the strange power to arrest me, to look out on me in my path. must the future be all of its piece? i stopped thinking again, and my eyes wandered over my silk skirt and shoes. my ghost! there was no doubt i was an exceedingly small human being. it may sound absurd, but i had never _vividly_ realized it before. and how solemnly sitting there--like a spider in wait for flies. "for goodness' sake, miss m.," i said to myself, "cheer up. you are being deadly dull company--always half afraid. they daren't really do anything to you, you know. face it out." and even while i was muttering, i was reading the words cut into a worn tombstone at my feet: "jenetta parker"--only two-and-twenty, a year older than i. yet she had lain here for two whole centuries and more. and beneath her name i spelled out her epitaph:-- "ah, stranger, breathe a sigh: for, where i lie, is but a handful of bright beauty cast: it was; and now is past." i repeated the words mechanically again and again; and, as if in obedience to her whisper, a much more niggardly handful of none too bright a beauty did breathe a sigh and a prayer--part pity, part melancholy, and all happiness and relief. i kissed my hand to jenetta; crossed myself and bowed to the altar--dulled gems of light the glass--and emerged into the graveyard. a lamp had been lit. an old man was shuffling along behind me; he had come to lock up the church. for an instant i debated whether or not to scuttle off down the green-bladed cobbles of the mews and--trust my luck. no: the sight of a punch and judy man gobbling some food out of a newspaper at the further corner scared me out of _that_ little enterprise. dusk was settling; and i edged back as fast as i could to no. . but it did me good--that visit. it was as if i had been looking back and up at my own small skull on a high shelf in some tranquil and dingy old laboratory--a few bottles, a spider's web, and an occasional glint of moonlight. how very brief the animation for so protracted a peace. chapter forty-two susan's visits to her aunt were now less frequent. percy's multiplied. duty seemed to have become a pleasure to him. mrs monnerie's gaze would rest on him with a drowsy vigilance which it was almost impossible to distinguish from mere vacancy of mind. he was fortunate in being her only nephew; unfortunate in being himself, and the son of a sister to whom mrs monnerie seemed very little attached. still, he appeared to be doing his best to cultivate his aunt's graces, would meander "in attendance" round and round the square's square garden, while fanny's arm had now almost supplanted mrs monnerie's ebony cane. when mrs monnerie was too much fatigued for this mild exercise, or otherwise engaged, there was still my health to consider. at least fanny seemed to think so. but since percy's conversation had small attractions for me, it was far rather he who enjoyed the experience; while i sat and stared at nothing under a tree. at less than nothing--for i was staring, as usual, chiefly at myself. i seemed to have lost the secret of day-dreaming. and if the quantity of aversion that looked out of my eyes had matched its quality, those piebald plane-trees and poisonous laburnums would have been scorched as if with fire. i shall never forget those interminable august days, besieged by the roar and glare and soot and splendour and stare of london. all but friendless, absolutely penniless, i had nothing but bits of clothes for bribes to keep fleming from mutiny. i shrank from making her an open enemy; though i knew, as time went on, that she disrelished me more and more. she would even keep her nose averted from my clothes. as for fanny, to judge from her animation when susan and captain valentine broke in upon us, i doubt if anybody less complacent than percy would not have realized that she was often bored. she would look at him with head on one side, as if she had been painted like that for ever and ever in a picture. she could idly hide behind her beauty, and percy might as well have gone hunting echo or a rainbow. she could make corrosive remarks in so seducing a voice that the poor creature hardly knew where the smart came from. he would exclaim, "oh, i say, miss bowater!" and gape like a goldfish. solely, perhaps, to have some one to discuss herself with, fanny so far forgave and forgot my shortcomings as to pay me an occasional visit, and had yawned how hideously expensive she found it to live with the rich. but the only promise of help i could make was beyond any possibility of performance. i promised, none the less, for my one dread was that she should guess what straits i was in for money. it is all very well to accuse percy maudlen of goldfishiness. what kind of fish was i? during the few months of my life at mrs monnerie's--until, that is, fanny's arrival--she had transported her "queen bee," as she sometimes called me, to every conceivable social function and ceremony, except a deathbed and a funeral. why had i not played my cards a little more skilfully? had not messrs de la rue designed a pack as if expressly for me, and for my own particular little game of patience? if perhaps i had shown more sense and less sensibility; and had not been, as i suppose, in spite of all my airs and flauntings, such an inward young woman, what altitudes i might have scaled. mrs monnerie, indeed, had once made me a promise to present me at court in the coming may. it is true that this was a distinction that had been enjoyed by many of my predecessors in my own particular "line"--but i don't think my patroness would have dished me up in a pie. that being so, my proud bosom might at this very moment be heaving beneath a locket adorned with the royal monogram in seed pearls, and inscribed, "to the least of her subjects from the greatest of queens." why, i might have been the most talked-of and photographed débutante of the season. but i must beware of sour grapes. "there was once a diogenes whom the gods shut up in a tub."--poor mr wagginhorne, he had been, after all, comparatively frugal with his azaleas. in all seriousness i profited far too little by mrs monnerie's generosities, by my "chances," while i was with her. i just grew hostile, and so half-blind. many of her friends, of course, were merely wealthy or fashionable, but others were just natural human beings. as fanny had discovered, she not only delighted in people that were pleasant to look at. she enjoyed also what, i suppose, is almost as rare, intelligence. the society "beauties," now? to be quite candid, and i hope without the least tinge of jealousy, i think they liked the look of me--well, no better than i liked the look of excessively handsome men. these exotics of either sex reminded me of petunias--the headachy kind, that are neither red nor blue, but a mixture. i always felt when i looked at them that they knew they were making me dizzy. yet, as a matter of fact, i could hardly see their beauty for their clothes. it must, of course, be extremely difficult to endure _pure_ admiration. true, i never remember even the most tactful person examining me for the first time without showing some little symptom of discomposure. but that's a very different thing. there was, however, another kind of beauty which i loved with all my heart. it is difficult to express what i mean, but to see a woman whose face seemed to be the picture of a dream of herself, or a man whose face was absolutely the showing of his own mind--i never wearied of that. or, at any rate, i do not now; in looking back. so much for outsides. humanity, our old cook, mrs ballard, used to say, is very like a veal and ham pie: its least digestible part is usually the crust. i am only an amateur veal and ham pieist; and the fact remains that i experienced just as much difficulty with what are called "clever" people. they were like adam waggett in his sunday clothes--a little too much of something to be quite all there. i firmly believe that what one means is the best thing to say, and the very last thing, however unaffected, most of these clever people said was seemingly what they meant. their conversation rarely had more than an intellectual interest. you asked for a penny, and they gave you what only looked like a threepenny bit. perhaps this is nothing but prejudice, but i have certainly always got on very much better with stupid people. chiefly, perhaps, because i could share experiences with them; and the latest thoughts did not matter so much. clever men's--and women's--experiences all seem to be in their heads; and when i have seen a rich man clamber through the eye of a needle, as poor mr crimble used to say, i shall keep my eyes open for a clever one attempting the same feat. it had been one of my absurd little amusements at mrs bowater's to imagine myself in strange places--keeping company with a dishevelled comet in the cold wilds of space, or walking about in the furnaces of the sun, like shadrach and abednego. not so now. yet if i had had the patience, and the far better sense, to fix my attention on any one i disliked at mrs monnerie's so as to enter _in;_ no doubt i should so much have enlarged my inward self as to make it a match at last even for poor mr daniel lambert. on the other hand, i sometimes met people at no. , or when i was taken out by mrs monnerie, whose faces looked as if they had been on an almost unbelievably long journey--and one not merely through this world, though that helps. i did try to explore _those_ eyes, and mouths, and wrinkles; and solitudes, stranger than any comet's, i would find myself in at times. alas, they paid me extremely little attention; though i wonder they did not see in my eyes how hungry i was for it. they were as mysterious as what is called genius. and what would i not give to have set eyes on sir isaac newton, or nelson, or john keats--all three of them comparatively little men. however absurdly pranked up with conceit i might be, i knew in my heart that outwardly, at any rate, i was nothing much better than a curio. to care for me was therefore a really difficult feat. and apart from there being very little time for anything at mrs monnerie's, i never caught any one making the attempt. when the novelty of me had worn off, i used to amuse myself by listening to mrs monnerie's friends talking to one another--discussing plays and pictures and music and so on--anything that was new, and, of course, each other. often on these occasions i hardly knew whether i was on my head or my heels. books had always been to me just a part of my life; and music very nearly my death. however much i forgot of it, i wove what i could remember of my small reading round myself, so to speak; and i am sure it made the cocoon more comfortable. as often as not these talkers argued about books as if their authors had made them--certainly not "out of their power and love"--but merely for their readers to pick to pieces; and about "beauty," too, as if it were something you could eat with a spoon. as for poetry, one might have guessed from what they said that it meant no more than--well, its "meaning." as if a butterfly were a chrysalis. i have sometimes all but laughed out. it was so contrary to my own little old-fashioned notions. certainly it was not my mother's way. but there, what presumption this all is. i had never been to school, never been out of kent, had never "done" anything, nor "been" anything, except--and that half-heartedly--myself. no wonder i was censorious. if i could have foreseen how interminably difficult a task it would prove to tack these memoirs together, i am sure i should have profited a little more by the roarings of my fellow lions. as a matter of fact i used merely to watch them sipping their tea, and devouring their cake amid a languishing circle of admirers, and to wonder if they found the cage as tedious as i did. if they noticed me at all, they were usually polite enough; but--like the beauties--inclined to be absent and restless in my company. so the odds were against me. i had one advantage over them, however, for when i was no longer a novelty, i could occasionally slip in, unperceived, behind an immense marquetry bureau. there in the dust i could sit at peace, comparing its back with its front, and could enjoy at leisure the conversation beyond. nevertheless, there was one old gentleman, with whom i really made friends. he was a bachelor, and was not only the author of numbers of books, but when he was a little boy had been presented by charles dickens himself with a copy of _david copperfield_, and had actually sat on the young novelist's knee. no matter who it was he might be talking to, he used to snap his fingers at me in the most exciting fashion whenever we saw each other in the distance, and we often shared a quiet little talk together (i standing on a highish chair, perhaps, and he squatting beside me, his hands on his knees) in some corner of mrs monnerie's enormous drawing-room, well out of the mob. i once ventured to ask him how to write. his face grew very solemn. "lord have mercy upon me," he said, "_to write_, my dear young lady. well, there is only one recipe i have ever heard of: take a quart or more of life-blood; mix it with a bottle of ink, and a teaspoonful of tears; and ask god to forgive the blots." then he laughed at me, and polished his eyeglasses with his silk pocket handkerchief. i surveyed this grisly mixture without flinching, and laughed too, and said, tapping his arm with my fan: "but, dear mr ----, would you have me die of anæmia?" and he said i was a dear, valuable creature, and, when next "black pudding day" tempted us, we would collaborate. having heard _his_ views, i was tempted to push on, and inquired as flatteringly as possible of a young portrait painter how he mixed his paints: "so as to get exactly the colours you want, you know?" he gently rubbed one long-fingered hand over the other until there fell a lull in the conversation around us. "what i mix my paints with, miss m.? why--merely with brains," he replied. my old novelist had forgotten the brains. but i discovered in some book or other long afterwards that a still more celebrated artist had said that too; so i suppose the _mot_ is traditional. and last, how to "act": for some mysterious reason i never asked any theatrical celebrity, male or female, how to do that? more or less intelligent questions, i am afraid, are not the only short-cut to good, or even to polite, conversation. and i was such a dunce that i never really learned what topics are respectable, and what not. in consequence, i often amused mrs monnerie's friends without knowing why. they would exchange a kind of little ogling glance, or with a silvery peal of laughter like bells, cry, "how naïve!" how i detested the word. naïve--it was simply my ill-bred earnestness. still, i made one valuable discovery: that you could safely laugh or even titter at things which it was extremely bad manners to be serious about. what you _could_ be serious about, without letting skeletons out of the cupboard--that was the riddle. i had been brought up too privately ever to be able to answer it. how engrossing it all would have been if only the harrises could have trebled my income, and if fanny had not known me so well. there was even a joy in the ladies who shook their lorgnettes at me as if i were deaf, or looked at me with their noses, as one might say, as if i were a bad or unsavoury joke. on my part, i could never succeed in forgetting that, in spite of appearances, they must be of flesh and blood, and therefore the prey of them, and of the world, and the devil. so i used to amuse myself by imagining how they would look in their bones, or in rags, or in heaven, or as when they were children. or again, by an effort of fancy i would reduce them, clothes and all, to _my_ proportions; or even a little less. and though these little inward exercises made me absent-minded, it made them ever so much more interesting and entertaining. how i managed not to expire in what, for a country mouse, was extremely like living in a bottle of champagne, i don't know. and if my silly little preferences suggest cynicism--well, i may be smug enough, but i don't, and won't, believe i am a cynic. remember i was young. besides i love human beings, especially when they are very human, and i have even tried to forgive miss m. her miss m-ishness. how can i be a cynic if i have tried to do that? it is a far more difficult task than to make allowances for the poor, wretched, immortal waxwork creatures in madame tussaud's chamber of horrors, or even for the gentleman naturalist who shot and stuffed kent's last golden oriole. nor have i ever, for more than a moment, shared with lemuel gulliver his none too nice disgust at the people of brobdingnag, even at kind-hearted glumdalclitch. am i not myself--not one of the quarrelsome "fair folks of the woods"--but a yahoo? gulliver, of course, was purposely made unaccustomed to the gigantic; while i was born and bred, though not to such an extreme, in its midst. and habit is second nature, or, as an old lyndsey proverb goes, "there's nowt like eels for eeliness." i am, none the less, ever so thankful that neither my ears, nose, nor eyes, positively magnify, so to speak. i may be a little more sensitive to noises and smells than some people are, but that again is probably only because i was brought up so fresh and quiet and privately. i am far more backward than can be excused, and in some things abominably slow-witted. whether or not my feelings are pretty much of the usual size, i cannot say. what is more to the point is that in some of my happiest moments my inward self seems to be as remote from my body as the moon is from greenland; and, at others,--even though that body weighs me down to the earth like a stone--it is as if memory and consciousness stretched away into the ages, far, far beyond my green and dwindling barrow on chizzel hill, and had shaken to the solitary night-cry of creation, "let there be light." but enough and to spare of all this egotism. i must get back to my story. chapter forty-three the fact is, miss m.'s connection with good society was rapidly drawing to a close. my smoky little candle had long since begun to gutter and sputter and enwreathe itself in a winding sheet. it went out at last in a blaze of light. for once in his life percy had conceived a notion of which his aunt cordially approved--my birthday banquet. heart and soul, all my follies and misdemeanours forgotten, she entered into this new device to give her _snippety_, her _moppet_, her _pusskinetta_, her little _binbin_, her _fairy_, her _petite sereine_, an exquisite setting. invitations were sent out to the elect on inch-square cards embossed with my family crest and motto--a giant, head and shoulders, brandishing a club, and _non omnis moriar_.[ ] she not only postponed her annual departure from town, but, as did the great man in the parable, _compelled_ her friends to come in. she exhausted her ingenuity on the menu. the great, on this occasion, were to feast on the tiny. a copy of it lies beside me now, though, unfortunately, i did not examine it when i sat down to dinner. last, but not least, percy's pastry-cooks, messrs buszard, designed a seven-tiered birthday-cake, surrounded on its lowermost plateau by one-and-twenty sugar-figures, about a quarter life-size, and each of them bearing on high a silver torch. their names were inscribed on their sugar pediments: lady morgan (the windsor fairy); queen elizabeth's mrs tomysen; the empress julia's andromeda; the great little, little great miss billing of tilbury; anne rouse and poor ann colling; the sicilian mlle caroline crachami (who went to the anatomists); nannette stocker ( inches, lbs. avoirdupois at ); the blessed and tender anastasia boruwlaski; gaganini; the gentle miss selby of bath; alethea (the guernsey nymph); madame teresa (the corsican fairy); mrs jeykll skinner; the appalling nono; mrs anne gibson (_née_ shepherd); and the rest. it was a joke, none the worse, maybe, for being old; and peter the great must have turned in his grave in envy of mrs monnerie's ingenuity. it may scarcely be believed, but i had become so hardened to such little waggeries that under the genial eye of mrs monnerie i made the circuit of this cake with a smile; and even scolded her for omitting the redoubtable mrs bellamy with her life-size family of nine. i criticized the images too, as not to be compared, even as sugar, with the alabaster william of windsor and blanche, in the tower. the truth is, when real revulsions of body and soul come, they come in a gush, all at once. fleming, on the night, was actually putting the last touches to my coiffure when suddenly, with a wicked curse, i turned from the great glass and announced my decision. tiny tortoiseshell comb uplifted, she stood in the clear lustrousness looking in at my reflection, queer thoughts darting about in her eyes. at first she supposed it was but another fit of petulance. then her hatred and disgust of me all but overcame her. she quietly argued. i insisted. but she was mortally afraid of mrs monnerie, and rather than deliver my message to her, sought out susan. poor susan. she, too, was afraid: and it was her face rather than her love that won me over at last. then she had to rush away to make what excuse she could for my unpunctuality. it thus came about that mrs monnerie's guests had already sat down to table, and were one and all being extremely amused by some story she was entertaining them with, when marvell threw open the great mahogany doors for me, and i made my solitary entry. in primrose silk, _à la pompadour_, a wreath of tight-shut pimpernels in my hair--it is just possible that mrs monnerie suspected i had chosen to come in late like this merely for effect. but that would have been an even feebler exhibition of vanity than _i_ was capable of. all her guests were known to me, even though only one of them was of my choosing; for mrs bowater was in the argentine, sir walter in france, miss fenne on her deathbed, mr pellew in retreat, and mr crimble in his grave. fanny was my all. she was sitting four or five chairs away from me on my left, between percy (who had on his right hand a beautiful long-faced girl in turquoise green) and captain valentine. further down, and on the other side of the table, sat lady maudlen--a seal-like lady, who, according to fanny, disapproved of me on religious grounds--while i was on mrs monnerie's left, and next to lord chiltern. alas, even my old friend the "black pudding" was too far distant to do more than twinkle "courage!" at me, when our eyes met. recollections of that disastrous evening are clouded. so evil with dreams my nights had been that i hardly knew whether i was awake or asleep. but i recall the long perspective of the table, the beards, the busts, the pearls, the camellias and gardenias, the cornucopias, and that glistening folly castle, my birthday cake. marvell is behind me, and adam waggett is ducketing in the luminous distance. the clatter of many tongues beats on my ear. mrs monnerie murmurs and gently rocks. the great silver dishes dip and withdraw. corks pop, and the fumes of meat and wine cloud into the air. in memory it is as if i myself were far away, as if i had read of the scene in a book. but two moments stand vividly out of its unreality--and each of them to my shame. a small, wreathed, silver-gilt dish was placed before me. automatically i thrust my spoon into its jelly, and pecked at the flavourless morsels. sheer nervousness had deprived me of my sense of taste. but there was something in mrs monnerie's sly silence, and lord chiltern's solemn monocle, and percy's snigger, that set me speculating. "angelic tomtitiska!" sighed mrs monnerie, "i wager when she returns to paradise, she will sit in a corner and forget to tune her harp." there was no shade of vexation in her voice, only amiable amusement; but those sitting near had overheard her little pleasantry, and smilingly watched me as, casting my eye down the menu--_consommé aux nids d'hirondelles_, _filets de blanchailles à la diable_, _ailes de caille aux petits pois minnie stratton_, _sauterelles aux caroubes saint jean_, it was caught at last by a pretty gilt flourishing around the words, _suprême de langues de rossignols_. this, then, was the dainty jest, the _clou du repas_. the faint gold words shimmered back at me. in an instant i was a child again at lyndsey, lulling to sleep on my pillow amid the echoing songs of the nightingales that used to nest in its pleasant lanes. i sat flaming, my tongue clotted with disgust. i simply couldn't swallow; and didn't. but never mind. this was my first mishap. though her own appetite was capricious, ranging from an almost incredible voracity to a scrap of dry toast, nothing vexed mrs monnerie so much as to see my poor, squeamish stomach revolting at the sight of meat. she drew up a naked shoulder against me, and the feast proceeded with its chief guest in the shade. once i could soon have regained my composure. now i languished, careless even of the expression on my face. not even the little mincing smile fanny always reserved for me in company could restore me, and it was at her whisper that percy stole down and filled my acorn glass with a translucent green liquid which he had himself secured from the sideboard. i watched the slow, green flow of it from the lip of the decanter without a thought in my head. lord chiltern endeavoured to restore my drooping spirits. i had outrageously misjudged him. he was _not_ one of mrs monnerie's stupid friends, and he really did his utmost to be kind to me. if he should ever read these words, may he be sure that miss m. is grateful. but his kindness fell on stony ground. and when, at length, he rose to propose my health, i crouched beneath him shameful, haggard, and woebegone. it was as minute a speech as was she whom it flattered, and far more graceful. nothing, of course, would satisfy its audience when the toast had been honoured, but that miss m. should reply. one single, desperate glance i cast at mrs monnerie. she sat immovable as the sphinx. there was no help for it. knees knocking together, utterly tongue-tied, i stood up in my chair, and surveyed the two converging rows of smiling, curious faces. despair gave me counsel. i stooped, raised my glass, and half in dread, half in bravado, tossed down its burning contents at a gulp. the green syrup coursed along vein and artery like molten lead. a horrifying transparency began to spread over my mind. it seemed it had become in that instant empty and radiant as a dome of glass. all sounds hushed away. things near faded into an infinite distance. every face, glossed with light as if varnished, became lifeless, brutal, and inhuman, the grotesque caricature of a shadowy countenance that hung somewhere remote in memory, yet was invisible and irrevocable. in this dead moment--the whole blazing scene like a nowhere of the imagination--my wandering eyes met fanny's. she was softly languishing up at captain valentine, her fingers toying with a rose. and it seemed as though her once loved spirit cried homelessly out at me from space, as if for refuge and recognition; and a long-hidden flood broke bounds in my heart. all else forgotten, and obeying mechanically the force of long habit, i stepped up from my chair on to the table, and staggered towards her, upsetting, as i went, a shallow glass of bubbling wine. it reeked up in the air around me. "fanny, fanny," i called to her out of my swoon, "ah, fanny. holy dying, holy dying! _sauve qui peut!_" with empty, shocking face, she started back, appalled, like a wounded snake. "oh!" she cried in horror into the sleep that was now mounting my body like a cloud, "oh!" her hand swept out blindly in my direction as if to fend me off. at best my balance was insecure; and though the velvet petals of her rose scarcely grazed my cheek, the insane glaze of my mind was already darkening, i toppled and fell in a heap beside her plate. footnote: [ ] to be truthful, this is not my family motto (_nor_ crest); but the real motto seemed a little too satirical to share with mrs monnerie; and however overweening its substitute may appear, i have now hopes, and now misgivings, that it is true. monk's house chapter forty-four thus then i came of age, though not on st rosa's day. however dramatic and memorable, i grant it was not a courteous method of acknowledging lord chiltern's courtesy. in the good old days the drunken dwarf would have been jovially tossed from hand to hand. from mind to mind was my much milder penalty. and yet this poor little _contretemps_ was of a sort that required "hushing up"; so it kept tongues wagging for many a day. it was little comfort that percy shared my disgrace, and even susan, for "giving way." she it was who had lifted my body from the table and carried it up into darkness and quiet. in the half light of my bedroom i remember i opened my eyes for a moment--eyes which refused to stay still in their sockets, but were yet capable of noticing that the left hand which clasped mine had lost its ring. i tried to point it out to her. she was crying. philippina sober was awakened the next morning by the fingers of mrs monnerie herself. she must have withdrawn the kindly sheet from my face, and, with nightmare still babbling on my lips, i looked up into the familiar features, a little grey and anxious, but creased up into every appearance of goodwill. "not so excessively unwisely, then," she rallied me, "and only the least little thought too well. we have been quite anxious about bébé, haven't we, fleming?" "quite, madam. a little indigestion, that's all." "yes, yes; a little indigestion, that's all," mrs monnerie agreed: "and i am sure poppet doesn't want those tiresome doctors with their horrid physic." i sat up, blinking from one to the other. "i think it was the green stuff," i muttered, tongue and throat as dry as paper. i could scarcely see out of my eyes for the racking stabs of pain beneath my skull. "yes, yes," was the soothing response. "but you mustn't agitate yourself, silly child. don't open your eyes like that. the heat of the room, the excitement, some little obstinate dainty. now, one of those darling little pills, and a cooling draught, perhaps. thank you, fleming." the door closed, we were left alone. mrs monnerie's scrutiny drifted away. their shutters all but closed down on the black-brown pupils. my head pined for its pillows, my shoulders for some vestige of defence, but pined in vain. for the first time i felt afraid of mrs monnerie. she was thinking so densely and heavily. yet, as if out of a cloud of pure absentmindedness, dropped softly her next remark. "does pretty pusskin remember what she _said_ to miss bowater?... no?... well, then, if she can't, it's quite certain nobody else can--or wishes to. i inquired merely because the poor thing, who has been really nobly devoting herself to her duties, seems so hurt. well, it shall be a little lesson--to us all. though one swallow does not make a summer, my child, one hornet can make things extremely unpleasant. not that i----" a vast shrug of the shoulders completed the sentence. "a little talk and tact will soon set _that_ right; and i am perfectly satisfied, perfectly satisfied with things as they are. so that's settled. some day you must tell me a little more about your family history. meanwhile, rest and quiet. no more excitement, no more company, and no more"--she bent low over me with wagging head--"no more _green stuff_. and then"--her eyes rested on me with a peculiar zest rather than with any actual animosity--"then we must see what can be done for you." there came a tap--and percy showed in the doorway. "i thought, aunt alice, i thought----" he began, but at sight of the morose, heavy countenance lifted up to him, he shut his mouth. "thank you," said mrs monnerie, "thank you, sir galahad; you did nothing of the kind." whereupon her nephew wheeled himself out of the room so swiftly that i could not detect what kind of exotics he was carrying in a little posy in his hand. so the invalid, now a burden on the mind of her caretaker many times her own weight, was exiled for ever from no. . poor fleming, sniffier and more disgusted than ever, was deputed to carry me off to the smaller of mrs monnerie's country retreats, a long, low-roofed, shallow-staired house lying in the green under the downs at croomham. there i was to vegetate for a time and repent of my sins. percy's fiery syrup took longer to withdraw its sweet influences than might have been foreseen. indeed, whenever i think of him, its effects are faintly renewed, though not, i trust, to the detriment of my style! none too strong physically, the miss m. that sat up at her latticed window at monk's house during those few last interminable august days, was very busy with her thoughts. as she looked down for hours together on the gnarled, thick-leafed old mulberry-tree in the corner of the lawn that swept up to the very stones of the house, and on the walled, sun-drugged garden beyond, she was for ever debating that old, old problem; what could be done _by_ herself _with_ herself? the doves crooned; the cawing rooks flapped black into the blue above the neighbouring woods; the earth drowsed on. it was a scene of peace and decay. but i seemed to have lost the charm that could have made it mine. i was an ishmael. and worse--i was still a prisoner. no criminal at death's door can have brooded more laboriously on his chances of escape. no wonder the voices of childhood had whispered, away! there came a long night of rain. i lay listening to the whisper and clucking of its waters. far away the lapwings called: ee-ooeet! ee-ooeet! what follies i had been guilty of. how wilily circumstance had connived at them. yet i was no true penitent. my heart was empty, so parched up that neither love nor remorse had any place in it. revenge seemed far sweeter. driven into this corner, i sent a desperate word to sir w. it remained unanswered, and this friend followed the rest into the wilderness of my ingratitude. but that brought me no relief. for of all the sins i have ever committed, envy and hatred seem to me the most unpleasant to practise. i was to learn also that "he who sows hatred shall gather rue," and "bed with thistles." with eyes at last as anxious as jezebel's, i resumed my watch at the window. but even if percy had ridden from london solely to order fleming to throw me down, she would not have "demeaned" herself to set hands on me. she might be bold, but she, too, was fastidious. then fleming herself one afternoon softly and suddenly vanished away--on her summer's holiday. poor thing; so acute was the chronic indigestion caused by _her_ obstinate little dainty that she did not even bid me good-bye. she left me in charge of the housekeeper, mrs french, a stout, flushed, horse-faced woman, who now and then came in and bawled good-humouredly at me as if i were deaf, but otherwise ignored me altogether. i now spent most of my time in the garden, listlessly wandering out of sight of the windows (and gardeners), along its lank-flowered, rose-petalled walks, hating its beauty. or i would sit where i could hear the waterdrops in a well. the very thought of company was detestable. i sat there half-dead, without book or needle, with scarcely a thought in my head. in my library days at no. i had become a perfect slave to pleasures of the intellect. but now dyspepsia had set in there too. my nights were pestered with dreams and my days with their vanishing spectres; and i had no pollie to tell me what they forecast. i suppose one must be more miserable and hunted in mind even than i was, _never_ to be a little sentimental when alone. i would lean over the cold mouth of the well, just able to discern in the cold mirror of water, far beneath, the face i was almost astonished to find reflected there. "shall i come too?" i would morbidly whisper, and dart away. still, just as with a weed in winter, life was beginning to renew the sap within me; and monk's house was not only drowsy with age but gentle with whispers. once at least in every twenty-four hours i would make a pilgrimage to its wrought-iron gates beside the square white lodge, to gloat out between the metal floriations at the dusty country lane beyond--with its swallows and wagtails and dragon-flies beneath the heat-parched tranquil elms. a slim, stilted greyhound on one such visit stalked out from the lodge. quite unaware of his company, i turned about suddenly and stared clean down his arched throat--white teeth and lolling tongue. it was as if i had glanced into the jaws of destiny. he turned his head, whiningly yawned, and stalked back into the shade. a day or two afterwards i made the acquaintance of the lodge-keeper's daughter, a child named rose, about five years of age, with a mop of copper-coloured curls bound up with a pale blue bow. at first glimpse of me she had hopped back as if on springs into the house. a moment after, her white-aproned mother appeared in the porch, and with a pleasant nod at me bade the child smile at the pretty little lady. finger in mouth, rose wriggled and stared. in a few days she grew accustomed to my small figure. and though i would sometimes discover her saucer-blue eyes fixed on me with a peculiar intensity, we almost came to be friends. she was not a very bright little girl; yet i found myself wooing her with all the arts i knew--in a scarcely conscious attempt, i suppose, to creep back by this small lane into the world's and my own esteem. i made her wristlets of little flowers, hacked her out cockle boats from the acorns, told her half-forgotten stories, and once had to trespass into the kitchen at the back of the lodge to tell her mother that she was fallen asleep. was it mere fancy that read in the scared face she twisted round on the pretty little lady from over her saucepan, "avaunt, evil eye!"? i had become abominably self-conscious. chapter forty-five one such afternoon rose and i were sitting quietly together in the sunshine on the green grass bank when a smart, short step sounded in the lane, and who should come springily pacing out of the country through the gates but adam waggett--red hands, black boots, and londonish billycock hat all complete. adam must have been born in a fit of astonishment; and when he dies, so he will enter paradise. he halted abruptly, a ring of shifting sunshine through the leaves playing on his purple face, and, after one long glance of theatrical astonishment, he burst into his familiar guffaw. this time the roar of him in the open air was nothing but a pleasure, and the mere sound and sight of him set rose off laughing, too. her pink mouth was as clustered about with milk-teeth as a fragment of honeycomb is with cells. "well, there i never, miss," he said at last, with a slow, friendly wink at the child, "where shall us three meet again, i wonder." he flicked the dust off his black button boots with his pocket-handkerchief, mopped his high, bald forehead, and then positively exploded into fragments of information--like my father's fireworks on guy fawkes' day. he talked of young mr percy's "goings-on," of the august mr marvell, of life at no. . "that miss bowater, now, she's a bit of all right, she's toffee, she is." but, his hat! there _had_ been a row. and the captain, too. not that there was anything in that; "just a bit of silly jealousy; _like_ the women!" he could make a better guess than that. he didn't know what "the old lady" would do without that miss bowater--the old lady whose carriage would in a few days be rolling in between these very gates. and then--he began whistling a highland reel. the country air had evidently got into his head. hand over hand he was swarming up the ladder of success. his "_joie de vivre_" gleamed at every pore. and i?--i just sat there, passively drinking in this kitchen-talk, without attempting to stop him. after all, he was out of my past; we were children of israel in a strange land; and that hot face, with its violent pantomime, and hair-plastered temples, was as good as a play. he was once more settling his hat on his head and opening his mouth in preparation for a last bray of farewell, when suddenly in the sunny afternoon hush a peculiar, melancholy, whining cry rose over the treetops, and slowly stilled away. as if shot from a bow, rose's greyhound leapt out of the lodge and was gone. with head twisted over his shoulder, adam stood listening. somewhere--where? when?--that sound had stirred the shadows of my imagination. the day seemed to gather itself about me, as if in a plot. in the silence that followed i heard the dust-muffled grinding of heavy wheels approaching, and the low, refreshing talk of homely, kentish, country voices. adam stepped to the gate. i clutched rose's soft, cool fingers. and spongily, ponderously, there, beyond the bars, debouched into view a huge-shouldered, mole-coloured elephant, its trunk sagging towards the dust, its small, lash-fringed eye gleaming in the sun, its bald, stumpy, tufted tail stiff and still behind it. on and on, one after another, in the elm-shaded beams of the first of evening, the outlandish animals, the wheeled dens, the gaudy, piled-up vans of pasteboard scenery, the horses and ponies and riff-raff of a travelling circus wound into, and out of, view before my eyes. it was as if the lane itself were moving, and all the rest of the world, with rose and myself clutched hand in hand on our green bank, had remained stark still. probably the staring child supposed that this was one of my fairy-tales come true. my own mind was humming with a thought far more fantastic. ever and again a swarthy face had glanced in on our quiet garden. the lion had glared into africa beyond my head. but i was partly screened from view by rose, and it was a woman, and she all but the last of the dusty, bedraggled company, that alone caught a full, clear sight of me. one flash of eye to eye--we knew each other. she was the bird-eyed, ear-ringed gipsy of my railway journey with pollie from lyndsey to beechwood. even more hawklike, bonier, striding along now like a man in the dust and heat in her dingy coloured petticoats and great boots, with one steel-grey dart of remembrance, she swallowed me up, like flame a moth. her mouth relaxed into a foxy smile while her gaze tightened on me. she turned herself about and shrilled out a strange word or two to some one who had gone before. a sudden alarm leapt up in me. in an instant i had whisked into hiding, and found myself, half-suffocated with excitement, peeping out of a bush in watch for what was to happen next. so swift had been my disappearance she seemed doubtful of her own senses. a cage of leopards, with a fair-skinned, gold-haired girl in white stockings lolling asleep on the chained-up tail-board, trundled by; and then my gipsy was joined by a thick-set, scowling man. his face was bold and square, and far more lowering than that of the famous pugilist, mr sayers--to whose coloured portrait i had become almost romantically attached in the library at no. . this dangerous-looking individual filled me with a tremulous excitement and admiration. if, as in a dream, my past seemed to have been waiting for that solitary elephant; then my future was all of a simmer with _him_. he drew his thick hand out of his stomach-pocket and scratched his cheek. the afternoon hung so quiet that i heard the rasp of his finger nail against his sprouting beard. he turned to mutter a sullen word or two at the woman beside him. then, more civilly, and with a jerk of his squat thumb in my direction, he addressed himself to adam. adam listened, his red ears erect on either side of his hat. but his only answer was so violent a wag of his head that it seemed in danger of toppling off his body. softly i laughed to myself. the woman yelped at him. the man bade her ferociously "shut her gob." adam clanged-to the gates. they moved on. beast, cage, and men were vanished like a daydream. a fitful breeze rustled the dry elm-leaves. the swifts coursed on in the shade. when the last faint murmur had died away, i came out from behind my bush. "a country circus," i remarked unconcernedly. "what did the man want, adam?" "that hairy cat frowned at rosie," whispered the child, turning from me to catch at adam's coat-tails. "not _eat_ rosie?" adam bent himself double, and with an almost motherly tenderness stroked her bright red hair. he straightened himself up, spat modestly in the dust, and, with face still mottled by our recent experience, expressed the opinion that the man was "one of them low blackguards--excusing plain english, miss--who'd steal your chickens out of the very saucepan." as for the woman--words failed him. i waited until his small, round eye had rolled back in my direction. "yes, adam," i said, "but what did he _say_? you mean she told him about _me_?" "well, miss, to speak equal-like, that was about the size of it. the old liar said she had seen you before, that you were--well, there you are!--a gold mine, a--a blessed gold mine. her very words nearabout." at that, in an insuppressible gush of happiness i laughed out with him, like a flageolet in a concourse of bassoons. "but he didn't see me, adam. i took good care of that." "that's just," said adam, with a tug at his black cravat, "what's going to give the pair of them a mighty unpleasant afternoon." i dismissed him, smiled at the whimpering greyhound, smiled at rose, whose shyness at me had unaccountably whelmed over her again, and followed in adam's wake towards the house. but not to enter it. "a blessed"--oh, most blessed "_gold mine_!" the word so sang in me that the whole garden--espaliered wall, and bird, and flower--leapt into life and beauty before my eyes. then my prayer (_what_ prayer?) had been answered. i squared my shoulders, shuddered--a lazarus come to life. away i went, and seating myself in a sunny corner, a few paces from a hive of bees, plucked a nectarine, and surrendered myself to the intoxication of an idea. not "your master is dead," but "your mistress is come to life again!" i whispered to the bees. and if i had been wearing a scarlet garter i would have tied it round their skep. money! money!--a few even of my handfuls of that, and i was free. i would teach "them" a lesson. i would redeem myself. ah, if only i had had a fraction of fanny's courage, should i so long have remained wilting and festering at no. ? the sweet, sharp juices of the clumsy fruit quenched my thirst. to and fro swept the bees along their airy highway. a spiked tree of late-blooming bugloss streamed its blue and purple into my eyes. a year ago, the very thought of exhibiting myself for filthy (or any kind of) lucre would have filled me with unspeakable shame. but what else had i been doing those long, dragging months? what had miss m. hired herself out to be but a pot of caviare to the gourmets? puffed up with conceit and complacency, i had been merely feeding on the world's contempt sauced up as flattery. nonsensical child. "ah, i can make honey, too," i nodded at the bees; whereupon a wasp pounced out of nowhere upon my oozy fruit, and i thrust it away into the weeds. but how refreshing a draught is the thought of action, how comforting the first returning trickle of self-esteem. my body sank into motionlessness. the shadows lengthened. the august sun slid down the sky. dusk was abroad in the colder garden, and the last bee home, when, with plans resolved on, i stretched my stiffened limbs and made my way into the house. excellent augury--so easy had been my daily habits that no one had noticed my absence. supper was awaiting me. i was ravenous. up and down i stumped, gnawing my biscuit and sipping my sweet country milk. i had suddenly realized what the world meant to fanny--an oyster for her sword. somewhere i have read that every man of genius hides a woman in his breast. well, perhaps in mine a _man_ was now stirring--the man that had occupied my aunt kitilda's skirts. it was high time. a moon just past its quarter was sinking in the heavens and silvering the jessamine at my window. my bosom swelled with longing at the breath of the slow night airs. monk's house--i, too, had my ghosts and would face them down, would vanquish fate with the very weapons it had forged for my discomfiture. in that sheltered half-light i stood myself before a down-tilted looking-glass. if i had been malshapen, limbless, contorted, i would have drowned myself in mud rather than feed man's hunger for the monstrous and obscene. no, i was a beautiful thing, even if god had been idly at play when he had shaped me, and had then flung away the mould; even if to mrs monnerie i was nothing much better than a disreputable marionette. so i boasted myself. percy's chartreuse had been mere whey compared with the fleeting glimpse of a tame circus elephant. i tossed out on to the floor the old lyndsey finery which some homesick impulse had persuaded me to bring away in my trunk. seated there with busy needle under the window, sewing in every gewgaw and scrap of tinsel and finery i could lay hands on, i prepared for the morrow. how happy i was. bats in the dewy dusk-light cast faint, flitting shadows on the casements. a large dark moth hawked to and fro above my head. it seemed i could spend eternity in this gentle ardent busyness. to think that god had given me what might have been so dreadful a thing as solitude, but which in reality, while my thoughts and fingers were thus placidly occupied, could be so sweet. when at length i leaned out on the cold sill, my work done, wrists and shoulders aching with fatigue, croomham clock struck two. the moon was set. but there, as if in my own happy mind, away to the east shone orion. why, sirius, then, must be in hiding under that quiet shoulder of the downs. a dwindling meteor silvered across space; i breathed a wish, shivered, and drew in. and there came that night a curious dream. i dreamt that i was a great soldier, and had won an enormous unparalleled battle. glaring light streamed obliquely across a flat plain, humped and hummocked with the bodies of the dead lying in disorder. i was standing in arrogant reverie alone, a few paces distant--though leagues away in being--from a group of other officers, who were looking at me. and i suffered the streaming light to fall upon me, as i gazed into my joy and triumph with a kind of severe nonchalance. but though my face under my three-cornered hat can have expressed only calmness and resolution, i knew in my heart that my thoughts were merely a thin wisp of smoke above the crater of a suppressed volcano. lest i should be detected in this weakness, i turned out of the glare, and without premeditation, began to step lightly and abstractedly from huddling mound to mound. and, as these heaps of the dead increased in size in the gloom after the white western light was gone, so i diminished, until i was but a kind of infinitesimal will-o'-the-wisp gliding from peak to peak of an infernal mausoleum of which every eye, though dead, was watching me. but there was _one_ eye.... and that is all of the dream that i could remember. for then i awoke, looking into the dark. a pencil ray of moonlight was creeping across my bed. peace unutterable. over my drowsy eyes once more the clouds descended, and once more i fell asleep. chapter forty-six next day, after a long lying-in-wait, i intercepted adam waggett and beckoned him into the shrubbery. first i questioned him. a bill of the circus, he told me, had already been left at the lodge. its tents and booths and aunt sallies were even now being pitched in a meadow three or four miles distant and this side the neighbouring town. so far, so good. i told him my plan. he could do nothing but look at me like a fish, with his little black eyes, as i sat on a tree stump and marshalled my instructions. but my first crucial battle had been fought with adam waggett in the garden at lyndsey. he had neither the courage nor even the cowardice to gainsay me. after a tedious siege of his sluggish wits, greed for the reward i promised him, the assurance that if we were discovered the guilt should rest on me, and maybe some soupçon of old sake's sake won him over. the branches of the trees swayed and creaked above us in the sunshine; and at last, looking down on me with a wry face, adam promised to do my bidding. six had but just struck that evening when there came the rap of his knuckles on my bedroom door. he found me impatiently striding up and down in a scintillating bodice and skirts of scarlet, lemon, and silver--as gay and gaudy an object as the waxen russian princess i had seen in one of mrs monnerie's cabinets. my flaxen hair was plaited german-wise, and tied in two thumping pigtails with a green ribbon; i stood and looked at him. he fumblingly folded his hands in front of him as he stood and looked back at me. i was quivering like a flame in a lamp. and never have i been so much flattered as by the silly, stupefied stare on his face. how i was to be carried to the circus had been one of our most difficult problems. this cunning creature had routed out from some lumber-room in the old house a capacious old cage--now rusty, but stout and solidly made--that must once have housed the aged chakka. "there, miss," he whispered triumphantly; "that's the ticket, and right to a hinch." i confess i winced at his "ticket." but adam had cushioned and padded it for me, and had hooded it over with a stout piece of sacking, leaving the ring free. apart from our furtive preparations, evening quiet pervaded the house. the maids were out sweethearting, he explained. mrs french had retired as usual to her own sitting-room; fortune seemed to be smiling upon me. "then, adam," i whispered, "the time has come. jerk me as little as possible; and if questions are asked, you are taking the cage to be mended, you understand? and when we get there, see no one but the man or the woman who spoke to you at the gates." "well, miss, it's a rum go," said adam, eyeing me with a grotesque grimace of anxiety. i looked up at him from the floor of the cage. "the rummer the go is, adam, the quicker we ought to be about it." he lowered the wiry dome over my head; i bunched in my skirts; and with the twist of a few hooks i was secure. the faint squeak of his boots told me that he had stolen to the door to listen. "all serene," he whispered hoarsely through the sacking. i felt myself lifted up and up. we were on our way. then, like flies, a cloud of misgivings settled upon my mind. as best i could i drove them away, and to give myself confidence began to count. a shrill false whistling broke the silence. adam was approaching the lodge; a mocking screech of its gates, and we were through. after that, apart from the occasional beat of hoofs or shoes, a country "good-night," or a husky cough of encouragement from adam, i heard nothing more. the gloom deepened. the heat was oppressive; i became a little seasick, and pressing my mouth to a small slit between the bars, sucked in what fresh air i could. midway on our journey adam climbed over a stile to rest a while, and, pushing back a corner of the sacking, he asked me how i did. "fine, adam," said i, panting. "we are getting along famously." the fields were sweet and dusky. it was a clear evening, and refreshingly cool. "you may smoke a pipe, adam, if you wish," i called softly. and while he puffed, and i listened to the chirping of a cricket, he told me of a young housemaid that was always chaffing and ridiculing him at no. . "it may be that she has taken a passing fancy to you," said i, looking up into the silent oak tree under which we were sitting. "on the other hand, you may deserve it. what is she like, adam?" "black eyebrows," said adam. "shows her teeth when she laughs. but that's no reason why she should make a fool of a fellow." "the real question is, is she a nice modest girl?" said i, and my bangles jangled as i raised my hand to my hair. "come, adam, there's no time to waste; are you ready?" he grunted, his mind still far away. "she's a fair sneak," he said, rapping his pipe-bowl on a stone. and so, up and on. time seemed to have ceased to be, in this jolting monotony, unbroken except by an occasional giddying swing of my universe as adam transferred the cage from hand to hand. swelteringly hot without, but a little cold within, i was startled by a far-away blare of music. i clutched tight the slender bars; the music ceased, and out of the quiet that followed rose the moaning roar of a wild beast. my tongue pressed itself against my teeth; the sacking trembled, and a faint luminousness began to creep through its hempen strands. shouting and screaming, catcalls and laughter swelled near. and now by the medley of smells and voices, and the glint of naked lights floating in on me, i realized that we had reached our goal. adam came to a standstill. "where's the boss?" the tones were thick and muffled. a feeble smile swept over my face: i discovered i was holding my breath. a few paces now, the din distanced a little and the glare diminished. then sounded another voice hoarse and violent, high above my head. the cage bumped to the ground. and i heard adam cringingly explain: "i've got a bird here for you, mister." "a bird," rang the jeer, "who wants your bloody bird? be off." "ay, but it won't be a bloody bird," gasped adam cajolingly, "when you've seen her pretty feathers." at this, apparently, recollection of adam's face or voice returned to the showman. he remained silent while with palsied fingers adam unlatched my bolts and bars. bent almost double and half-stifled, i sat there in sight, my clothes spread brightly out about me. the cool air swirled in, and for a while my eyes dazzled at the bubbling blaze of a naphtha lamp suspended from the pole of the tent above the criss-cross green-bladed grass at my feet. i lifted my head. there stood adam, in his black tail-coat rubbing his arm; and there the showman. still to the tips of my fingers, i sat motionless, gazing up into the hard, high-boned, narrow-browed face with its small restless eyes voraciously taking me in. fortunately the choked beating of my heart was too small a sound for his ear; and he was the first to withdraw from the encounter. "my god," he muttered, and spat into a corner of the canvas booth--with its one dripping lamp, its rough table and chair, and a few oddments of his trade. "and what, my handsome young lady," he went on in a low, carneying tone, and fidgeting with his hands, "what might be your little imbroglio?" in a gush, presence of mind returned to me, and fear passed away. i quietly listened to myself explaining without any concealment precisely what was my little imbroglio. he burst out laughing. "stage-struck, eh? there's a young lady now! well, who's to blame 'ee?" he asked me my age, my name, where i came from, if i could dance, sing, ride; and stared so roundly at me that i seemed to see my garish colours reflected in the metallic grey of his eyes. all this was on his side of the bargain. now came mine. i folded tight my hands in my lap, glanced up at the flaming lamp. how much would he pay me? it was as if a shutter had descended over his face. "drat me," said he, "when a young lady comes selling anything, she _asks_ her price." so i asked mine--fifteen guineas for four nights' hire.... to look at that human animal you might have supposed the actual guineas had lodged in his throat. it may be that shylock's was a more modest bargain. i cannot say. at first thought it had seemed to me a monstrous sum, but at that time i was ignorant of what a really fine midget fetched. it was but half my old quarterly allowance, with £ over for adam. i should need every penny of it. and i had not come selling my soul without having first decided on its value. the showman fumed and blustered. but i sat close on chakka's abandoned stage, perfectly still, making no answer; finding, moreover, in adam an unexpected stronghold, for the wider gawked his frightened eyes at the showman's noise and gesticulations, the more resolved i became. with a last dreadful oath, the showman all but kicked a hole in my cage. "take me away, adam," i cried quaveringly; "we are wasting this gentleman's time." i smiled to myself, in spite of the cold tremors that were shaking me all over; with every nerve and sinew of his corpulent body he was coveting me: and with a curse he at last accepted my terms. i shrugged my shoulders, but still refused to stir a finger until our contract had been written down in black and white. maybe some tiny love-bird of courage roosts beneath every human skull, maybe my mother's fine french blood had rilled to the surface. however that may be, there could be no turning back. he drew out a stump of pencil and a dirty envelope. "that, my fine cock," he said to adam, as he wrote, "that's a woman; and you make no mistake about it. to hell with your fine ladies." it remains, if not the most delicate, certainly one of the most substantial compliments i ever earned in my life. "that's that," he pretended to groan, presenting me with his scrawl. "ask a shark for a stamp, and if ruined i must be--ruined i am." i leapt to my feet, shook out my tumbled finery, smiled into his stooping face, and tucked the contract into my bodice. "thank you, sir," i said, "and i promise you shan't be ruined if _i_ can help it." whereupon adam became exceedingly merry, the danger now over. such are the facts concerning this little transaction, so far as i can recall them; yet i confess to being a little incredulous. have i, perhaps, gilded my side of the bargaining? if so, i am sure my showman would be the last person to quarrel with me. i am inclined to think he had taken a fancy to me. anyhow i had won--what is, perhaps, even better--his respect. and though the pay came late, when it was no longer needed, and though it was the blackest money that ever touched my fingers, it came. and if anybody was the defaulter, it was i. there was no time to lose. my gipsy woman was sent for from the shooting gallery. i shook hands with her; she shook hands with adam, who was then told to go about his business and to return to the tent when the circus was over. the three of us, showman, woman, and i, conferred together, and with extreme cordiality agreed what should be my little part in the performance. the booth in which we had made our bargain was hastily prepared for my "reception." its table was to be my daïs. a loose flap of canvas was hung to one side of it to screen me off from prying eyes when i was not on show. my only dangerous rival, it appeared, was the spotted boy. there followed a deafening pealing of panpipes, drumming of drum, and yelling of voices. in that monstrous din i was past thinking, just _being_; and i bridled to myself like a schoolgirl caught in a delicious naughtiness, to hear the fine things--the charms and marvels--which my showman was bawling about me. then one by one, at first a little owlishly, the great public, at the charge of d. per adult and half price for children (or "full-growns under foot") were admitted to the presence of the "_signorina donna angélique, the fairy princess of andalusia in spain_." so at any rate declares the printed handbill. in the attitude of madame recamier in the picture, i reclined on a lustrous spread of crimson satin and rabbit-skin draped over a small lump of wood for bolster to give support to my elbow. and out of my paint and powder, from amid this oasis--and with repeated warnings "not to touch" screamed by my gipsy--i met as pleasantly and steadily as i could the eyes of the grinning, smirking, awestruck faces--townsfolk and village folk, all agape and all sound kentish stock. "that isn't real, she's a doll," lisped a crêpe-bonneted little girl who with skimpy legs dangling out of her petticoat had been hoisted up under her armpits for a clearer view. i let a little pause come, then turned my head on my hand and smiled, leaned over and eased my tinselled slipper. an audible sigh, sweet as incense, went up under the hollow of the booth. i looked on softly from face to face--another dream. some captive beast mewed and brushed against the sides of a cage drawn up a yard or two from where i lay. the lamp poured flame and smoke. the canvas quietly flapped, and was still. wild ramped the merry-go-round with its bells and hootings; and the panpipes sobbed their liquid decoy. the signorina's first reception was over. news of her spread like wildfire. i could hear the showman bellowing at the press of people. his guineas were fructifying. and a peculiar rapturous gravity spread over me. when one's very self is wrapt in the ordeal of the passing moment, is lost like that, out of time and space, it seems, well--another presence had stolen into my mind, had taken possession. i cannot explain. but in this, it may be, all men _are_ equal, whatever their lot. so, i suppose, a flower breaks out of the bud, and butterflies put off the mask of the chrysalis, and rainbows mount the skies. but i must try not to rhapsodize. all i know is that even in that low self-surrender, some tiny spark of life in me could not be content to let my body remain a mere mute stock for the ignorant wonder of those curious eyes. the actual impulse, however, came from a young woman who, when next the people had streamed in, chanced to be standing close beside me. she was a weak-looking thing, yet reminded me in a sorrowful fashion of fanny. caught back by her melancholy, empty eyes, i seemed to lose myself in their darkness; to realize that she, too, was in trouble. i craned up from my wooden bolster and whispered in her hair: "patience, patience. there shall be a happy issue, my dear, out of all your afflictions." only she herself and a weedy, sallow young man in her company could have heard these words. a glint of fright and desperation sprang into her large-pupilled eyes. but i smiled, and we exchanged kindness. she moistened her lips, turned from me, and clutching at the young man's arm, edged her way out of the throng and vanished. "and what sort be this un?" roared an ox-faced, red-haired man from the back. "this un" hung on his shoulder, tiptoe, fair, young, and blowsy. "she'll _coin_ you money," i cried pleasantly, "and spend it. the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world." "and him, and him? the toad!" cried the girl half-angrily at the shout of merriment that had shaken the tent. "why, pretty maid," piped i, "the nearer the wine the sweeter the cork; the plumper the pig the fatter the pork." the yell that followed was a better advertisement than drum or panpipes. the showman had discovered an oracle! for the next half-hour my booth was a mass of "sixpennies"--the squirming threepennies were told to wait. it filled and emptied again and again like a black bottle in the dog days. and when the spirit moved me, i singled out a tell-tale face and told its fortune--not less shrewdly on the whole, i think, than mrs ballard's _book of fate_. but it was a strangely exhausting experience. i was inexpressibly relieved when it was over; when the tent-flap descended for the last time, and i could rest from my labours, puffed up, no doubt, with far too rich a conceit of myself, but immeasurably grateful and happy. comparative quiet descended on the meadows. from a neighbouring tent broke shattering bursts of music, clapping and thumping, the fretful growling of the beasts, the elephant's trumpeting, the firing of guns, whoops, caterwauling, and the jangling of harness. the grand circus was in progress, and fantasy made a picture for me of every sound. presently my showman reappeared, leading in a pacing, smooth-skinned, cinnamon-and-milk-dappled pony, bridled and saddled with silver and scarlet, his silky mane daintily plaited, his tail a sweeping plume. he stood, i should guess, about half a hand higher than my childhood's mopsa--the prettiest pygmy creature, though obviously morose and unsettled in temper. i took a good long look at his pink albino eye. but a knack once acquired is quickly recovered. i mounted him. the stirrup was adjusted, one of my german plaits was dandled over my shoulder, and after a leisurely turn or two in the open, i nodded that the highborn angélique was ready. the showman, leering avariciously at me out of his shifty eyes, led us on towards the huge ballooning tent, its pennon fluttering darkly against the stars. i believe if in that spirituous moment he had muttered, "fly with me, fairest!" all cares forgotten, i'd have been gone. he held his peace. the brass band within wrenched and blared into the tune of "the girl i left behind me." chafing, pawing, snorting, my steed, with its rider, paused in the entry. then with a last smirk of encouragement from the gipsy woman, the rein was loosed, i bowed my head, and the next moment, as if in a floating vat of light, i found myself cantering wellnigh soundlessly round the ring, its circumference thronged tier above tier in the smoke-laden air with ghost-white rings of faces. i smiled fixedly, tossing my fingers. a piebald clown came wambling in to meet me, struck his hand on his foolish heart, and fell flat in the tan. love at first sight. over his prostrate body we ambled, the ill-tempered little beast naggling at its bit, and doing his utmost to unseat me. the music ceased. the cloud of witnesses loured. come night, come nero, i didn't care! edging the furious little creature into the centre of the ring, i mastered him, wheeled him, in a series of obeisances--north, south, east, west. a hurricane--such as even mr bowater can never have outridden--a hurricane of applause burst bounds and all but swept me out of the saddle. "good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye!" sang cornet and trombone. with a toss, i swept my plaits starwards, brandished my whip at the faces, and galloped out into the night. my _début_ was over. i confess it--the very memory of it carries me away even now. and even now i would maintain that it was at least a little more successful than that other less professional _début_ which poor mr crimble and lady pollacke had left unacclaimed in beechwood high street. chapter forty-seven my showman, his hard face sleek with sweat, insisted on counting out three huge platelike crown pieces into my lap--for a douceur. i brushed them off on to the ground. "only to clinch the bargain," he said. his teeth grinned at me as if he would gladly have swallowed me whole. "pick up the money," said i coldly, determined once and for all to keep him in his place. "it's early days yet." but when my back was turned, covetous adam took charge of it. while we trudged along homeward--for in the deserted night the cage was unnecessary, until i was too tired to go further--i listened to the coins clanking softly together in adam's pocket it was an intoxicating lullaby. but such are the revulsions of success, for hours and hours that night i lay sleepless. once i got up and put my hand in where the crowns were, to assure myself i was awake. but the dream which visited me--between the watches of remorse--i shall keep to myself. with next day's sun, the signorina had become the talk of the country-side, and adam's vacant face must have stood him in good stead. she had been such "a draw," he told me, that the showman had decided to stay two more nights on the same pitch: which was fortunate for us both. especially as on the third afternoon heavy rain fell, converting the green field into a morass. with evening the clouds lifted, and a fulling moon glazed the puddles, and dimmed the glow-worm lamps. impulse is a capricious master. i did my best, for even when intuition fails my sex, there's obstinacy to fall back upon; but all that i had formerly achieved with ease had to be forced out of me that night with endless effort. the oracle was unwilling. when a genteel yet foxy looking man, with whiskers and a high stiff collar under his chin, sneakishly invited me to tell his fortune, and i replied that "prudent chickens roost high," the thrust was a little too deft. my audience was amused, but nobody laughed. he seemed to be well known, and the green look he cast me proved that the truth is not always palatable or discreet. unseduced by the lumps of sugar which i had pilfered for him, my peevish mount jibbed and bucked and all but flung the princess of andalusia into the sodden ring. he succeeded in giving a painful wrench to her wrist, which doubled the applause. a strange thing happened to me, too, that night. when for the second or third time the crowd was flocking in to view me, my eyes chanced to fall on a figure standing in the clouded light a little apart. he was dressed in a high-peaked hat and a long and seemingly brown cassock-like garment, with buttoned tunic and silver-buckled leather belt. spurs were on his boots, a light whip in his hand. aloof, his head a little bowed down, his face in profile, he stood there, framed in the opening, dusky, level-featured, deep-eyed--a stranger. what in me rushed as if on wings into his silent company? a passionate longing beyond words burned in me. i seemed to be carried away into a boundless wilderness--stunted trees, salt in the air, a low, enormous stretch of night sky, space; and this man, master of soul and solitude. he never heeded me; raised not an eyelid to glance into my tent. if he had, what then? i was a nothing. when next, after the press of people, i looked, he was gone; i saw him no more. yet the girlish remembrance remains, consoling this superannuated heart like a goblet of flowers in that secret chamber of the mind we call the imagination. the fall from that giddy moment into this practical world was abrupt. sulky, tired with the rain and the cumbersome cage and the showman's insults, on our arrival at monk's house adam was completely unnerved when he found our usual entry locked and bolted. he gibbered at me like a mountebank in the windy moonlight, his conical head blotting out half the cloud-wracked sky. these gallivantings were as much as his place was worth. he would wring the showman's neck. he had a nail in his shoe. he had been respectable all his life; and what was i going to do about it? a nice kettle of fish. oh, yes, he had had "a lick or two of the old lady's tongue" already, and he didn't want another. what's more, there was the mealy-mouthed marvell to reckon with. once free of the cage, i faced him and desired to know whether he would be happier if i wrote at once to mrs monnerie and absolved him there and then. "look at yourself in your own mind," i bade him. "what a sight is a coward!" and i fixed him with none too friendly an eye under the moon. his clumsiness in opening a window disturbed mrs french. she came to the head of the staircase and leaned over, while we crouched in a recess beneath. but while the beams of the candle she carried were too feeble to pierce the well of darkness between us, by twisting round my head i could see every movement and changing expression of the shape above me--the frilled, red-flannel dressing-gown, the shawl over her head, and her inflamed peering face surmounted with a "front" of hair in pins. she was talking to herself in peculiar guttural mutterings. but soon, either because she was too sleepy or too indolent to search further, she withdrew again; and adam and i were free to creep up the glooming shallow staircase into safety. last but not least, when i came to undress, i found that my grandfather's little watch was gone. in a fever i tumbled my clothes over again and again. then i sat down and in memory went over the events of the evening, and came at last to the thief. there was no doubt of him--a small-headed, puny man, who almost with tears in his eyes had besought me to give him one of my buttons to take home to his crippled little daughter. he had pressed close: my thoughts had been far away. i confess this loss unnerved me--a haggard face looked out of my glass. i scrambled into bed, and sought refuge as quickly as possible from these heart-burnings. after such depressing experiences adam's resolution was at an even lower ebb next morning. we met together under the sunny whispering pine-trees. i wheedled, argued, adjured him in vain. almost at my wits' end at last, i solemnly warned him that if we failed the showman the following evening, he would assuredly have the law against us. "a pretty pair we shall look, adam, standing up there in the dock--with the black cap and the wigs and the policemen and everything. and not a penny for our pains." he squinted at me in unfeigned alarm at this; the lump in his throat went up and down; and though possibly i had painted the picture in rather sombre colours, this settled the matter. i hope it taught adam to fight shy ever afterwards of adventuresses. it certainly taught _this_ adventuress that the mind may be "subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand." i cast a look of hatred after the weak, silly man as he disappeared between the trees. the circus, so the showman had warned me, was moving on that day to another market town, whippington--six miles or so from its present pitch, though not more than four miles further away from croomham. this would mean a long and wearisome trudge for us the next evening, as i found on consulting an immense map of kent. yet my heart sighed with delight at the discovery that, as the dove flies, we should be a full five miles nearer to beechwood. if this little church on the map was st peter's, and this faint shading the woody contour of the hill, why, then, that square dot was wanderslore. i sprawled over the outspread county with sublime content. my very "last appearance" was at hand; liberty but a few hollow hours away. it is true i had promised my showman to think over his invitation to me to "sign on" as a permanent member of his troupe of clowns, acrobats, wild beasts, and monstrosities. he had engaged in return to pay me in full, "with a bit over," at the close of the last performance. but i had merely laughed and nodded. not that i was in any true sense ashamed of what i had done. not _ashamed_. but you cannot swallow your pride and your niceness without any discomfort. i was conscious of a hardening of the skin, of a grimness stealing over my mouth, and of a tendency to stare at the world rather more boldly than modesty should. at least, so it seemed. in reality it may have been that life was merely scraping off the "cream." quite a wholesome experience. on the practical side, all was well. two pounds to adam, which i had promised to make three if he earned it, would leave me with thirteen or twelve pounds odd, apart from my clumsy "douceur." i thirsted for my wages. with that sum--two five-pound notes and say, four half-sovereigns--sewn up, if possible, in my petticoat, i should once more be my own mistress; and i asked no more for the moment. the future must take care of itself. on one thing i was utterly resolved--never, never to return to monk's house, or to no. --to that old squalid luxury, dissembling and humiliation. no: my monnerie days were over; even though it had taken a full pound of their servile honey to secrete this ounce of rebellious wax. how oddly chance events knit themselves together. that very morning i had received a belated and re-addressed letter which smote like sunbeams on my hopes and plans. it was from mrs bowater:-- "dear miss m.,--i send this line to say that i am still in the land of the living. i have buried my poor husband but have hopes some day of bringing him home. england is england when all's said and done, and i can't say i much approve of foreign parts. it's a fine town and not what you might call foreign to look at the buildings, but moist and flat and the streets like a draughtboard. and the thought of the cattle upsets me. everything topsy-turvy too with spring coming along and breaking out and we here on the brink of september. it has been an afflicting time though considering all things he made a peaceful end, with a smile on his face as you would hardly consider possible. "the next fortnight will see me on board the steamer again, which i can scarcely support the thought of, though, please god, i shall see it through. i have spent many days alone here and the strangeness of it all and the foreign faces bring up memories which are happier forgotten. but i'm often thinking what fine things you must be doing in that fine place. not as i think riches will buy everything in this world--and a mercy too--or that i'm not anxious at times you don't come to harm with that delicate frame and all. wrap up warm, miss, be watchful of your victuals and keep early hours. such being so, i'm still hoping when i come home, if i'm spared, you may be of a mind to come to beechwood hill again and maybe settle down. "i may say that i had my suspicions for some time that that young mr anon was consumptive in the lungs. but from what i gathered he isn't, only suffering from a stomach cough--bad cooking and exposing himself in all weathers. i will say nothing nearer. i shall be easier off as money goes, but you and me needn't think of that. fanny doesn't write much and which i didn't much expect. she is of an age now which must reap as it has sown, though even allowing for the accident of birth, as they say, a mother's a mother till the end of the chapter. i must now close. may the lord bless you, miss, wherever you may be. yours truly, "e. bowater (mrs)." surely this letter was a good omen. it cheered me, and yet it was disquieting, too. that afternoon i spent in the garden, wandering irresolutely up and down under the blue sky, and fretting at the impenetrable wall of time that separated me from the longed-for hour of freedom. on a sunny stone near a foresty bed of asparagus i sat down at last, tired, and a little dispirited. i was angry with myself for the last night's failure, and for a kind of weakness that had come over me. yet how different a creature was here to-day from that of only a week ago. from the darkened soil the stalks sprang up, stiffened and green with rain. a snail reared up her horns beneath my stone. an azure butterfly alighted on my knee, slowly fanning its turquoise wings, patterned with a delicate narrow black band on the one side, and spots of black and orange like a paisley shawl beneath. between silver-knobbed antennæ its furry perplexed face and shining eyes looked out at me, sharing my warmth. i watched it idly. how long we had been strangers. and surely the closer one looked at anything that was not of man's making.... my thoughts drifted away. i began day-dreaming again. and it seemed that life was a thing that had neither any plan nor any purpose; that i was sunk, as if in a bog, in ignorance of why or where or who i truly was. the days melted on, to be lost or remembered, the spring into summer, and then winter and death. what was the meaning of it all--this enormous ocean of time and space in which i was lost? never else than a stranger. that couldn't be true of the men and women who really keep the world's "pot boiling." all _i_ could pray for was to sit like this for a while, undisturbed and at peace with my own heart. peace--did i so much as know the meaning of the word? how dingy a patchwork i had made of everything. and how customary were becoming these little passing fits of repining and remorse. the one sole thing that comforted me--apart from my blue butterfly--was an echo in my head of those clapping hands, whoops and catcalls--and the white staring faces in the glare. and a few months ago this would have seemed an incredible degradation. there stole into memory that last evening at wanderslore. what would he think of me now? i had done worse than forget him, had learned in one single instant that for ever and ever, however dearly i liked and valued him and delighted in his company, i could not be "in love" with him. i hid my face in my hands. yet a curious quiet wish for his company sprang up in me. how stiff-necked and affected i had been. love was nothing but cheating. let me but confess, explain, ask forgiveness, unburden myself. those hollow temples, that jutting jaw, the way he stooped on his hands and coughed. my great-aunt, kitilda, had died in her youth of consumption. a sudden dread, like a skeleton out of the sky, stood up in my mind. there was no time to delay. to-morrow night, adam or no adam, i would set off to find him: all would be well. as if in response to my thought, a shadow stole over the stones beside me. i looked up and--aghast--saw fanny. chapter forty-eight her head was turned away from me, a striped parasol leaned over her shoulder. with a faintly defiant tilt of her beautiful head, as if exclaiming, "see, strangeness, i come!" she stepped firmly on over the turf. a breath of some delicate indoor perfume was wafted across to my nostrils. i clung to my stone, watching her. simply because it seemed a meanness to play the spy on her in her solitude, i called her name. but her start of surprise was mere feigning. the silk of her parasol encircled her shoulders like an immense nimbus. her eyes dwelt on me, as if gathering up the strands of an unpleasing memory. "ah, midgetina," she called softly, "it is you, is it, on your little stone? are you better?" the very voice seemed conscious of its own cadences. "what a delicious old garden. the contrast!" the contrast. with a cold gathering apprehension at my heart i glanced around me. why was it that of all people only fanny could so shrink me up like this into my body? and there floated back to remembrance the vast, dazzling room, the flower-clotted table, and, in that hideous vertigo, a face frenzied with disgust and rage, a hand flung out to cast me off. but i entered her trap none the less. "contrast, fanny?" "no, _no_, now, my dear! not quite so disingenuous as all that, _please_. you can't have quite forgotten the last time we met." "there was nothing in that, fanny. only that the midge was drunk. you should see the wasps over there in the nectarines." "only?" she echoed lightly, raising her eyebrows. "i am not sure that every one would put it quite like that. you couldn't see yourself, you see. they call you little miss cassandra now. woe! woe! you know. mrs monnerie asked me if i thought you were--you know--'all there,' as they say." "i don't care what they say." "if i weren't an old friend," she returned with crooked lip, "you might be made to care. i have brought the money you were kind enough to lend me; i'll give it you when i have unpacked--to-morrow night." my body sank into a stillness that might well have betrayed its mind's confusion to a close observer. _had_ she lingered satirically, meaningly, on those two last words? "i don't want the money, fanny: aren't you generous enough to accept a gift?" "well," said she, "it needs a good deal of generosity sometimes. surely, a gift depends upon the spirit in which it is given. that last little message, now--was that, shall we say, an acceptable gift?" her tones lost their silkiness. "see here, midgetina," she went on harshly, "you and i are going to talk all this out. but i'm thirsty. i hate this spawning sun. where are the nectarines?" much against my will i turned my back on her, and led her off to the beehives. "one for you," she said, stooping forward, balancing the sheeny toe of her shoe on the brown mould, "and the rest for me. catch!" she dropped a wasp-bitten, pulpy fruit into my hands. "now then. it's shadier here. no eavesdroppers. just you and me and god. _please_ sit down?" there was no choice. down i sat; and she on a low wooden seat opposite me in the shade, her folded parasol beside her, the leaf-hung wall behind. she bit daintily into the juicy nectarine poised between finger and thumb, and watched me with a peculiar fixed smile, as if of admiration, on her pale face. "tell me, pretty binbin," she began again, "what is the name of that spiked red and blue and violet thing behind your back? it colours the edges of your delicate china cheeks. most becoming!" it was viper's bugloss--a stray, i told her, shifting my head uneasily beneath her scrutiny. "ah, yes, _viper's_ bugloss. personally i prefer the common variety. though no doubt that may stray, too. but fie, fie! you naughty thing," she sprang up and plucked another nectarine, "you have been blacking your eyebrows. i shouldn't have dreamt it of you. what would mother say?" "listen, fanny," i said, pronouncing the words as best i could with a tongue that seemed to be sticking to the roof of my mouth; "i am tired of the garden. what do you really want to say to me? i don't much care for your--your fun." "and i just beginning to enjoy it! there's contrariness!--to _say_? well, now, a good deal, my dear. i thought of writing. but it's better--safer to talk. the first thing is this. while you have been malingering down here i have had to face the whole monnerie orchestra. it hasn't been playing quite in tune; and you know why. that lovesick susan, now, and her nice young man. but since you seem to be quite yourself again--more of yourself than ever, in fact: listen." i gazed, almost hypnotized, through the sunshine into her shady face. "what i am going to suggest," she went on smoothly, "concerns only you and me. if you and i are to go on living in the same house--which heaven forbid--i give you fair warning that we shall have nothing more to do with one another than is absolutely inevitable. i am not so forgiving as i ought to be, midgetina, and insults rankle. treachery, still more." the low voice trembled. "oh, yes, you may roll your innocent little eyes and look as harmless as a chinese god, but answer me this: am _i_ a hypocrite? am i? and while you are thinking it over, hadn't you better tumble that absurd little pumpkin off your knee? it's staining your charming frock." "i never said you were a hypocrite," i choked. "no?" the light gleamed on the whites of her eyes as they roved to and fro. "then i say, _you_ are. fair to face, false to back. who first trapped me out star-gazing in the small hours, then played informer? who wheedled her way on with her mincing humbug--poof! _naïveté!_--and set my own mother against me? who told some one--_you_ know who--that i was not to be trusted, and far better cast-off? who stuffed that lackadaisical idiot of a sukie monnerie with all _those_ old horrors? who warned that miserable little piece of deformity that i might come--borrowing? who hoped to betray me by sending an envelope through the post packed with mousey bits of paper? who made me a guy, a laughing-stock and poisoned---- oh, it's a long score, miss m. when i think of it all, what i've endured--well, honestly when a wasp crawls out of my jam, i remind myself that it's stinged." the light smouldering eyes held me fast. "you mean, i suppose, fanny, that you'd just kill it," i mumbled, looking up into her distorted face. "i don't think i should much mind even that. but it's no use. it would take hours to answer your questions. you have only put them your own way. they may sound true. but in your heart you know they are false. why should you bother to hurt me? you know--you know how idiotically i loved you." "_loved me, false, kill_," echoed fanny scornfully, with a leer which transformed her beauty into a mere vulgar grimace. "is there any end to the deceits of the little gaby? do you really suppose that to be loved is a new experience for me; that i'm not smeared with it wherever i go; that i care a snap of my fingers whether i'm loved or not; that i couldn't win through without that? is that what you suppose? well, then, here's one more secret. open your ears. i am going to marry percy maudlen. yes, _that_ weed of a creature. you may remember my little prophecy when he brought his aunt alice's manikin some lollipops. well, the grace of god is too leisurely, and since you and i are both, i suppose, of the same sex, i tell you i care no more for him than that----" she flung the nectarine stone at the beehive. "and i _defy_ you, defy you to utter a word. i am glad i was born what i am. all your pretty little triumphs, first to last, what are they?--accidents and insults. isn't half the world kicking down the faces of those beneath them on the ladder? _i_ have had to fight for a place. and i tell you this: i am going to teach these supercilious money-smelling ladies a lesson. i am going to climb till i can sneer down on _them_. and mrs monnerie is going to help me. she doesn't care a jot for god or man. but she enjoys intelligence, and loves a fighter. is that candour? is it now?" "i detest percy maudlen," i replied faintly. "and as for sneering, that only makes another wall. oh, fanny, do listen to yourself, to what you are. i swear i'm not the sneak you think me. i'd help you, if i could, to my last breath. indeed, i would. yes, and soon i _can_." "thank you: and i'd rather suffocate than accept your help--now. listen to myself, indeed! that's just the pious hypocrite all over. well, declarations of love you know quite enough about for your--for your age. now you shall hear one of a different kind. i tell you, midgetina, i hate you: i can't endure the sight or sound or creep or thought of you any longer. why? because of your unspeakable masquerade. you play the pygmy; pygmy you are: carried about, cosseted, smirked at, fattened on nightingales' tongues--the last, though, you'll ever eat. but where have you come from? what are you in your past--in your mind? i ask you that: a thing more everywhere, more thief-like, more detestable than a conscience. look at me, as we sit here now. _i_ am the monstrosity. you see it, you think it, you hate even to touch me. from first moment to last you have secretly despised me--me! i'm not accusing you. you weren't your own maker. as often as not you don't know what you are saying. you are just an automaton. but these last nights i have lain awake and thought of it all. it came on me as if my life had been nothing but a filthy, aimless nightmare; and chiefly because of you. i've worked, i've thought, i've contrived and forced my way. oh, that house, the wranglings, the sermons. did i make myself what i am, ask to be born? no, it's all a devilish plot. and i say this, that while things are as they are, and this life is life, and this world _my_ world, i refuse to be watched and taunted and goaded and defamed." her face stooped closer, fascinating, chilling me like a cold cloud with its bright, hunted, malevolent stare. she stretched out a hand and wrung my shoulder. "listen, i say. come out of that trance! i loathe you, you holy imp. you haunt me!" my eyes shut. i sat shivering, empty of self, listening, as if lost in a fog in a place desperately strange to me; and only a distant sea breaking and chafing on its stones far below. then once more i became conscious of the steady and resolute droning of the bees; felt the breathing of actuality on my hair, on my cheek. my eyes opened on a garden sucked dry of colour and reality, and sought her out. she had left me, was standing a few paces distant now, looking back, as if dazed, her lips pale, her eyes dark-ringed. "perhaps you didn't quite hear all that, midgetina. you led me on. you force things out of me till i am sick. but some day, when you are as desperate as i have been, it will come back to you. then you'll know what it is to be human. but there can't be any misunderstanding left now, can there?" i shook my head. "no, fanny. i shall know you hate me." "and i am free?" what could she mean? i nodded. she turned, pushed up her parasol. "what a talk! but better done with." "yes, fanny," said i obediently. "much better done with." she gave me an odd glance out of the corner of her eye. "the queer thing is," she went on, "what i wanted to say was something quite, quite different. to give you a friendly word of warning, entirely on your own account.... you have a rival, midgetina." the words glided away into silence. the doves crooned on the housetop. the sky was empty above the distant hills. i did not stir, and am thankful i had the cowardice to ask no questions. "her name is angélique. she lives in a castle in spain"; sighed the calm, silky voice, with the odd break or rasp in it i knew so well. "oh, i agree a circus-rider is nothing better than a mongrel, a pariah, worse probably. yet this one has her little advantages. as midgets go, she beats you by at least four inches, and rides, sings, dances, tells fortunes. quite a little woman of the world. the only really troublesome thing about it is that she makes you jiltable, my dear. they are so very seductive, these flounced up, painted things. _no_ principle! and, oh, my dear; all this just as dear mrs monnerie has set her heart on finding her queen bee a nice little adequate drone for a husband!" it was her last taunt. it was over. i had heard the worst. the arrow i had been waiting for had sprung true to its mark. its barb was sticking there in my side. and yet, as i mutely looked up at her, i knew there was a word between us which neither could utter. the empty air had swallowed up the sound of our voices. its enormous looking-glass remained placid and indifferent. it was as if all that we had said, or, for that matter, suffered, was of no account, simply because we were not alone. for the first instant in the intimacy of my love and hatred, fanny seemed to be just any young woman standing there, spiteful, meaningless. the virtue had gone out of her. she made up her mouth, glanced uneasily over her shoulder and turned away. we were never again to be alone together, except in remembrance. i sat on in the garden till the last thin ray of sunlight was gone. then, in dread that my enemy might be looking down from the windows of the house, i slipped and shuffled from bush to bush in the dusk, and so at last made my way into the house, and climbed the dark polished staircase. as, stealthily, i passed a bedroom door ajar, my look pierced through the crevice. it was a long, stretching, shallow room, and at the end of it, in the crystal quiet, stood fanny, her arms laid on the chimney-piece, her shoulder blades sticking out of her muslin gown, her face hidden in her hands. why did i not venture in to speak to her? i had never seen a figure so desolate and forsaken. could things ever be so far gone as to say no to that? i hesitated; turned away: she would think i had come only to beg for mercy. for hours i sat dully brooding. what a trap i was in. in my rummagings in the monnerie library i had once chanced on a few yellow cardboard-covered novels tucked away in a cupboard, and had paddled in one or two of them. now i realized that my life also was nothing but "a shocker." so people actually suffered and endured the horrible things written about in cheap, common books. one by one i faced fanny's charges in my mind. none was true, yet none was wholly false. and none was of any consequence beside the fact that she execrated the very self in me of which i could not be conscious. and what would she do? what did all those covert threats and insinuations mean? a "husband"--why had that such a dreadful power to wound me? i heard my teeth begin to chatter again. there was no defence, no refuge anywhere. if i could get no quiet, i should go mad. i looked up from my stool. it was dark. it was a scene made for me. i could watch the miserable little occupant of its stage roving to and fro like one of my showman's cowed, mangy beasts. the thought of the day still ahead of me, through which i must somehow press on, keep alive, half stupefied me with dread. we can shut our eyes and our mouths and our hearts; why cannot we stop thinking? the awful passive order of life: its mechanicalness. all that i could see was the blank white face of its clock--but no more of the wheels than of the winder. no haste, no intervention, no stretching-out beyond one's finger tips. so the world wore away; life decayed; the dunghill smoked. mrs monnerie there; stepping into her brougham, ebony cane in hand, marvell at her elbow; mrs bowater languishing on board ship, limp head in stiff frilling; sir walter dumb; the showman cursing his wretched men; the bills being posted, the implacable future mutely yawning, the past unutterable. everything in its orbit. was there no help, no refuge? the door opened and the skimpy little country girl who waited on me in fleming's absence, brought in my supper. she bobbed me a scared curtsey, and withdrew. then she, too, had been poisoned against me. i flung myself down on the floor, crushing my hands against my ears. yet, through all this dazed helplessness, in one resolve i never faltered. i would keep my word to the showman, and this night that was now in my room should be the last i would spend alive in monk's house. fanny must do her worst. thoughts of her, of my unhappy love and of her cruelty, could bring no good. yet i thought of her no less. her very presence in the house lurked in the air, in the silence, like an apparition's. still stretched on the floor, i woke to find the september constellations faintly silvering the pale blue crystal of the northern lights; and the earth sighing as if for refuge from the rising moon. my fears and troubles had fallen to rest beneath my dreams, and i prepared myself for the morrow's flight. chapter forty-nine when next fanny and i met, it was in the cool grey-green summery drawing-room at monk's house, and mrs monnerie and susan shared tea with us. one covert glance at mrs monnerie's face had reassured me. that strange mask was as vigilant and secretive, but as serene, as when it had first smiled on me in the mauves and gildings of brunswick house. she had set her world right again and was at peace with mankind. as complacently as ever she stretched me out her finger. she had not even taken the trouble to forgive me for my little "scene"; had let it perish of its own insignificance. oh, i thought, if i could be as life-size as that! i did not learn till many days afterwards, however, that she had had news of me from france. _good_ news, which sir w., trusting in my patience and commonsense, had kept back from me until he could deliver it in person and we could enjoy it together. only one topic of conversation was ours that afternoon--that "amazing prodigy of nature," the spanish princess; mrs monnerie's one regret that she herself had not discovered a star of such ineffably minute magnitude. yet her teasing and sarcasm were so nimble and good-humoured; she insinuated so pleasantly her little drolleries and innuendoes; that even if miss m. had had true cause for envy and malice, she could have taken no offence. far from it. i looked out of the long open windows at the dipping, flittering wagtails on the lawn; shrugged my shoulders; made little mouths at her with every appearance of wounded vanity. did she really think, i inquired earnestly, that that shameless creature was as lovely as the showman's bills made her out to be? mightn't it all be a cheat, a trick? didn't they always exaggerate--just to make money? the more jovially she enjoyed my discomfiture, nodding her head, swaying in her chair, the more i enjoyed my duplicity. the real danger was that i should be a little too clever, over-act my part, and arouse her suspicions. "ah, you little know, you little know," i muttered to myself, sharply conscious the while of the still, threatening presence of fanny. but she meant to let me go--that was enough. it was to be good riddance to bad rubbish. there was nothing to fear from her--yet. her eyes lightly dwelling on me over her chelsea teacup, she sat drinking us in. well, she should never taunt me with not having played up to her conception of me. "well, well," mrs monnerie concluded, "all it means, my dear, is that you are not quite such a rarity as we supposed. who is? there's nothing unique in this old world; though character, even bad character, never fails to make its mark. ask mr pellew." "but, surely, mrs monnerie," said i, "it isn't character to sell yourself at twopence a look." "mere scruples, poppet," she retorted. "think of it. if only you could have pocketed that pretty little fastidiousness of yours, the newspapers would now be ringing with your fame. and the fortune! you are too pernickety. aren't we all of us on show? and aren't nine out of ten of us striving to be more on show than we are entitled to be? if man's first disobedience and the rest of it doesn't mean that, then what, i ask you, mademoiselle _bas bleu_, was the sour old puritan so concerned about? assist me, susan, if i stumble." "i wish i could, aunt alice," said susan sweetly, cutting the cake. "you must ask miss bowater." "_please_, miss monnerie," drawled fanny. "whether or not," said mrs monnerie crisply, "i beseech you, children, don't quarrel about it. there is our beloved sovereign on her throne; and there the last innocent little victim in its cradle; and there's the old sun waggishly illuminating the whole creaking stage. blind beggar and dog, toby, artists, authors, parsons, statesmen--heart and everything else, or everything else but heart, on sleeve--and all on show--every one of them--at _something_ a look. no, my dear, there's only one private life, the next: and, according to some accounts, that will be more public than ever. and so twirls the merry-go-round." her voice relapsed, as it were, into herself again, and she drew in her lips. she looked about her as if in faint surprise; and in returning to its usual expression, it seemed to me that her countenance had paused an instant in an exceedingly melancholy condition. perhaps she had caught the glint of sympathy in my eye. "but isn't that all choice, mrs monnerie?" i leaned forward to ask. "and aren't some people what one might call conspicuous, simply because they are really and truly, as it were, superior to other people? i don't mean better--just superior." "i _think_, mrs monnerie," murmured fanny deprecatingly, "she's referring to that '_ad infinitum_' jingle--about the fleas, you know. or was it dr watts, midgetina?" "never mind about dr watts," said mrs monnerie flatly. "the point from which we have strayed, my dear, is that even if you were not born great, you were born exquisite; and now here's this angélique rigmarole----" her face creased up into its old good-humoured facetiousness: "was it three inches, miss bowater?" "four, mrs monnerie," lipped fanny suavely. "four! pooh! still, that's what they say; half a head or more, my dear, more exquisite! perfect nonsense, of course. it's physically impossible. these radical newspapers! and the absinthe, too." her small black-brown eyes roamed round a little emptily. absinthe! was that a fanny story? "but there, my child," she added easily, "you shall see for yourself. we dine with the padgwick-steggals; and then go on together. so that's settled. it will be my first travelling circus since i was a child. most amusing: if the lion doesn't get out, and there's none of those horrible accidents on the trapeze one goes in hope to see. by the way, miss bowater, your letter was posted?" "oh, yes, mrs monnerie--this afternoon; but, as you know, i was a little doubtful about the address." she hastened to pass me a plate of button-sized ratafias; and mrs monnerie slowly turned a smiling but not quite ingenuous face aside. "what a curious experience the circus will be for you, midgetina," fanny was murmuring softly, glancing back over her shoulder towards the tea-table. "personally, i believe the signorina angélique and the rest of it is only one of those horrible twisted up prodigies with all the bones out of place. mightn't it, mrs monnerie, be a sort of shock, you know, for miss m.? she's still a little pale and peaky." "she shall come, i say, and see for herself," replied mrs monnerie petulantly. there was a pause. mrs monnerie gazed vacantly at the tiers of hot-house flowers that decorated the window-recess. susan sate with a little forked frown between her brows. she never seemed to derive the least enjoyment from this amiable, harmless midget-baiting. not at any rate one hundredth part as much as i did. fanny set plum begging for yet another ratafia. and then, after a long, deep breath, my skin all "gooseflesh," i looked straight across at my old friend. "i don't think, mrs monnerie," i said, "if you don't mind--i don't think i really _wish_ to go." as if joshua had spoken, the world stood still. mrs monnerie slowly turned her head. "another headache?" "no, i'm perfectly well, thank you. but, whatever i may have said, i don't approve of that poor creature showing herself for--for money. she is selling herself. it _must_ be because there's no other way out." finger and thumb outstretched above the cringing little dog, fanny was steadily watching me. with a jerk of my whole body i turned on her. "you agreed with me, fanny, didn't you, in the garden yesterday afternoon?" placidly drooped her lids: "trust, plum, trust!" "what!" croaked mrs monnerie, "you, miss bowater! guilty of that silly punctilio! she was merely humouring you, child. it will be a most valuable experience. you shall be perfectly protected. pride, eh? or is it jealousy? now what would you say if i promise to try and ransom the poor creature?--buy her out? pension her off? would _that_ be a nice charitable little thing to do? she might make you quite a pleasant companion." "ah, mrs monnerie, please let _me_ buy her out. let me be the intermediary!" i found myself, hands clasped in lap, yearningly stooping towards her, just like a passionate young lady in a novel. she replied ominously, knitting her thick, dark eyebrows. "and how's that to be done, pray, if you sulk here at home?" "i think, aunt alice, it's an excellent plan," cried susan, "much, much more considerate. she could write. think of all those horrible people! the poor thing may have been kidnapped, forced to do her silly tricks like one of those wretched, little barbered-up french poodles. anyhow, i don't suppose she's there--or anywhere else, for that matter--for _fun_!" even susan's sympathy had its sting. "thank you, susan," was mrs monnerie's acid retort. "_your_ delicate soul can always be counted on. but advice, my child, is much the more valuable when asked for." "of course i mustn't interfere, mrs monnerie," interposed fanny sweetly; "but wouldn't it perhaps be as well for you to see the poor thing first? she mayn't be quite--quite a proper kind of person, may she? at least that's what the newspapers seem to suggest. not, of course, that miss m. wouldn't soon teach her better manners." mrs monnerie's head wagged gently in time to her shoe. "h'm. there's something in that, miss worldly-wise. reports don't seem to flatter her. but still, i like my own way best. poppet must _come and see_. after all, she should be the better judge." never before had mrs monnerie so closely resembled a puffed-out tawny owl. i looked at her fixedly: shook my head. "no: no judge," i spluttered. "i'm sorry, mrs monnerie, but i _won't_ go." there was no misdoubting her anger now. the brows forked. the loose-skinned hands twitched. she lifted herself in her chair, "_won't_," she said. "you vex me, child. and pray don't wriggle at me in that hysterical fashion. you are beside yourself; trembling like a mouse. you have been mooning alone too much, i can see. run away and nurse that silly head, and at the same time thank heaven that you have more time and less need of the luxury than some one else we know of. it may be a low life, but it needs courage. i'll say _that_ for her." she swept her hands to her knees over her silken lap, and turned upon susan. wanderslore chapter fifty i had been dismissed. but mrs monnerie's anger had a curious potency. for a moment i could scarcely see out of my eyes, and the floor swayed under me as i scrambled down from my chair. it took me at least a minute, even with the help of a stool, to open the door. like a naughty child i had been put in the corner and then sent to bed. good. there could be no going back now. i could count on fanny--the one thing she asked was to be free of me. as for mrs monnerie, her flushed and sullen countenance convinced me that my respite would be undisturbed. there was only impulsive susan to think of. and as if in answer, there came a faint tap, and the door softly opened to admit her gentle head and shoulders. "ah, my dear," she whispered across at me. "i'm _so_ sorry; and so helpless. don't take it too hardly. i have been having my turn, too." i twisted round, wet face and hands, as i stood stooping over my washbowl on its stool, scrutinized her speechlessly, and shook a dizzy head. the door shut. dearest susan: as i think of her i seem to see one of those tiny, tiny "building rotifers" collecting out of reality its exquisite house. grace, courage, loving-kindness. if i had been the merest miss hop-o'-my-thumb, i should still have been the coarsest little monster by comparison. scarce three safe hours remained to me; i must be off at once. to go looking for adam was out of the question. even if i could find him, i dared not risk him. would it be possible for me to cover my six miles or more across undiscovered country in a hundred and eighty minutes? in my bowater days, perhaps; but there had been months of idle, fatted, indoor no. in between. a last forlorn dishonest project, banished already more than once from my mind, again thrust itself up--to creep off to the nearest post office and with one of my crown pieces for a telegram, cast myself on the generosity of mr anon. no, no: i couldn't cheat myself like that. i was ready. i pinned to the carpet a message for adam, in case he should dare to be faithful to me--just four scribbled uncompromising words: "the bird is flown." with eyes fixed on a starry knot of wood at the threshold, i stood for a while, with head bent, listening at my door. i might have been pausing between two worlds. the house was quiet. no voice cried "stay." i bowed solemnly to the gentle, silent room behind me, and, with a prayer between my teeth, bundle in hand, stepped out into the future. unchallenged, unobserved, i slipped along the blue-carpeted corridor, down the wide stairs and out of the porch. after dodging from tree to tree, from shrub to shrub, along the meandering drive, i turned off, and, skirting the lodge through a seeding forest of weeds and grasses, squeezed through the railings and was in the lane. from my map of kent i had traced out a rough little sketch of the route i must follow. with the sun on my left hand i set off almost due north. how still the world was. in that silk-blue sky with its placid, mountainous clouds there was no heed of human doings. the shoes i had chosen were good sound bowaters, and as i trudged on my spirits rose high. i breathed in deep draughts of the sweet september air. thomasina of bedlam had been "summoned to tourney." "the wide world's end.... no journey!" in sober fact, it was a sorry little wretch of a young female, scarcely more than a girl, that went panting along in the dust and stones, scrambling into cover of ditch and hedge at every sound or sight of life. i look at her now, and smile. poor thing; it needed at any rate a pinch of "courage." cottages came into sight. at an open door i heard the clatter of crockery, and a woman scolding a child. two gates beyond, motionless as a block of wood, an old, old man stood leaning out of his garden of dahlias and tarnishing golden-rod. in an instant in the dumb dust i was under his nose. his clay pipe shattered on the stone. like a wagtail i flitted and scampered all in a breath. that little danger was safely over; but it was not ruminating old gentlemen who caused me apprehension. youthful adam waggetts were my dread. at the foot of the slope there came a stile, and a footpath winding off nw. but still curving in my direction. i hesitated. any risk seemed better than the hedged-in publicity of this dusty lane. ducking under the stile, i climbed the hill and presently found myself clambering across an immense hummocky field, part stubble, part fresh plough. then a meadow and cows. then once more downhill, a drowsy farm-yard, with its stacks and calves and chickens, to the left, and at bottom of the slope a filthy quagmire where an immense sow wallowed, giving suck to her squalling piglets. her glinting, amorous eyes took me in. stone on to stone, i skipped across a brook, dowsing one leg to the thigh in its bubbling water. it was balm in gilead, for i was in a perfect fume of heat, and my lungs were panting like bellows. i sat down for a breathing space on the sunset side of a haystack. in the shade of the hazels, on the verge of the green descending field, rabbits were feeding and playing. and i began to think. supposing i did reach the new pitch in time: the wreck i should be. then mrs monnerie--and fanny: my thoughts skimmed hastily on. what then? as soon as my showman had paid me i must creep away by myself out of sight _at once_; that was certain. i must tell him that adam was waiting for me. and then? well, after a few hours' rest in some shed or under a haystack, somehow or other i should have to find out the way, and press on to wanderslore. there'd be a full moon. that would be a comfort. i knew the night. once safely there, with money in my pocket, i could with a perfectly free conscience ask mr anon to find me a lodging, perhaps not very far from his own. a laughable situation. but we would be the best of friends; now that all that--that nonsense was over. a deep sigh, drawn, as it were, from the depths of my bowels, rose up and subsided. what a strange thing that one must fall in love, couldn't jump into it. and then? well, mrs bowater would soon be home, and perhaps sir walter had circumvented the harrises. suppose not. well, even at the very worst, at say ten, say even fifteen shillings a week, my thirteen pounds would last me for months and months.... say _four_. and as i said "four," a gate clacked-to not many yards distant and a slow footfall sounded. fortunately for me, the path i had been following skirted the other side of my haystack. gathering myself close under the hay, i peeped out. a tall, spare man, in a low, peaked cap and leather leggings, came cautiously swinging along. his face was long, lean, severe. his eyes were fixed in a steady gaze as if he were a human automaton stalking on. and the black barrel of a gun sloped down from under his arm. i drew in closer. his footsteps passed; died away; the evening breeze blew chill. a few moments afterwards a shattering report came echoing on from wood to wood, seeming to knock on my very breastbone. this was no place for me. with one scared glance at the huddling wood, i took to my heels, nor paused until the path through the spinney became so rutted that i was compelled to pick my way. a cold gloom had closed in on my mind. i cursed clod-hopping shoes and bundle; envied the dead rabbit that had danced its airy dance and was done. as likely as not, i had already lost my way. and i plodded on along the stony paths, pausing only to quench my thirst with the rough juice of the blackberries that straggled at the wayside. i wonder if the "knight of furious fancies" was as volatile! but yet another shock was awaiting me. the footpath dipped, there came a hedge and another stile, and i scuffled down the bank into the very lane which i had left more than an hour ago. i knew that white house on the hill; had seen it with adam under the moon. it stood not much more than a mile from the lodge gates. my short cut had been a detour; and now the sun was down. i drew back and examined my scribble of map. there was no help for it. henceforward i must keep to the road. my thick shoes beat up the dust, one of my heels had blistered, my bundle grew heavier with every step. but fear had left me. some other master cracked his whip at me as i shambled on, as doggedly and devil-may-care as a tramp. i was stooping in the wayside ditch in one more attempt to ease my foot, when once again i heard hoofs approaching. with head pushed between the dusty tussocks, i stared along the flat, white road. a small and seemingly empty cart was bowling along in the dust. as it drew near, my ears began to sing, my heart stood still. i knew that battered cart, that rough-haired, thick-legged pony. suddenly i craned up in horror, for it seemed that the face peering low over the splashboard in my direction was that of a death's-head, grinning at me out of its gloom. then with a cry of joy i was up and out into the road. "hi, hi!" i screamed up at him. it was mr anon. the pony was reined back on to its haunches; the cart stood still. and my stranger and i were incredulously gazing at one another as if across eternity, as if all the world beside were a dream that asked no awakening. half dragged and half lifted into the cart, by what signs i could, for speech was impossible, i bade him turn back. it unmanned me to see the quiet and love in his face. without a word he wheeled the rearing pony round under the elm-boughs, and for many minutes we swung on together at an ungainly gallop, swaying from this side to that, the astonishment of every wayfarer we met or overtook on our way. at length he turned into a grass-track under a rusting hedge festooned with woodbine and feathery travellers' joy; and we smiled at one another as if in all history there had never been anything quite so strange as this. "you are ill," he said. "oh, my dear, what have they done to you?" i denied it emphatically, wiping my cheeks and forehead with the hem of my skirt--for my handkerchief was stuffed into my shoe. "look at me!" i smiled up at him, confident and happy. was my face lying about me? oh, i knew what a dreadful object i must be, but then, "i've been tramping for hours and hours in the dust; and why!--haven't you come to meet me; to give me a _lift_?" what foolish speeches makes a happy heart. indeed mr anon _had_ come to meet me, but not exactly there and then. he fetched out of his pocket the minute note that had summoned him. here it is, still faintly scented:-- "mrs monnerie sends her compliments, and would miss m.'s friend very kindly call at monk's house, croomham, at three o'clock on friday afternoon. mrs monnerie is anxious about miss m.'s health." oh, fanny, fanny! precisely how far she had taken mrs monnerie's name in vain in this letter i have never inquired. and now, i suppose, mrs percy maudlen would not trouble to tell me. but i can vow that in spite of the grime on my face the happiest smile shone through as i stuffed it into my bodice. so this was all that her harrowing "husband" had come to--a summoning of friend to friend. if every little malicious plot ended like this, what a paradise the world would be. all tiredness passed away, though perhaps it continued to effervesce in my head a little. it seemed that i had been climbing on and on; and now suddenly the mist had vanished, and mountain and snow lay spread out around me in eternal peace and solitude. if susan monnerie's was my first stranger's kiss, mr anon's were my quietest tears. his crazy cart seemed more magical than all the carpets of arabia. i poured out my story--though not quite to its dregs. "this very afternoon," i told him, "i was writing to you--in my mind. and you see, you have come." the shaggy pony tugged at the coarse grass. i could hear the trickling sands in the great hour glass, and chattered on in vain hope to hold them back. "you are not listening, only watching," i blamed him. his lips moved; he glanced away. yet i had already foreseen the conflict awaiting me. and all his arguments and entreaties that i should throw over the showman, and drive straight on with him into the gathering evening towards wanderslore, were in vain. "look," he said, as if for straw to break the camel's back, and drew out by its ribbon my bowater latchkey. "no," said i, "not even that. i sleep out to-night." and surely, surely i kept repeating, he must understand. how could i possibly be at rest with a broken promise? what cared i now for what was past and gone? think what a joy, what sheer fun it would be to face mrs monnerie for the last time, and she unaware of it! nothing, nothing could amuse her more when she hears of it. he should come and see; hear the crowd yell. he mustn't be so solemn about things. "do try and see the humour of it," i besought him. but the money--that little incentive--i kept to myself. he stared heavily into the silvery copse that bordered the track. motionless in their bright, withering leaves, its trees hung down their tasselled branches beneath the darkening sky. then, much against his will, he turned his pony towards the high road. the wheel gridded on a stone, he raised his whip. "hst!" i whispered, clutching at the arm that held the rein. crouching low, we watched the great monnerie carriage, with its stiff-necked, blinkered, stepping greys and gleaming lamps sweep by. "there," i laughed up at him, lifting myself, one hand upon his knee, "there but for the grace of god goes miss m." the queer creature frowned into my smiling face and flicked the pony with his whip. "and here," he muttered moodily, "who knows but by the grace of god go i?" anxiety gone now, and responsibility but a light thing, my tongue rattled on quite as noisily as the cart. kent's rich cornfields were around us, their stubble a pale washed-out gold in the last light of evening. here and there on the hills a row or two of ungarnered stooks stood solemnly carved out against the sky. most of the hop-gardens, too, had been dismantled, though a few we passed, with their slow-twirling dusky vistas and labyrinths, were still wreathed with bines. their scent drifted headily on the stillness. and as with eyes peeping over the edge of the cart i watched these beloved, homelike hills and fields and orchards glide by, i shrilled joyfully at my companion every thought and fancy that came into my head, many of them, no doubt, recent deposits from the library at no. . i told him, i remember, how tired i was of the pernicketiness of my life; and amused him with a description of my tank. "you would hardly believe it, but i have never once heard the least faint whisper of water in it, and if i had been a nice, simple savage, i dare say i should have prayed to it. instead of which, when one night i saw a star over the housetop i merely shrugged my shoulders. my mind was so rancid i hated it. i was so shut in; that's what it was." he stroked the little, thick-coated horse with the lash of his whip, and smiled round at me. on i went. shouldn't life be a high road, didn't he think; surely not a hot, silly zigzag of short cuts leading back to the place you started from, and you too old or stupid, perhaps, to begin again? didn't he hunger, too, to see the _great_ things of the world, the ruins of babylon, the wall of china, the himalayas, and the pyramids--at night--black; and sand? "my ghost!" said i, had he ever thought of the enormous solitudes of the sahara, or those remote places where gigantic images stare blindly through the centuries at the stars--their builders just a pinch of dust? some day, i promised him out of the abandonment of my heart, we would sail away, he and i, to his pygmy land. surf and snow and singing sand-dunes, and fruits on the trees and birds in the air: we would live--"oh, happy as all this!" (and i swept my hands across hill and dale), "ever, ever afterwards. as they do, mr anon, in those absurd, incredible fairy-tales, you know." he smiled again, cast a look into the distance, touched my hand. perhaps he was wishing the while that that piercing, pining voice of mine would keep silence, so that my presence might not disturb his own brooding thoughts. i could only guess at pleasing him. yet i felt, still feel, that he was glad of my company and never for a moment sorry we had met. chapter fifty-one but our brief hour was drawing to an end. we were now passing little groups of country people and children in the quiet evening. we ourselves talked no more. the old pony plodded up yet another hill; we went clattering down its deep descent; and there, in the green bowl of a meadow sloping down from its woody fringes above, lay scattered the bellying booths, the gaudy wagons and cages of the circus. all but hidden in the trees above them, a crooked, tarnished weather-cock glinted in the sunset afterglow. lights twinkled against the dying daylight. the bright-painted merry-go-round with its staring, motionless, galloping horses was bathed in the shine of its flares, a thin plume of steam softly ascending from its brass-rimmed funnel. a knot of country boys, gabbling at one another like starlings, shrilled a cheer as we came rattling over a stone bridge beneath which a stream shallowly washed its bank of osiers. i laughed at them, waved my hand. at this they yelled, danced in the road, threw dust into the air. not, perhaps, a very friendly return; but how happy i was, all anxiety and responsibility gone now. the faint, rank smell of the wild beasts mingling with the evening air, was instilling its intoxication in my brain. i longed for darkness, the din and glare; longed for my tent and the gaping faces, for the smoky wind to fan my cheek as i bobbed cantering round the ring. it must have been a ridiculously childish face that ever and again scrutinized my companion's. nothing for me in _that_ looking-glass! how slow a face his was; he was refusing to look at me. it dismayed and fretted me to find him so sombre and dour. his glance shifted to and fro under a frown that expressed a restless anxiety. his silence seemed to reproach me. oh, well, when the day was over, and mademoiselle's finery packed up in its bundle again, and the paint washed off, and the last echo of applause from the crowded benches had died away, and my pay was safe in my pocket, then he would know that the stake i had played for had been my freedom, my very self. then surely his heart would lighten, and he would praise me, and we could go in peace. would he not realize, too, that even my small body had its value, and was admired in a dismal world that cared not a jot for the spirit that inhabited it? the showman stood by the tent, a gaudy silk scarf knotted round his neck. my lean-breasted gipsy woman spangled there beside him, with her black hair looped round her narrow bony head, and her loose, dusty, puckered boots showing beneath her skirts. there was a clear lustre in the lamp-starred air; and the spectacle of man and woman, of resting wheel and cropping horse, meadow and hill, poured a livelong blessing into my heart. even the cowed, enfeebled lion with the mange of age and captivity in his skin, seemed to drowse content, and the satin-skinned leopards--almost within pat of paw of the flaxen-haired girl in the white stockings who leaned idly against the wheel--paced their den as if in pride. it was the same old story: my heart could not contain it all. yet to whom tell its secrets? a roomier tent had been prepared for me. we were ushered into it by the showman with a mock obeisance that swelled the veins on his forehead almost to bursting. the gipsy's birdlike eyes pierced and darted from one to the other of us, her skinny hand concealing her mouth. i felt as light as a feather, and thankful that my mud-caked shoes and petticoats were hardly discernible as none too elegantly i scrambled down from the cart. the showman watched me with that sly, covetous grin about his mouth that i knew so well, though the stare with which he had greeted mr anon had been more insolent than friendly. i had cut the time rather close, he told me, but better late than never! as for that long-nosed rat with the cage, he hadn't been much smitten with the looks of him; and he was not the man to ask questions of a lady, not he. here i was, and he hoped i had come for good. a rough life but a merry. up with the lark until down under the daisies; and every man jack of them ready to kiss the ground i walked on. and the fat woman--just pining good money away she was, with longing to mother the little stranger! i nodded my head at him with a smile as worldly-wise as i could make it. "it's the last taste that counts, mr showman," i said politely. "every one has been exceedingly kind to me; and my love, please, to the fat woman. this is my friend, mr anon. he has come to take care of me. we shall go back--go on together." the showman broke into a laugh, but his face hardened again, as, grinding one jaw slowly on the other, he turned to mr anon. maybe "the young gentleman" was anxious to enjoy a taste of the life on his own account, he asked me. could he ride? a bit of steeplechasing? there was plenty of horseflesh--a double turn: beauty and the beast, now? or perhaps another spotted boy? love or money; just name the figure. treat him fair and square, and he wouldn't refuse a genuine offer; though, naturally, every inch made a difference, and a foot twelve times as much. and looks were looks. there was little enough to enjoy in the sound of all this. apparently the mere sight of mr anon had soured the showman. many of his words were greek to me, and to judge from the woman's yelps of laughter their meaning was none of the daintiest. i shrugged my shoulders, smiled, spread out my hands, and with a word or two fenced him off, pretending to be flattered. he looked at the woman as if to say, there's manners for you! she made a sudden, ferocious grimace. we were a singular four in the tent. but it would be false to profess that i hadn't a sneaking admiration for the man; and i kept glancing uneasily at the "young gentleman" who was so blackly ignoring his advances. to say the least of it, it was a little unintelligent of mr anon not to take things as they came, if only for my sake. "but you must please try and help me a little," i pleaded, when the showman and the gipsy had left us to ourselves for a moment. "it's only his fun. he's really not a bad sort of man underneath. you can't say there's a spirit of evil in that great hulking creature, now can you? i am not the least bit afraid of him." he glanced at me without turning his head. involuntarily i sighed. things never were so easy as one supposed or hoped they would be. already my fingers were busy at the knots of my bundle, and for a while, simply because what mr anon was saying was so monstrous and incredible, i continued to fumble at them without attempting to answer him. he was forbidding me to keep my word; forbidding me to show myself; just ordering me to come away. no, no; he must be crazy; i had never understood him. there must be some old worm in his mind. he was telling me in so many words that to lie a prey to the mob's curiosity had been a disgrace--soiling me for ever. the cruel stupidity of it! with head bent low and burning cheek i heard his harsh voice knell on and on--not persuading or conciliating, or pleading with me--i could have forgiven him that easily enough; but flatly commanding me to listen and obey. "for mercy's sake," i broke in hurriedly at last, "that's enough of that. if just sitting here and talking to one's fellow-creatures has smeared me over, as you say it has, why, i must wait till jordan to be clean. you should have seen that great wallowing sow this evening. _she_ wasn't ashamed of herself. can't you understand that i simply had to get free? you'd see it was for your sake, too, perhaps, if you had had the patience to listen. but there; never mind. i understand. you can't endure my company any longer. that's what it means. well, then, if that is so, there's no help for it. you must just go. and i must be alone again." but no: there was a difference, he stubbornly maintained. what was done, was done. he was not speaking of the past. i knew nothing about the world. it was my very innocence that had kept me safe; "and--well, the courage." my innocence! and the "courage" thrown in! but couldn't i, wouldn't i _see_? he argued. the need was over now; he was with me; there was nothing to be afraid of; he would protect me. "surely--oh, you know in your heart you couldn't have enjoyed all that!" "oh," said i poisonously, "so you don't think that to cheat the blackguard, as you call him, at the last moment--and please don't suppose i have forgotten what you have called other friends of mine--you don't think that to break every promise i have made wouldn't be wallowing worse than---- oh, thank you for the _wallowing_, i shall remember that." "but, my dear, my dear," he began, "i never--" "i say i am _not_ your dear," i broke in furiously. "one moment you dictate to me as if i were a child, and the next---- as if i hadn't been used to that pretence, that wheedling all my life long. as if i had ever been treated like an ordinary human being--coddled up, smuggled about, whispered at! why, a scullery maid's is paradise compared with the life _i've_ led. and as for the vile mob and the rest of it, i tell you i've enjoyed every minute of them. i _make_ them clap their great ugly hands: i _make_ them ashamed of themselves; they can't help themselves; they just---- and i've comforted some of them too. what's more, i tell you i love them. they are my own people; and i'd die for them if they would only forget what's between us and--and share it all. you be careful; maybe i shall stay here for good. _they_ don't wince at my company; _they_ don't come creeping and crawling. why! aren't we all on show? who set the world spinning? i tell you i hate that--that hypocrisy. what does it amount to, pray, but that you'd like the pretty, simpering doll all to yourself?" a hooting screech broke the quiet that followed. the merry-go-round had set to its evening's labours. faster and faster jangled the pipes and chiming:-- "i dreampt that i dwe-elt in mar-ar-ble halls, with vassals and serfs by my si-i-ide...." and at the sound, anger and pride died down in me. i lifted my face from the ground. "i'm sorry," i muttered. "but you don't know what i have gone through these last weeks. and even if i were a hundred times as ashamed of myself as you think i ought to be, i couldn't--i can't go back. i have promised. it's written down. only once more--this one night, and i swear it shall be the last." my mouth crooked itself into a smile. "you shall pray for me on the hill," i said, "then lead me off to a nunnery yourself." and still i could not whisper--money. the word stuck in my throat. he seemed not to have heard the miserable things i had been saying. without a syllable of retaliation, he came a little nearer, and stood over me. we were all but in darkness now, though lights were beating on the canvas of our tent. it was quite, quite simple, he said. the showman was no fool. he couldn't compel me to exhibit myself against my will. a contract was a contract, of course, but what if both parties to it agreed to break it? and supposing the showman refused to agree--what then? there was a far better plan, if only i would listen. as soon as he had been made to realize that nothing on earth could persuade me to show myself again, he would accept any alternative: "i'll take your place," smiled mr anon. take my place! so this was the plan he had been brooding over on our journey. no wonder he had been absent-minded. cold with dread i gazed at him in the obscurity of the tent. a glimpse of adam's rabbit face as he had stood brazening out his fears of the showman on that first night of adventure had darted through my mind. and this man--dwarfed, shrunken, emaciated. a terrifying compassion gushed up into my heart, breaking down barriers that i never knew were there. it was the instant in my life, i think, when i came nearest to being a mother. "s-sh," i implored him. "you don't understand. you can have no notion of what you are saying. i am a woman. they daren't harm me. but you! they--and besides," the craftier argument floated into my mind, "besides, mrs monnerie...." but the sentence remained unfinished. the flap of the tent had lifted. the figure of the showman loomed up in the entry against the lights and the darkening sky. he was in excellent humour. he rattled the money in his pocket and breathed the smell of whisky into the tent, peering into it as if he were uncertain whether it was occupied or not. "that's right, then," he began huskily, "that's as it should be. ten minutes, your ladyship! and maybe the young gentleman would give a hand with the drum outside, while you get through with the titivating." his shape was only vaguely discernible as he stood gently rocking there. it was mr anon who answered him. for a little while the showman seemed to be too much astounded to reply. then he lost control of himself. a torrent of imprecations spouted out of his mouth. he threatened to call in the police, the mob. he shook his brass-ringed whip in our faces. i had never seen a man of his kind really angry before. he looked like a beast, like the apollyon straddling the path in my _pilgrim's progress_. his roaring all but stunned me, swept over me, as if i were nothing--a leaf in the wind. i think i could have listened to him all but in mere curiosity--as to an equinoctial gale when one is safe in bed--if he had not been so near, and the tent so small and gloomy, and if mr anon had not been standing in silence within reach of his hands. but his fury spent itself at last. slowly his head turned on his heavy shoulders. he seemed suddenly to have forgotten his rage and became coaxing and conciliatory. he had a sounding, calf-like voice, and it rose up and down. an eavesdropper outside the tent would have supposed he was on the verge of tears. he was sure the young lady had no intention of cheating him, of "doing the dirty." why he'd as lief send off there and then to the great house for the flunkey and the cage. what had i to complain of? wasn't it private enough? should he make it a level bob-a-nob, and no thruppenies? there was nothing to be afraid of. "god bless you, sir, she wouldn't cheat an honest man, not she." people were swarming into the fair from miles around, and real gentry in their carriages amongst them, like as had never been seen before. did we want to ruin him? what should we think now, if we had paid down good money to come and see the neatest little piece of female shape as ever god almighty smuggled out of heaven; and in we went, and stuck up there was a gent.--"a nice-spoken, respectable gent," he agreed, with a contemptuous heave of his massive shoulders, "but a gent no less, and him gowked up on the table, there, why, half as big again, and mouthing, mouthing like a...?" the hideous words poured on. his great body gently rocked above me; his thumbs hooked-in under his armpits, his whip dangling. till that moment i had scarcely realized that the scene in which i sat was real, i had been so harassed and stupefied by his noise. but now he had begun to think of what he was saying. in those last words an unnameable insult lurked. he was looking at us, _seeing_ us, approaching us as if in a dream. a horror of the spirit came over me, and, as if rapt away from myself, i stared sheer up at him. "beware, my friend," i cried up at him. "have a care. i see a rope around your neck." it was the truth. in the gloom, actually with my own eyes, i saw a noose loosely dangling there over his round, heavy shoulders. so to this day i see my showman. his circus, i believe, continues to roam the english country-side, and by the mercy of heaven he will die in his bed, or, better still, in the bracken. but i suppose, like most of us, he was a slave to his own superstitions, or perhaps it was my very littleness, combined with the memory of some old story he had heard as a boy, that intimidated him. his mouth opened; his whip shook; the grin of a wild beast swept over his face. but he said no more. yet his, none the less, was half the victory. nothing on earth could now have dissuaded me from keeping my bargain. his words had bitterly frightened me. no one else should be "gowked" up there. i turned my back on him. he could go; i was ready. but if i could be obstinate, so too could mr anon. and when at last our argument was over, i in sheer weariness had agreed to a compromise. it was that i should show myself; and he take my place in the circus. the showman's money was safe; that was all _he_ cared about. if "humpty" liked to petticoat himself up like a doxy and take my "turn" in the ring--why, it was a rank smelling robbery, but let him--let him. he bawled for the woman, flung a last curse at us, and withdrew. we were alone--only the vacancy of the tent between us. beyond the narrow slit i could see the merry jostling crowds, hoydens and hobbledehoys, with their penny squirts and pasteboard noses and tin trumpets. a strange luminousness bathed their faces and clothes, beautifying them with light and shadow, carpeting with its soft radiance the rough grey-green grass. the harvest moon was brightening. i went near to him and touched his sleeve. his lips contracted, his shoulder drew in from my touch. "listen," i pleaded. "one hour--that is all. that evening in wanderslore--do you remember? all my troubles over. yes, i know. i have brought you to this. but then we can talk. then you shall forgive me." he stretched out his hand. a shuffling step, a light were approaching. i fled back, snatched up my bundle, and climbed up into the darkness behind my canvas curtain. the next moment gigantic shadows rushed furiously into hiding, the tent was swamped with the flaring of the naphtha-lamp which the gipsy-woman had come to hang to the tent-pole to light my last séance. a few hasty minutes, and, stealing out, i bade mr anon look. all angélique's fair hair had been tied into a bob and draped mantilla-fashion with a thick black veil. a black, coarse fringe torn from the head of a doll which i had found in the bottom of my trunk, dangled over her forehead. her eyebrows were angled up like a chinaman's. her cheeks were chalk-white, except for a dab of red on the bone, and she was dressed in a flounced gown, jet black and yellow, which i had cobbled up overnight and had padded out, bust, hips, and shoulders to nearly double my natural size. a spreading topaz brooch was on her breast, chains of beads and coral dangled to her waist, and a silk fan lay on her arm. i swept him a curtsey. "i dreamt that i dwe-elt in mar-arble halls," i piped out in a quavering falsetto. the folly of taking things so solemnly. what was humanity but a dressed-up ape? had not my fair saint, isobel de flores, painted her cheeks, and garlanded her hair? and all his answer was to clench his teeth. he turned away with a shudder. the drum reverberated, the panpipes squealed. i signed to him to hide himself in the recess among my discarded clothes, out of sight of peeping eyes, and arranged my person on the satin and rabbit-skins. the tent flap lifted and the mob pressed in. stretching out in a queue like a serpent, i caught a glimpse in the pale saffron moonlight of the crowd beyond. the sixpences danced in the tray. once more the flap descended; my audience stilled. i looked from one to the other, smiling, defiant. "why, bob said she was a pale, pinched-up snippet of a thing with golden hair," whispered a slip of a girl to a smooth little woman at her side. "ay, my goff! and a waist like a wedding-ring," responded a wide mouth in a large red face, peering over. "ah, lady," warbled the signorina, "fair to-day and foul to-morrow. 'believe what you are told,' clanked the bell in the churchyard. stuffing, my pretty; ask the goose!" so went the signorina's last little orgy. it would be a lie to profess that she, or rather some black hidden ghost in her, did not enjoy it. my monstrous disguise, that ferment of humanity, those owlish faces, the lurking shame, the danger, the poisonous excitement swept me clean out of myself. anything to be free for a while from "pernickety" miss m. but that, i suppose, is the experience of every gambler and wastrel and jezebel in the world, every one of his kind. one must not open the door too wide. but this was not all. on other nights i had been alone. now i was fervidly conscious of unseen, hungering eyes, watching every turn, and glance, and gesture. my dingy daïs was no longer in actuality. i lived in that one watcher's mind--in his imagination. and deep beneath this insane excitement lay a gentle, longing happiness. oh, when this vile tinsel show was over, and these swarming faces had melted into thin air, and the moonlit empty night was ours, what would i not pour out for his peace and comfort. what gratitude and tenderness for all that he had been to me, and done, and said. why, we seemed never even to have spoken to each other--not self to self, and there was all the world to tell. hotter, ranker grew the fetid atmosphere. i could scarcely breathe in my monstrous mummery. but clearly, the showman was making a rich bargain of me, and rumour of a midget that was golden as aphrodite one night, and black as pitch the next, only thickened the swarm. at length--long expected--there came a pause. yet another country urchin flat on his stomach in the grass, with head goggling up at me from the hem of the canvas, was dragged out, screeching and laughing, by his breeches. but i had caught the accents of a well-known voice, and, crouching, with head wrenched aside to listen, i heard the gipsy's whining reply. my moment had come. a pulse began its tattoo in my head. to remain helplessly lying there was impossible. i thrust myself on to my feet and, drawing back a pace or two, stood hunched up on the crimson spread of satin beside my wooden bolster. the canvas lifted, and one by one, the little party of "gentry" stooped and filed in. chapter fifty-two mrs monnerie had paid for elbow room. it was the last "private view" in this world we were to share together. the sight of her capacious figure with its great bonnet and the broad, dark face beneath, now suddenly become strange and hostile, filled me with a vague sense of desolation. yet i know she has forgiven me. had i not pocketed my "pretty little fastidiousness"? what fanny had planned to do if miss m., plain and simple, had occupied the signorina's table i cannot even guess. for the spectacle of the squat, black, gloating guy she actually found there, she was utterly unprepared. it seemed, as i looked at her, that myself had fainted--had withdrawn out of my body--like the spirit in sleep. or, maybe, not to be too nice about it, i merely "became" my disguise. with mind emptied of every thought, i sank into an almost lifeless stagnancy, and with a heavy settled stare out of my black and yellow, from under the coarse fringe that brushed my brows, i met her eyes. out of time and place, in a lightless, vacant solitude, we wrestled for mastery. at length the sneering, incredulous smile slowly faded from the pale, lovely face, leaving it twisted up as if after a nauseous draught of physic. her gaze faltered, and fell. her bosom rose; she coughed and turned away. "hideous! monstrous!" murmured mrs monnerie to the tall, expressionless figure that stood beside her. "the abject evil of the creature!" her dark, appraising glance travelled over me--feet, hands, body, lace-draped head. it swept across my eyes as if they were less significant than bits of china stuck in a cocoanut. "no, miss bowater," she turned massively round on her, "you were perfectly right, it seems. as usual--but a dangerous habit, my dear. my little ransoming scheme must wait a bit. just as well, perhaps, that our patient's dainty nerves should have been spared this particular little initiation----. could one have imagined it?" mr padgwick-steggall merely raised his eyebrows. "i shouldn't have cared to try," he drawled. and the lady beside him made a little mouth and laid her gloved hand on his arm. "but, madame is forgetting," whined the signorina in a broken nosy english over her outspread fan, "madame is forgetting. it's alive! oh, truly!" and i clasped my arms even tighter across my padded chest, my body involuntarily rocking to and fro, though not with amusement. "madame is forgetting nothing of the kind," retorted mrs monnerie heartily. "the princess is an angel--angélique--adorable." she turned to the gipsy woman and slipped a coin into the claw-like fingers. "well, good-night," she nodded at me. "we are perfectly satisfied." "la, la, madame," my stuttering voice called after her, the words leaping out from some old hiding-place in my mind. "_je vous remercie, madame. rien ne va plus.... noir gagne!_" her ebony stick shook beneath her hand. "unspeakable," she angrily ejaculated, stumping her way out. "a positive outrage against humanity." i shut my eyes, but the silent laughter that had once overtaken me in my bedroom at mrs bowater's scarcely sounded in my head. and mrs monnerie could more easily survive the little exchange than i. my body was dull and aching as if after a severe fall. the booth was filling for the last time. little life was left in the inert figure that faced this new assortment of her fellow-creatures: how strangely dissimilar one from another; how horrifyingly alike. a faint premonition bade me be on my guard. under the wavering flame of the lamp, my glance moved slowly on from face to face, eye on to eye; and behind every one a watcher whom now i dared not wait to challenge. empty or cynical, disgusted, malevolent, or blankly curious, they met me: none pitiful; none saddened or afflicted. on former nights---- why had they grown so hostile? this, then, was to smother in the bog. but one face there was known to me, and that known well. hoping, perhaps, to take me unaware, or may it have been to snatch a secret word with me; fanny had slipped back into the tent again, and was now steadily regarding me from behind the throng. a throng so densely packed together that the canvas walls bulged behind them, and the tent-pole bent beneath the strain. yet so much alone were she and i in that last infinite moment that we might have been whispering together after death. and this time, suddenly overwhelmed with self-loathing, it was i who turned away. when, stretching my cramped limbs, i drew back, exhausted and shivering, from the empty tent, i thought for an instant that the figure which sat crouching in the corner of the recess was asleep. but no: with head averted, sweat gleaming on his forehead, he rose to his feet. his consciousness had been my theatre in a degree past even my realization. "then, that is over," was all he said. "now it is my turn." the voice was flat and indifferent, but he could not conceal his disgust of what had passed, nor his dread of what was to come. why, i thought angrily once more as i looked at him, why did he exaggerate things like this? even a drowning man can sink three times, and still cheat the water. what cared i?--the night was nearly over. we should have won release. why consider it so deeply? but even while i pleaded with him to let me finish the wretched business--every savour of adventure and daring and romance gone from it now--i was conscious of the trussed-up monstrosity that confronted him. he could not endure even a glance at my painted face. i stepped back from him with a hidden grimace. past even praying for, then. so be it. i heard the nimble stepping of the pony's hoofs on the worn turf. a sullen malice smouldered in its reddish, luminous eyes. when i clutched at its bridle it jerked back its sensitive head as if teased with a gadfly. the gipsy daubed vermilion on my friend's sallow cheeks. she shook out the tarnished finery she had brought with her and hung it round the stooping shoulders. she plastered down his black hair above his eyes, and thrust a riding-whip into his hand. "there, my fine pretty gentleman," she smirked at him. "king of the carrots! i lay even your own mammie wouldn't know you now, not even if you tried it straddle-legs. tug at the knot, lovey; it's fast, but it won't strangle you. as for you, you----!" she suddenly flamed at me, "all very fly and cunning, but if i'd had the fixing of it, you wouldn't have diddled me: not you. i know _your_ shop. slick off double quick, i warn you, or you'll have the mob at your heels. now then, master!" she grasped at the bridle, slapped the tooth-bared sensitive muzzle with her hand. i drew back, cowed and speechless. the sour thought died in my mind--better, perhaps, if we had missed each other on the road. the pony jerked and snatched back its head. he was gone, and now i was quite alone. what was there to fear? only his contempt, his loathing of this last humiliation? but that, too, would soon be nothing but a memory. as always, the present would glide into the past. yet a dreadful foreboding daunted me. coarse canvas, walls and roof, table, beaten grass, my very hands and clothes had become menacing and unreal. the lamp hissed and bubbled as if at any moment it would burst asunder. alone, afraid, ashamed, in the foulness of the tent, i looked around me in the silence; and beyond, above--the universe of night and space. all my life but the feeble rustlings of a mouse in straw. as i stripped off my miserable gewgaws i discovered myself talking into my solitude; weeping, beseeching, though eyes were dry and tongue silent. i scoured away the chalk and paint: and cleansed as far as possible my travel-stained clothes. from my bit of looking-glass a scared and shining face looked out. "oh, my dear," i whispered, but not to its reflection, "it is as clean now and for ever as i can make it." i tied up my bundle. it was impossible to cheat away the moments any longer. i sat down and listened. a distant roar of welcome, like that of a wave breaking over a wreck, had been borne across as the band broke into its welcoming tune. i saw the ring, its tall, lank-cheeked "master" in his white shirt and coat-tails, the lights, the sidling, squalling clown, and the slim, exquisite creature with its ungainly rider ambling on and on. where sat fanny amidst that rabble? what were her thoughts? was mrs monnerie already yawning over the low, beggarly scene? a few minutes now. i began to count. a scream, human or animal, rose faint and awful in the distance, and died away. i climbed down the ladder and looked out of the tent. far-spread the fields and wooded hills lay, as if in a swoon beneath the blazing moonlight. the scattered lamps on the slope shone dim as glow-worms. only a few figures loitered in the gleam of the side-shows, and so engrossed and still sat the watching multitude beneath the enormous mushroom of the tent, so thinly floated out its strains of music, that the hollow clucking of the stream over its pebbles beneath the wan-stoned bridge was audible. a few isolated stars glittered faintly in the heights of the sky. what was happening now? why did he not hasten? i was ready: my life prepared. i could bear no more waiting. a whip cracked. the music ceased: silence. one moment now. again the whip cracked. and then, as if at a signal, a vast, protracted, unanimous bawl poured up into space, a spout of sound, like a gigantic, invisible flower. "that wasn't applause. but, you know, that wasn't applause," i heard myself muttering. there can be no mistaking the sound of human mockery. there can be no mistaking that brutal wrench at the heart, under one's very ribs. i leapt round where i stood, in a kind of giddiness. the shout died away. an indiscriminate clamour broke out--clapping of hands, beating of feet, whistling, hootings, booings, catcalls, and these all but drowned by cymbal, drum, trombone: "good-bye, sweetheart, good-bye." it was over. unlike mrs monnerie, the mob was imperfectly satisfied. but all was well. the elephant, massive, imperturbable--the sagacious elephant with the hurdy-gurdy, must now be swinging into the ring. i ran out over the trampled grass to meet the approaching group--showman, gipsy, trembling, sweating pony. its rider stooped forward on the saddle, clutching its pommel, as if afraid of falling. he pushed himself off, lurched unsteadily, lifted and let fall his arm in an attempt to stroke the milk-white snapping muzzle. the strings of his cloak were already broken. he edged from beneath it, and with his left hand clumsily brushed the dust and damp from his face. "he hadn't quite the knack of it," the showman was explaining. "stirrup a morsel too short, maybe. all the strength, lady, and the ginger, by god, but not the knack, you understand. and we offered him a quieter little animal too. but what i say is, a bargain's a bargain, that's what i say. a bit dazed-like, sir, eh? my, you did come a cropper." "sst! are you hurt?" i whispered. the head shook; his moon-washed face smiled at me. "come now, come _now_," i implored him, tugging at his arm, "before the crowd...." he recoiled as if my touch had scalded him. "we go----" i turned to the showman. hands thrust under his leathern belt, he looked fixedly at me, and then at the woman. her eyes glittered glassily back at him. "that's it. the young lady knows best. he's twisted his shoulder, lady; wrenched it; more weight than size, as you might say. she'll know where to make her friend comfortable. trust the ladies. never you be afraid of that. now, then, mary, fetch up the gentleman's cart." the woman, with one wolfish glance into his face, obeyed. "there, sir! is that easier? push the rags in there behind his back. it'll save the jolts. lord love you, i wouldn't split on the pair of you, not me. i know the old, old story. there, that's it! now, then, your ladyship. no more weight in the hand than a mushroom! all serene, mary. home sweet home; that's the tune, sir, ain't it? drive easy now: and off we go." chapter fifty-three noiselessly turned the wheels in the grass. we were descending the hill. a jolt, and we were in the road. a hedgerow shut us out from the two shrouded watchers by the tent. the braying music fainted away; and apart from the trotting hoofs and the grinding of the wheels in the dust, the only sound i heard was an occasional lofty crackle in space, as a rocket--our last greeting from the circus--stooping on its fiery course, strewed its coloured stars into the moonlight. then the rearing hill-side shut us out. speechlessly, from the floor of the cart, i watched the stooping figure above me. ever and again, at any sudden lurch against a stone, he shrank down, then slowly lifted himself, turned his head and smiled. "that's the tune, sir; that's the tune, sir." the words aimlessly repeated themselves in my brain, as if bringing me a message i could not grasp or understand. "what was i thinking about?" a voice kept asking me. a strange, sluggish look dwelt in the dilated pupils under the drooping lids when the moonbeams struck in on us from between the branches. his right hand hung loosely down. i clasped it--stone-cold. "listen, tell me," i entreated, "you fell? i heard them calling, and--and the clapping, what then?" i could speak no louder, but he seemed scarcely able to hear me. "my shoulder," he answered thickly, as if the words came sluggishly and were half-strange to him. "i fell.... nothing: nothing. only that i love you." the breath sighed itself away. i leaned my cheek against the unanswering hand, and chafed it with mine. where now? where now? "we must keep awake," i called beguilingly into the slumbrous face, after a long silence, as if to a child. "awake!" a sigh, as he smiled in answer, shook him from head to foot. "you are thirsty? what's this on your coat? look, there is a gate. i'll creep through and get help." i scrambled up, endeavouring in vain to clutch at the reins. but no; his head stirred its no; the left hand still held them fast. "only ... wait." _was_ it "wait"--that last faint word? it fell into my mind like a leaf into a torrent, and before i could be sure of it, the sound was gone. instinct, neither his nor mine, guided us on through the winding lanes, up hill and down, along the margin of sleeping wood and light-dappled stream, over a level crossing whose dew-rusted rails gleamed in the moon, then up once more, the retreating hill-side hollowly echoing to every clap of hoof against stone. there was no strength or will left in me, only thoughts which in the dark within, between waking and sleeping, seemed like hovering flies to veer and dart--fantasies, fragments of dream, rather than thoughts. i realized how sorely he was hurt, yet not then in my stupidity and horror--or is it that i refused to confess it to myself?--that his hurt was mortal. morning would come soon. i grasped tight the hand in mine. then help. in this monotony and weariness of mind and body, the passing trees seemed to dance and gesticulate before my eyes. a torturing drowsiness crept over me which in vain, thrusting up my eyelids with my fingers, beating my senseless feet on the floor of the cart, i tried to dispel. once, i remember, i rose and threw my cape over his shoulder. at last i must have slept. for the next thing i became conscious of was that the cart was at a standstill, and that the pony stood cropping the thyme-sweet turf by the wayside. i touched the cold dark hand. "hush, my dear, we are here!" but i expected no answer. the head was sunken between the heavy shoulders; the pallid features were set in an empty stare. there wasn't a sound in the whole world, far or near. "oh, but you haven't said a single word to me!" it was the only speech in my mind--a reproach. it died on my lips; i drew away. what was this?--a dreadful fear plucked at my sleeve, fear of the company i was in, of a solitude never so much as tasted before. i leapt out of the cart, stood up in the dust, and in the creeping light stared about me. every window of the creeper-hung cottage was shrouded, its gate latched. i struggled to climb the fence, to fling a stone through the casement. the moon shone glassily in the cold skies, but daybreak was in the east; i must wait till morning. with eyes fixed on the motionless head i sat down in the grass by the wayside. ever and again, after solemnly turning to survey me, the pony dragged the cart on a foot or two under the willows, nibbling the dewy grass. roused suddenly from stupor by the howling of a dog, i leapt up. who called? where was i? what had i forgotten? in renewed and dreadful recognition i looked vacantly around me. a strangeness had come. his company was mine no longer. dawn brightened. the voice of a thrush pealed out of the orchard beyond the stone wall--wild and sweet as in spring. i crouched on the ground, elbows on knees, and now kept steady watch upon those night-hung upper windows. at last a curtain was drawn aside. an invisible face within must have looked down upon us in the lane. the casement was unlatched and thrust open, and a grey, tousled head pushed out as if in alarm into the keen morning. at sight of it a violent hiccoughing seized me, so that when an old woman appeared at her door and hobbled out to the cart, i could not make myself understood. her sleep-bleared, faded eyes surveyed me with horror and suspicion--as if in my smallness there i looked scarcely human. she shook her crooked fingers at me, to scare me off; then stooping, put her head into the cart. i cried out, and ran---- chapter fifty-four the sun had burned for some hours in the heavens, when bleeding with thorns and on fire with nettles and stinking mayweed, i dragged myself out of the undergrowth into a low-lying corner of the desolate garden. near by lay a pool of water under an old ruinous wall, swept by the foliage of an ash. on a flat, shelving stone at its brink i knelt down, bathed my face, and drank. all that day i spent in the neighbourhood of the water, overhung with the colourless trumpets of convolvulus. occasionally i edged on, but only to keep pace with the sunbeams, for i was deathly cold, and as soon as shadow drew over me, fits of shivering returned. for some hours i slept, but so shallowly that i heard my own voice gabbling in dreams. when i awoke, the western sky was an ocean of saffron and gold. amidst its haze, stood up the distant clustered chimneys of wanderslore: and i realized i must be in an outlying hollow of the park--farthest from beechwood hill. i sat up, bound back my hair, and, bathing my swollen feet in the dark, ice-cold water, i watched the splendour fade. while there was still light in the sky i set out for the cottage again, but soon found myself in such distress amongst the tangled weeds and grasses, which at every movement flung their stifling dust and seeds and pollen over me, that i was compelled to give up the attempt. with senseless tears dropping down my cheeks, i returned to the pool, and made my bed in the withered bracken. so passed the next days. when once more the cloudless heat of the sun had diminished, i made another attempt to press back by the way i had come, if only to look up at those windows again. but i was dazed and exhausted; lost my way; and, keeping watch until daybreak, i returned again to the pool. sitting there, i tried to control my misery and be calm. "wait, wait; i am coming," was my one inarticulate thought. surely that other solitude must be the easier to bear. but it was in vain. he was dead; and i had killed him--pride, vanity, greed, obstinacy, lovelessness. every flower and fading leaf bore witness against me. now and again i quenched my thirst and rambled off a little way in search of a few fallen hazel nuts and blackberries, and attempted to ease the pain and distress i was in. but i knew in my heart that a few such days must see the last of me, and i had no other desire. evening came with its faint stars. my mind at last seemed to empty itself of thought; and until dark fell, a self sat at the windows of my eyes gazing heedlessly out over that peace and beauty without consciousness even of grief and despair. nocturnal creatures began to stir in weed and thicket; a thin mist to rise. for a while i kept watch until sense left me, and i slept. a waning misshapen moon hung over the garden when i awoke, my mind still, clear, empty. so empty that i might but just have re-entered the world after the lapse of ages. in this silvery hush of night, winged shapes were wheeling around and above me, piercing the air with mad, strident cries. with sight strangely sharpened and powerful, i gazed tranquilly up, and supposed for a while these birds were swallows. idly i watched them, scarcely conscious whether they were real or creatures of the imagination. darting, swooping in the mild blaze of the moonlight, with gaping beaks and whirring wings, they swept, wavered, tumbled above their motionless pastures; ghostly-fluttering, feathery-plumed moths their prey. at last, a continuous churring, like the noise of a rattle, near at hand, betrayed them. i lay in my solitude in the midst of a whirling flock of nightjars, few in number, but beside themselves with joy, on the eve of their autumnal flight. i can only grope my way now through vague and baffling memories. maybe it was the frenzied excitement of these madly happy birds that shed itself into my defenceless mind, after rousing me into the night i knew too well. with full, vigilant eyes i am standing again a few paces from the brink of the pool, looking up into a moonlit bush of deadly nightshade, its noxious flowering over, and hung with its black, gleaming, cherry-like fruit. i cannot recall having ever given a thought to this poisonous plant in wanderslore during my waking hours, though in my old happy reconnoitrings of the garden i had sometimes chanced on the coral-red clusters of the woody nightshade--the bittersweet, and had afterwards seen it in blossom. it may be that only a part of my mind was fully awake, while the rest dreamed on. yet, as i strive to return in imagination to that solitary hour, i am certain that a complete realization was mine of the power distilled into those alluring light-glossed berries; and, slave of my drowsy senses, i fixed gaze and appetite on them as though, from childhood up, they had been my one greed and desire. even then, as if for proof that they were real, my eyes wandered; recognized, low in the west, glaring altair amid the faint outspread wings of aquila; pondered on the spark-like radiance struck out by the moonbeams from the fragments of tile that protruded here and there from the crumbling wall beyond the pool; and softly returned once more to the evil bush. then, for an instant, i fancied that out of the nearer shadows a half-seen form had stolen up close behind me, and was watching me. fancy or not, it caused me no fear. i turned about where i stood, and from this gentle eminence scanned the immense autumnal garden with its coursing night-birds and distant motionless woods. no; i was alone; by my self; conscious only of an unfathomable quiet; and i stooped and took up one of the ripe fruits that had fallen to the ground. "ah, ah!" called a far-away voice within me. "ah, ah! what are you at now?"--a voice like none i had ever heard in the world until that moment. yet i raised the fruit to my lips. its bitter juices jetted out upon cheek, mouth, and tongue, for ever staining me with their dye. their very rancour shocked my body wide awake. struck suddenly through with frightful cold and terror, i flung the vile thing down, and scoured my mouth with the draggled hem of my skirt. "oh god! oh god!" i cried; then turned, ran a few steps, tripped, turned back and cast myself down, crushing my eyes with my hands; and in helpless confusion began to pray. minutes, hours, passed--i know not. but at last, with throat parched and swollen, and hands and cheeks and scalp throbbing with an unnatural heat, i raised my eyes. two moons were in the sky, hideously revolving amid interwoven arcs of coloured light, and running backward and forward. i called out in the silence. a gigantic nightjar swirled on me, plucking at my hair. a maddening vertigo seized me. i went stumbling and staggering down to my stone and drenched head and breast in the flashing black and silver water. it was a momentary refreshment, and in its influence memory began droning of the past. confused abhorrent images mocked my helpless dreamings. there was a place--beyond--out of these shadows, unattainable. a piercing, vindictive voice was calling me. no hope now. i was damned. in senseless hallucination i began systematically, laboriously, a frenzied search. leaf, pebble, crawling night-creature--with slow, animal-like care, i turned them over one by one, seeking and seeking. lyndsey chapter fifty-five and last and yet again i pause--long after these last words were written--to look back across the intervening years at that young woman. what, indeed, was her insane mind seeking: what assurance, reconciliation? i know not, but there she herself was found, nails worn to the quick, feet shoeless, a hunted anatomy. her fret and fever were to pass away; but what has all this experience done for me?--that wildest, happiest, cruellest, dearest, blackest twelve-month of my life? one more unanswerable question. but, thank god, i live on; have even finished the task i set myself; and in spite of fits and moods of depression, distaste, and weariness, have been happy in it. even when most contemptuous and ashamed of myself, i have still found comfort in the belief that truth is a wholesome medicine, though in essence it be humanly unattainable. and my work has taught me this too--not to fret so foolishly as once i did, at being small and insignificant in body; to fear a great deal more remaining pygmy-minded, and pygmy-spirited. i used to try to set myself against the world--but no need to enter further into that. we _cannot_ see ourselves as others see us, but that is no excuse for not wearing spectacles; and even up here, in my peaceful lonely old stonecote, i must beware of a mind swept and garnished. moreover my hour must come again: and his. that being so, of this i am certain; that it will be impossible to free myself, to escape from this world, unless in peace and amity i can take every shred of it, every friend and every enemy, all that these eyes have seen, these senses discovered with me. i _know_ that. and perhaps for that very reason, in spite of the loving gratitude that overcomes me at the thought of what my existence might have been, i sometimes dread the ease and quiet and seclusion in which i live. and this tale itself? as mrs monnerie had said, what is it but once more to have drifted into being on show again--in a book? that is so; and so i must leave it, hoping against hope that one friend at any rate will consent in his love and wisdom to take me seriously, and to remember me, not with scorn or even with pity, but as if, life for life, we had shared the world on equal terms. m. mademoiselle blanche _a novel_ by john d. barry [illustration] new york stone and kimball mdcccxcvi copyright, , by stone and kimball mademoiselle blanche i "andré!" "yes, monsieur." the little waiter, with anxiety in his smooth, blond face, hurried to the table. "bring me the _soir_." andré shot away, and presently returned, paper in hand. "what is there good at the theatres, andré?" andré wiped his hands in his soiled apron, and looked thoughtful. "there's the _folies bergères_, monsieur. dumont sings to-night." "oh, she tires me. her voice is cracked." "there's madame judic at the _variétés_," andré suggested, tentatively. "i saw her in the last piece." andré scratched his head, and stared at the figure at the table. "monsieur likes the _cirque_, does he not?" monsieur did not look up from the paper. "what's at the _cirque_ now, andré?" "at the _cirque parisien_? there's mademoiselle blanche, the acrobat. they say she's a marvel, monsieur,--and beautiful,--the most beautiful woman in paris. she dives from the top of the building backwards--hundreds of feet." "so you think it's really good, andré?" andré nodded. monsieur dropped the paper, paid his bill, left a little fee for the _garçon_, and took himself off. at the entrance he stopped and surveyed the surging crowd in the _boulevard montmartre_. he had just finished an excellent dinner with a glass of _chartreuse verte_; so he felt particularly complacent. as he prodded his teeth with the easy grace of the frenchman who knows no shame of the toothpick, he tried to think out a plan for the evening. nothing better occurred to him than andré's suggestion. he was not in the mood for the _casino de paris_, nor for any of the other concert halls, nor even for the theatres. yes, he would go to the circus. he hadn't been there for ten days. for years jules le baron had attended the _cirque parisien_ at least once a fortnight; his friends used to chaff him for his fondness for it. those who had known him from a boy liked to remind him of his first great ambition--to be a performer on the trapeze. though this amused him now, he had never lost his love for feats of daring and skill. whenever he felt particularly tired from his work at the wool-house, he would go to the circus; it refreshed him, and he fancied that it made him sleep well afterwards. his first love had been a beautiful roumanian, who jumped through hoops of fire, landing on her velvet-caparisoned horse, without even singeing her long, blond hair. he was fifteen then, and he discovered that the lady was forty-five, though he could have sworn there was not a difference of more than three years in their ages. since that time he had become enamoured of many of the glittering amazons of the arena, who shot through the air, or through hoops, or out of the mouths of cannons, or crossed dizzy heights on the tight-rope, or juggled with long, villainous-looking knives falling in showers into their hands. those episodes, however, brightened jules le baron's life long before he was twenty-five. he had since had many similar experiences in the larger arena of the world. indeed, he gloried in his susceptibility; he used to give people to understand that, though fairly successful in business, he had a very keen appreciation of the sentiments, and of all the refinements of life. to a foreigner he would have expressed this complication by saying that he was parisian to his finger-tips. in america, where, at the age of twenty-six, he passed three wretched months, he had been appalled by the lack of sentiment among the people. of course, as he represented there the wool-house with which he had been connected since his sixteenth year, he met chiefly business men; but even these ought to have displayed an interest in something outside their commercial routine. it was those three months in america that gave jules le baron his zest for paris. of course, he had always loved it; but till he left it, his love had not become self-conscious. america taught him what he had only dimly known before, that for him paris was the only city in the world worth living in. he knew that people born away from paris liked other cities; secretly, however, this amused him. he believed that no one, after living in paris, could find any other place habitable. indeed, any places, any people, any customs foreign to paris seemed to him so droll that at the thought of some of them he often laughed aloud. america had given him things to laugh at for the rest of his life. of course, jules was proud of having visited america; it gave him a delightful feeling of superiority to his friends and acquaintances at home. he always felt pleased when the english and americans that he met in business complimented him on his english; it enabled him to say carelessly: "oh, i just picked it up when i was in america." he really had learned very little english there; nearly all he knew had been taught him by his father, a professor of chemistry in a small school in paris, who had spent six months in england during the siege. he had acquired there, however, a smattering of american slang; on his lips it sounded delicious. his friends in paris thought he spoke english beautifully, and frequently referred to his talent for languages. he had given them glowing accounts of his adventures in america, and said nothing of his desolate loneliness there; so they looked upon him as a born traveller,--as, altogether, a man of remarkable qualities. but for his english and his travels, they would merely have shrugged their shoulders at the mention of his name, and dismissed him with a "_bon garçon!_" jules le baron knew that he was much more than a _bon garçon_. his attitude toward the world expressed this; he always acted as if he felt the world had been made exclusively for him. after losing his father at fourteen, he promptly proceeded to link his mother in the closest bonds of slavery. yet he was kind to her, too, and, in his way, he loved her, for she was made to obey, just as he had been born to command. when she died and left him alone at the age of twenty with a small property, he took a miniature apartment in the _rue de lisbonne_, and adjusted himself to his new life. his salary at the wool-house, where his english helped to make him valuable, together with the property, gave him an income of ten thousand francs a year. he considered himself rich, a personage, one who ought to marry well. jules had thought so much about marriage that, at thirty, it was surprising he should have remained unwedded. every young woman he met he regarded as a candidate for his hand, and he spent a large part of his leisure in rejecting these innocent suitors. even now, as he slowly made his way up the _boulevard_, he fancied that the girls he passed were looking at him admiringly and enviously. he often smiled back at them, for he was rarely unkind and he never gratuitously wounded any one's feelings. with his mother, it is true, he had been occasionally severe, but merely to discipline her, to make her see things as he saw them. at this moment he felt particularly amiable. he was in paris, on the _boulevard_ that he loved, surrounded by the people that he loved, in the atmosphere which, as he had discovered in america, was as the very breath to his being. the spectacle was all for him! paris, had been created that he might enjoy it! ii saturday was the fashionable night at the _cirque parisien_, and the night when jules usually attended it. this was tuesday, however, and jules decided not to be fashionable, but simply to amuse himself. as he approached the letters of light that flashed the name of the _cirque_ into the eyes of the _boulevardiers_, he suddenly remembered that he had promised to meet two of his comrades of the wool-house in the evening. he turned into the _rue taitbout_, and as he was walking slowly through the long passageway leading into one of the large apartment-houses there, he felt himself suddenly seized in the darkness by two pairs of hands. he looked quickly around, and dimly recognized dufresne and leroux, who had come up from behind him. they were both types, short and swarthy, with oily faces, thick black moustaches, and pointed beards. "why didn't you come before?" and "we've been waiting an hour," they cried together. "he's been up to some adventure, i'll wager," said leroux. "answer! the truth! no lies!" dufresne exclaimed, shaking him by one shoulder. jules pulled away with an effort. "i thought you were going to rob me!" he laughed. "you see, he doesn't answer," said dufresne. "i told you he was up to some adventure." "up to some adventure!" jules repeated. "i've just been taking dinner, and i forgot i'd promised to meet you to-night. where are you going?" "we're going to the _folies bergères_, and then to a masked ball in montmartre," leroux answered, resuming his grip. "come along." jules pulled away with a laugh. "thanks. not to-night. i don't feel like it. besides, i'm not dressed." "but _we're_ not dressed," they cried together, throwing open their coats. "you won't have to dress. come on." jules shook his head decidedly. "no," he insisted, "it's all very well for you young bucks. i'm too old. it tires me out for the next day; can't do my work. i think i'll look in at the circus. come along with me." they scoffed at the idea of going to the circus, and tried to persuade him to accompany them, since he had kept them waiting so long. but he resisted, and, as he turned away from them, they clutched at him again, but he escaped, laughing, into the street, and he saw them shaking their fists after him. those two "boys," as he called them, were always trying to drag him into their escapades. they looked so much alike that at the office they were called "the twins," and they were always getting into scrapes and into debt together. before buying his ticket for the circus, jules looked carefully over the program on the posters in the long entrance. some of the performers he had already seen and the names of a few of them were unfamiliar to him. one name was printed in larger letters than the others--mademoiselle blanche. jules read the paragraph printed below, announcing mademoiselle blanche as the most marvellous acrobat in the world, and proclaiming that, in addition to giving her act on the trapeze, she would plunge backward from the top of the theatre, a height of more than seventy-five feet, into a net below. jules smiled, and felt a thrill of his old boyish excitement at the prospect of seeing the feat performed. when he turned to buy his ticket, he noticed a large photograph on an easel, standing near the box-office. the name of mademoiselle blanche, printed under it, attracted him. the acrobat, her long sinuous limbs encased in white tights, was suspended in mid-air, one arm bent at the elbow, clinging to a trapeze. the tense muscles of the arm made a curious contrast with the expression of the face, which was marked by unusual simplicity and gentleness. the profile was clear, the curving eyelashes were delicately outlined, and the eyes were large and dark. something about the lines of the small mouth attracted jules. he studied the picture carefully to discover what it was. the whole expression of the face seemed to him to be concentrated in the mouth; he felt sure that the teeth were small and very white, and the woman's voice was soft and musical. the face differed from the ordinary types of performers he had seen; it reminded him of the faces of some of the girls in the convent of beauvais, where his mother had once taken him to visit his cousin. the woman must be clever to make herself up so attractively. he wondered if the appearance of youth that she presented was also due to her cleverness. she might easily pass for twenty. her figure looked marvellously supple; she had probably been trained for the circus from infancy, and she might be fifty years old. he decided not to buy a seat, but to go into the balcony where he could walk about and look down at the performance. if it bored him, he could rest on one of the velvet-cushioned seats till a new "turn" began. he found more people in the balcony than he had ever seen there before; as a rule they made only a thin fringe around the railing; now they were five and six deep. he established himself beside a post where he could catch glimpses of the arena and get a support, and there he remained for half an hour. to-night, however, the antics of the clown, the phenomenal intelligence of the performing dogs, even the agility of the schaeffer family of acrobats, did not interest him. he was impatient to see mademoiselle blanche. her name stood last on the program; she was probably reserved for a crowning attraction. jules dropped on one of the velvet cushions, and rested there for another half-hour. then some knife-throwing attracted him, and he slowly worked his way through the crowd to a place where he could look down at the performers. the knife-throwing was followed by an exhibition of trick-riding, which preceded the acrobat's appearance. before this appearance took place, however, there was a long wait caused by the preparations made for the great plunge. a thick rope was suspended from one of the beams that supported the roof of the building, and under it a net was spread. then the half-dozen trapezes that had been tied to the walls, were loosened, and as they swung in the air and the band played, mademoiselle blanche, in white silk tights, with two long strips of white satin ribbon dangling from her throat, ran into the ring, and bowed in response to the applause of the crowd. jules le baron drew a long breath. the long supple limbs, the firm white arms and throat, the pale oval face, framed in dark hair that curled around the forehead, created a kind of beauty that seemed almost ethereal. the glamour of youth was over her, too; she could not be, at most, more than twenty. as she ran up the little rope ladder to the net and climbed hand over hand along the rope to one of the trapezes, jules thought he had never seen such grace, such exquisite sureness of movement and agility. after reaching the trapeze, she sat there for a moment, smiling and rubbing her hands. then she began to swing gently, and a moment later she shot through the air to another trapeze several feet away, and from that she passed on to the others with a bewildering swiftness. jules had never seen a woman perform alone on the trapeze before, and this exhibition of skill and resource fascinated him. the feats were nearly all new, and some of them of unusual difficulty. when the girl had finished her performance on the trapeze she returned to the rope, and began to pose on it, twisting it around her waist, and hanging suspended with her arms in the air. in this way she rolled gently down to the net. the event of the evening was yet to come, however. after resting for a moment, mademoiselle blanche seized the rope again, and, hand over hand, she climbed to the top of the building; there she sat on a beam, so far from the audience that she seemed much smaller than she really was. the ring-master, a greasy-looking frenchman in evening dress, appeared in the arena and commanded silence. "mademoiselle blanche must have perfect quiet," he cried, "in order to perform her great feat. the least noise might disturb her, and cause her death." jules smiled at this speech; it was very clever, he thought. of course, it was made merely to impress the audience. he wondered how mademoiselle blanche felt at that moment, perched up there so quietly, ready to hurl herself into the air. he did not have time to think much about this, for as he strained his eyes toward her, the signal for the fall was given, the white figure plunged backward, spun to earth, landed with a tremendous thump in the padded net, bounded into the air again, and mademoiselle blanche was bowing and kissing her fingers. for a moment not a sound was heard. then the audience burst into applause, and jules le baron breathed. he felt as if his heart had stopped beating. he had never seen such a thrilling exhibition before. all his old delight in the circus had come back to him. as he walked out with the crowd, he congratulated himself on not having gone with dufresne and leroux. he would not have missed his evening for a dozen balls in montmartre! at the door he met roger durand, dramatic critic of the _jour_. he had known durand as a boy, and they had continued on a footing of half-hostile friendship. "so you've come to see the new sensation?" said the journalist, as they shook hands. "just by chance," jules replied. "i've never been more surprised in my life. who is she?" "that's just what i haven't been able to find out. i've been talking about her tonight with old réju--he's the man who makes the engagements--but he didn't seem to know much more about her than i did. he said he first heard of her in bucharest. she made a hit there, too, some time last year." "but she's french, isn't she? parisian?" "she's french, but réju says she isn't parisian--comes from the provinces somewhere. there's a woman goes about with her, her mother, i suppose. réju says mamma keeps her down here," the journalist added with a smile, making a significant gesture with his thumb. "mamma gets all the money, and mademoiselle does all the work." jules shrugged his shoulders. "going to your office?" he said. "you have to turn night into day, haven't you?" "my dear fellow, night is the best part of life. days were made for sleep. we've got mixed up, that's all, and only a few of us are clever enough to find it out. come and have a glass of absinthe with me before i go back." jules shook his head. "some other time. a glass of absinthe would spoil me for to-morrow. _au revoir._" he was glad to be alone again so that he might think over the evening. the beautiful figure whirling through the air still haunted him. "mademoiselle blanche!" the name seemed to sing in his mind. he wondered what her real name was. so she had a mother who kept her under her thumb! then he wondered what she was like out of the circus--ignorant and vulgar, probably, like the rest of them. yet in her looks she was certainly different from the rest. at any rate, he must go and see her performance again. he would go several times. iii when jules arrived home he found supper on the table of his little dining-room. madeleine, the old woman who had served his mother for years and remained with him after his mother's death, always left something for him at night. now he turned away from it in disgust. his face was burning; he felt nervous, excited. after going to bed, he was unable to sleep. he kept seeing mademoiselle blanche tumbling through the air! he could not think of her except as in motion. he tried to recall her as she stood in the net, just before climbing the rope to the trapeze, but her figure was vague and shadowy. then he tried to think out her features as he had observed them, and he found that he had quite forgotten her face; all that remained was an impression of sweetness, of a ravishing smile. when, finally, he fell asleep, he dreamed of her, still flashing through the air, striking with a thud the padded net, and bouncing to her feet again. he woke several times and felt impatient with himself for not being able to drive the thought away; yet when he sank again into sleep, the dream came back persistently. at half-past seven he rose, tired from his broken rest. he went at once to the long mirror that covered the door of his wardrobe, expecting to be confronted with the face of an invalid. his gray eyes were slightly inflamed and his cheeks had more than their usual color; otherwise his appearance was normal. for several moments he surveyed himself. as a rule he did not think much about his looks; he knew that he was considered handsome, and this gave him a half-unconscious gratification. when he wanted to please a woman he seldom failed. now he had a distinct pleasure at the sight of the aristocratic curve of his nose, the strong outline of his chin, the full red lips under his thick brown moustache. jules wished that he could keep from growing fat; but after all, he reflected philosophically, there was a difference in fatness; some men it made gross and vulgar; his own complexion, however, was so fair that he could never look gross. even now there was a suggestion about him of the sleekness of a well-kept pigeon. when he went out to breakfast he found madeleine looking doleful. madeleine had known jules from birth and considered herself a second mother to him. she was short and stout, with a mouthful of very bad teeth, some of which rattled when she spoke, as if they were about to fall out. "monsieur jules did not eat last night," she said as she poured his coffee and pushed his rolls into the centre of the little table. "no, madeleine, i wasn't hungry." jules took up the _figaro_ that was lying on the table and began to look for a reference to mademoiselle blanche. "the coffee will grow cold, monsieur jules." jules did not hear her. when preoccupied, he had a habit of ignoring madeleine. yet, in his way, he liked her; he often wondered what he would do without her; she was docile and attentive to his wants as his mother had been, and she was very inexpensive. for five minutes he read; then, when he found no reference to the acrobat, he threw down the paper with an exclamation of impatience, and seized his cup and sipped his coffee. "it's cold!" he cried. madeleine's look of distress deepened. "let me take that away," she said. "i'll get another cup." when she brought the cup and poured some of the hot coffee into it, jules drained it, and pushed his chair away from the table. "but you have eaten nothing, monsieur jules!" "i'm not hungry this morning." "and you didn't eat anything last night," the old woman repeated, following him with her eyes. "are you sick?" "no, no!" jules replied, impatiently. "i don't feel like eating, that's all. give me my hat and coat, madeleine; i shall be late if i don't hurry." "monsieur jules doesn't look well," said madeleine timidly, as she helped him on with his coat. "oh, don't worry about me." at the door jules turned. "i shall be out late again to-night, madeleine. you needn't leave the light burning." the wool-house of ballou, mercier & co., where jules worked, was only ten minutes' walk from the _rue de lisbonne_. on his way there, jules resolved to say nothing to the twins about mademoiselle blanche. of course, leroux would ask him about the evening, and he would say simply that he had been rather bored. he wanted to keep mademoiselle blanche to himself. he even hoped that her performance would not be noised abroad, that she would not become one of those women whom all paris went to see and every one talked glibly about. but she must be well-known already; it was evidently her performance that had crowded the circus. at the office the twins had a great deal to say about the masked ball of the previous night, but jules hardly heard them. he was still so haunted by the thought of mademoiselle blanche that he made several mistakes in his letters; since his return from america he had been placed in charge of all the english correspondence, and it was important that he should be exact. the day had never seemed so long to him, nor his work, in which he usually took pride, so dull. he was impatient for the evening. when six o'clock came, he hurried away without bidding the twins good-night. jules walked toward the little restaurant in the _boulevard_ where he had dined the night before. he wanted to see andré again, to talk over mademoiselle blanche with him. he felt almost a personal affection for andré now. the little _garçon_ was bewildered by jules' affability, and overcome by the generous tip which he received as jules left the place. indeed, freed from the labors of the day, jules felt buoyant and happy. but when he reached the circus, his spirits sank; he had forgotten that mademoiselle blanche did not appear till nearly eleven. he would have to wait for her at least three hours! he felt so vexed that he turned away from the theatre and walked along the _boulevard_. it was late in october, and a light rain was falling, mixed with snow. the _boulevard_ was crowded with people, hurrying under umbrellas. jules turned up the collar of his overcoat, and shivered. what was he to do till eleven? he might go to one of the theatres, but he would not enjoy it. when he reached the _opéra_, he had not made up his mind what to do, and he walked on as far as the madeleine. he entered a _café_ opposite the church, and called for a bock and one of the illustrated papers. for an hour he sat there, sipping the beer and pretending to read. the jokes, however, which he usually enjoyed, seemed to him vulgar. he was thinking of the figure in white silk tights, shooting through the air. a score of times he called himself a fool for not being able to put that thought out of his mind; yet he felt nervous and irritable, simply because he was impatient to see the spectacle again. at last he became so uneasy that he looked for the waiter to pay his bill and leave. then he felt a slap on the shoulder, and durand's smiling face confronted him. there was no reason why jules should have been displeased at seeing durand; yet at that moment he felt resentful. the journalist was small and dapper, with the ends of his black moustache carefully waxed. his little black eyes were always sparkling with humor, and when he smiled he showed two rows of regular white teeth. yet, in spite of the care of himself which he seemed to take, he never looked quite clean; his thick black hair was always dusty with dandruff, which fell on the shoulders of his coat. he spoke in a high thin voice and with a patronizing air that exasperated jules. "i thought i recognized your back," he said, when jules had turned his face toward him. jules grunted and pointed to a chair at the little table. he wanted to show by his manner that he didn't like that familiar slap. durand, however, was unruffled. "what are you doing here, anyway? why aren't you at the theatre or one of the _cafés chantants_?" jules took a puff of his cigarette, and then looked down at the little figure. "i might ask you the same question." "oh, i'm working. this is a busy night for me." then durand's face lighted. "what do you suppose i've got to do to-night?" jules knocked the ashes of his cigarette against the edge of the table. "now, do you mean? i can't imagine. you're always doing impossible things." "i'm going to interview the little acrobat." jules came very near jumping. he controlled himself, however, and carelessly lifted the cigarette to his lips again. "what little acrobat?" he asked, screwing his eyes. "the one you saw last night--at the _cirque_--the _cirque parisien_." "oh, mademoiselle--mademoiselle--what's her name--the one who dives from the top of the building?" "yes, mademoiselle blanche. when i went back to the office last night, i told old bargy about her--cracked her up to the skies, and he swallowed the bait, and sent me round to interview her to-night. ah, my dear boy, that's one of the advantages of being a newspaper man. it opens every door to you. whenever i want to get acquainted with a pretty actress, i simply go and interview her." he sat back in his seat and smiled and hummed a popular song, rapping the table with his fingers. the waiter came up and asked for his order. "two bocks!" said durand, looking at jules. "no, no more for me. i haven't finished this yet." when the waiter went away, jules glanced sleepily at the journalist. "you're a very lucky fellow, it seems to me. i should think it would be rather agreeable to know the pretty actresses." durand shrugged his shoulders. "sometimes, yes--sometimes, no. usually it spoils the illusion." jules stared thoughtfully at his bock. "aren't you afraid you'll be disillusioned by mademoiselle blanche?" "oh, probably. they're all alike--when you come to know them. but there's something about her that made me think she might be a little different from the rest. at any rate, she's dev'lish pretty, isn't she?" "do you think so?" jules asked, with a deprecating lift of the eyebrows. "think so! i know so! if you don't think so you must be hard to please." "oh, i thought she was pretty in her circus rig. i should like to see her out of the ring. they make up so, those women. you can't tell whether they're really pretty or not." "well, come around with me, and i'll introduce you. then you can see for yourself." jules nearly jumped again, but his cigarette helped him to disguise the impulse. "i'm afraid i shall be in the way," he said, after a meditative puff. durand had seized the bock left on the table by the waiter, and was holding it over his head. when half the contents had disappeared, he smacked his lips and wiped them with his handkerchief. "not at all. you'll help me draw her out. they say she does the shy-young-girl act; so she's hard to talk with. that seems to be a favorite pose of actresses nowadays." jules' heart was throbbing. he was afraid that durand would discover his elation. so he tried to appear indifferent and cynical. durand's cynicism amused him; yet in the journalist's presence he was always trying to imitate it. when he had drained his bock, durand stood up, surveyed with a professional eye the crowd at the tables, nodded to a few acquaintances, and made a sign to jules that he was ready to go. it had ceased raining, but the sky was still leaden. the splendid portico of the madeleine loomed out of the darkness, and the lights in the _boulevard des capucines_ were gleaming faintly in the mist. they met few people as they walked toward the _opéra_, but there was plenty of life around the theatres in the _boulevard des italiens_. when they reached the _cirque_, durand had a whispered consultation with the _control_ who sat in self-conscious dignity and evening dress at the desk near the main door. he referred the journalist to a short fat man with a white beard, lounging a few feet away, and jules stood apart while the two had an animated talk. after a few moments, durand made a sign to jules to come up, and jules found himself presented to réju as "my _confrère_, monsieur jules le baron, of the marseilles _gazette_." réju was very amiable, and jules felt angry, though he could not help being amused by durand's serene impudence. they were conducted at once into the theatre, under the great arch, draped with french flags, where the performers made their exits and their entrances. then they found themselves in a large bare room, with several passages radiating from it. "the dressing-rooms are here," réju explained, pointing to the passages. "mademoiselle blanche's room is number . i don't know whether she has come yet or not. her act doesn't begin till ten minutes of eleven. wait here, and i'll see if she can receive you." durand smiled at jules, and as soon as réju was out of hearing, he whispered: "i hope you didn't mind that little fairy-tale of mine. i had to pass you off as one of the fraternity. if i hadn't they wouldn't have let you come in. now, don't forget your part, the marseilles _gazette_. it's a good republican paper. the editor's a great friend of mine." "i'm afraid i sha'n't be a credit to the profession. i've never seen any one interviewed in my life." "then it'll be an education to you." durand laughed. "look out. here he comes!" the fat little manager approached them with a smiling face; he evidently had in mind two free advertisements for the theatre. "mademoiselle blanche," he said impressively, "arrived five minutes ago, and she hasn't begun to dress yet. if you'll have the kindness to follow me, messieurs"--he concluded with a bow and a wave of the hand. jules' body was tingling, and his heart beat violently. durand, on the contrary, seemed more debonair than ever; with an air of importance, he strutted behind the manager, as if conferring an honor on the performer by his call. réju rapped on the door, and after a moment a shrill voice piped: "_entrez!_" iv durand made a bold entrance, and jules followed sheepishly. the room was small and uncarpeted; on one side stood a wardrobe and a table, and on the opposite wall hung a large mirror that reflected nearly the whole of the apartment. the rest of the furniture consisted of two wooden chairs and a large trunk. jules did not realize that he had observed these details till afterward, for his glance was bent on the face of mademoiselle blanche, who stood beside the trunk, surveying her callers with apprehension in her big eyes. on one of the chairs sat a woman of fifty, tall and thin, with strands of flesh hanging at her neck, her eyes bright, her lips aglow with a false bloom, and her cheeks pallid with powder. jules recognized her at once as the acrobat's mother, and he had a shock of surprise and revulsion. the manager, after presenting the callers to madame perrault, and then to her daughter, excused himself with a flourish, and left the room. madame perrault was smiling and chattering at durand, and mademoiselle blanche was flushed and confused. "i think we must be the first of the parisian journalists to interview mademoiselle," said durand to the mother, letting his eyes turn vaguely to the acrobat for information. madame perrault gave a little jump, and glanced hastily at her daughter's face. "yes, you are," she replied. "we did have--that is, there was a gentleman of the press who wanted to interview blanche, but she--she was a little timid about it. blanche is very timid; so we--we put it off. but interviewers are very----ah, you will sit down, will you not?" she said to jules, who had remained standing with his eyes fixed on the girl. mademoiselle blanche had taken a seat on the trunk, and her mother sat beside her so that jules might occupy her chair. when they were all adjusted, madame perrault resumed, turning to jules, whose embarrassment she had observed. "monsieur réju told me yesterday interviews were so important. they make people interested. they----" "but the people are already interested in mademoiselle blanche," durand interposed, gallantly. "that's why my _confrère_ and i have come here. the parisians want to know all about mademoiselle. she's the sensation of the hour. her name is on everybody's lips." he glanced at mademoiselle blanche with his most languishing smile, and jules felt a sudden desire to kick him. the acrobat tried to look pleased, but she succeeded only in appearing more confused. jules was surprised to see how frail she was. her figure, full and vigorous in the ring, seemed so thin in her plain, tight-fitting gray dress, that he felt sure she must have been padded for her performance. "i'm going to ask mademoiselle a great many questions," durand resumed, still leering at the acrobat. "but i have nothing to tell," she replied, speaking for the first time. "but you must have been born, and grown up, and done a great many things besides, that the rest of us don't do," the journalist laughed, growing more familiar. jules' dislike for him was rapidly developing into hatred. durand's familiarity, however, seemed to please the acrobat's mother. "blanche is too modest," she said. "she's had a great many things happen to her." "have you always been in the circus, mademoiselle?" "yes, ever since she was a child," her mother answered. "her father was an acrobat." "so it's in the family. and were you in the circus too, madame?" madame perrault shook her head, and jules thought he saw her blush under the powder. "no, i have never been in public life. my husband's family lived in boulogne, where i lived too. they were all acrobats. after my marriage i used to travel with the circus, and when blanche was born, monsieur perrault wanted her to perform, too. when she was only five years old, they used to appear together." "then you have travelled a great deal, mademoiselle?" durand turned his fascinating glance on the girl. she looked at her mother, and as she was about to reply, madame perrault resumed: "ah, my daughter has been over nearly the whole world,--in england, in germany, in russia--" "have you ever been in america?" jules asked quickly. the acrobat shook her head. "but she has had such offers--such splendid--such magnificent offers to go there," the mother cried, clasping her hands. "but i'm afraid," the girl murmured, glancing at jules with her big timid eyes. "afraid of the voyage?" jules asked. her eyes were still fixed upon him, and he felt as if every nerve in his body were vibrating. "that's nothing. i have made it twice, and i wasn't sick a day." this was not true, for on each trip jules had been sick for several days; but he made the remark with such ease, that for the moment he felt convinced himself of its truth. mademoiselle blanche looked at him admiringly, and he saw that he had made an impression on the mother, too, established himself in her regard as a travelled person, a man of importance. "then monsieur has been in america?" said madame perrault. "oh, yes," jules replied, carelessly. "all over it. it's a wonderful country." mademoiselle blanche sighed, and her mother glanced at her wistfully. "but it's too far," madame resumed with a shake of the head. "we could not go so far from the children." "then you have other children?" said the journalist. "are they in the circus, too?" for the first time, the girl's face brightened. "oh, no!" she replied, with a suggestion of horror in her tone. "they are very young," the mother explained. "jeanne is only fourteen and louise will be eleven next month. they are with my sister in boulogne." durand made a little sign of impatience which indicated to jules that he was not getting the information he wanted. besides, he was evidently displeased by the failure of his leers to produce any apparent effect upon the girl; she seemed to be unconscious of them. "and monsieur perrault," he said, "he is still performing?" an expression of pain appeared in the mother's face, and mademoiselle dropped her eyes. "no, he died three years ago," madame perrault replied. "he was killed at monte carlo. he fell from the trapeze." there was silence for a moment, and the journalist tried to infuse into his insipid little face a look of sympathy. just how much sympathy he felt was shown by his next remark. "i couldn't help wondering last night," he said briskly, "when i saw mademoiselle perform, how she felt just before she took that plunge. how do you feel, mademoiselle? aren't you frightened, just a little?" the girl shook her head. "i have done it for so many years, i don't think of being afraid. my father taught me never to have the least fear. he wouldn't have been killed if the trapeze hadn't broken." "and we take every precaution," madame perrault quickly explained. durand began to ask questions about the various cities mademoiselle had visited. most of the replies came from madame perrault, who seemed to have constituted herself her daughter's mouthpiece. which audiences did she like best to play to? the germans! durand shook his head. he wouldn't dare to say that in a french paper. it might make mademoiselle unpopular with the parisians. ah, but mademoiselle liked the parisians, too. didn't she find them very enthusiastic? no? that was simply because they were thrilled, overcome, silenced by her performance. durand grew excited in extolling the merits of parisian audiences. for their favorites they would do anything, and mademoiselle was fast becoming one of the most popular of their favorites. of course they had their peculiarities. when a performer vexed them, there were no limits to their wrath. had mademoiselle heard of the attack on sophie lenoir at the _ambassadeurs_? the audience had thrown at her everything they could lay hands on, and she had fainted, or pretended to faint, on the stage. indeed, much of the conversation was supplied by the journalist himself. he had apparently abandoned hope of making the acrobat talk; so he addressed most of his speeches to the mother, whom he drew out by many artful devices. mademoiselle blanche sat looking on in open-eyed surprise, as if she did not have a share in the matters under discussion. occasionally she would glance appealingly at jules; when he looked back, she would blush and turn her head away. while durand was in the middle of one of his stories, madame perrault drew a small gold watch from her pocket. the journalist jumped from his chair. "we are keeping mademoiselle from dressing," he said, as jules rose, too. "a thousand pardons. we will go in just a moment. there's only one more question. that is about your presents, mademoiselle, your gifts." "my gifts?" the acrobat repeated vaguely. "yes, from the princes, the crowned heads you've appeared before." "ah!" the mother exclaimed, in a long breath, "blanche has received so many! there was the brooch from the emperor of russia, and the ring from the prince of roumania, a costly diamond, monsieur, so clear and beautiful, and the little gold watch studded with pearls from the king of bavaria, the 'mad king' they call him, you know--and then--then the bracelet set with rubies from the duchess of merlino, when blanche was in bucharest. ah, but we have none of these here. they are all at home, they--" "here in paris?" durand asked, impatiently. "no, monsieur, in boulogne," madame perrault answered, and jules saw an expression of wonder and pain cross her daughter's face. durand was rubbing his silk hat with his glove, and regarding it intently. "then," he said, looking up quickly, "there must have been some adventures--some admirers, that have followed mademoiselle, perhaps, eh?" he added, leering insinuatingly at the mother. madame smiled, and the face of the acrobat turned pink. jules wanted to seize the little journalist by the neck, and throw him out of the door. "ah, in bucharest," cried madame, "the young--" "mamma!" madame perrault shrugged her shoulders, and smiled suggestively. "perhaps we'd better not speak of that. blanche is a good girl," she added, patting her daughter on the back. "she's good to her mother, and she's good to her sisters. ah, _ma chère_!" the girl had turned her head away. durand offered her his hand gallantly, and then beamed on the mother. "i will come and see you some time, if you will give me permission," he said condescendingly. "some sunday," madame perrault replied. "it's the only day when blanche is free. and you will bring your friend, perhaps, if he is still in paris," she added amiably, with a quick glance and smile at the journalist from marseilles. then she produced two cards and passed them to the callers. jules murmured a civil response to the invitation, and, after bowing low to the ladies, he followed durand and closed the door behind him. the expression of languishing pleasure in the journalist's face had given place to a look of hilarious merriment. "did you ever see such a block? she didn't have a word to say. i don't believe she has an idea. and she thought she was impressing me with her modesty! and the gifts from the crowned heads--wasn't that droll? of course, the old lady made up every one of those stories. she's a sharp one, with her painted lips and her powdered cheeks. her little game is to get a rich husband for the girl, and i'll wager a week's salary she'll succeed." jules said nothing. he knew it would be useless to argue with durand. if he were to give his opinion of mademoiselle blanche, the journalist would laugh, and say he didn't understand women, especially actresses. so, when durand suddenly asked him what he thought of the girl, he merely shrugged his shoulders. as they passed out they met réju, who offered them seats if they cared to remain for the rest of the performance. durand explained that he must return at once to the office, and urged jules to accept the invitation. when jules found himself alone in the first row of the orchestra he breathed with relief. he had never before realized what an odious little creature durand was. for the moment he forgot even to feel gratitude for the introduction to the acrobat. he was unable to take an interest in the performance, and he looked at his watch to see how long he would have to wait for the appearance of mademoiselle blanche. it was just twenty minutes past ten. suddenly it occurred to him that he would have time to go out and buy some flowers for her. he left his seat, and hurried to the nearest shop in the _boulevard_. there he bought the finest bunch of white roses he could find, went back to the theatre, and sent them to the acrobat with his card. when at last mademoiselle blanche ran into the arena, he was thrilled with joy. she wore his flowers in her belt. v that night jules le baron knew that for the first time in his life he was really in love. he had often fancied himself in love before, and he had enjoyed the experience; now he discovered his mistake. love was not the pure delight he had imagined it to be. it is true, he had moments of ecstasy, of sublime self-congratulation, when he felt with stronger conviction that the world was made for him and he had been created to conquer the world; but during the next few days these were followed by long periods of depression, of abject despair. at times, too, the grotesqueness of this infatuation appalled him. to be in love with an acrobat, a woman who earned her bread by hurling herself from the top of a building, who risked her life every day, sometimes twice a day, that she might live! then, at the thought of her amazing courage, jules would be overcome, and if alone in his room at home, he would throw himself on the bed, bury his head in the pillow and groan. indeed, at this period he went through many strange and violent performances. madeleine became alarmed for his health, and thought of sending for a doctor. he could not apply himself to his work; he made so many mistakes in his english correspondence that monsieur mercier had to ask him to be more careful. the twins noticed his condition and chaffed him, and insisted on knowing "her name"; in secret they decided that jules had been investing his money badly; he had often boasted to them about his little property. they tried to cheer him by urging him to join them in their nocturnal expeditions, but he always replied that he was staying at home in the evening now. as a matter of fact, he spent every night or a portion of every night at the _cirque parisien_, and at each appearance of mademoiselle blanche, he was gratified to see that she wore his nightly offering of roses in her belt. he never received an acknowledgment of these tributes, for he did not dare write his address on the cards he sent with them. once, as she stood in the net, just before climbing the rope to make her great plunge, he fancied that his eye caught hers, and she smiled at him. he decided afterward that he had been mistaken; but the thought of that smile prevented him from sleeping half the night. jules was keeping his courage alive in the hope of seeing her at her apartment on sunday. his only fear was that durand would be there. durand's published interview with mademoiselle blanche was so flippant that it deepened the hatred jules had already conceived for the journalist. he resolved on sunday to explain to madame perrault that he was not what durand had represented him to be and to appear in his own character; he was conceited enough to believe that in his own character he could make quite as good an impression as in any other. besides, had not mademoiselle blanche been impressed by the fact that he had visited america? on saturday night he sent his silk hat to be blocked, and his frock-coat to be pressed, and he bought a pair of white gloves. madeleine found him much more agreeable on sunday morning than he had been during the week; but, though he seemed to be recovering his spirits, she still felt worried. in the afternoon he presented himself before her for inspection, asked if his coat set well, if she liked the colour of his gloves, what she thought of the violets that he wore. she became enraptured over his appearance, told him that he had never looked so beautiful, and saw him go away with a radiant face. then, as the door closed behind him, she went into her little chamber and wept. the truth had flashed upon her! her jules was in love! some one else was going to take his mother's place and hers. she felt all the jealousy and misery that his own mother might have felt at the moment, combined with a pathetic consciousness that she had no right to grieve. jules was everything in the world to her, she said to herself, and she was nothing to him. she was an old broken woman, and for the rest of her days she should have to live alone. jules had become her pride and the source of her happiness. yet she really saw very little of him--the only meal he took at home was his breakfast--but she really existed for the pleasure of serving him and looking at his face in the morning. now, in spite of her misery, she knelt before the statue of the blessed virgin that stood on a little table beside her bed, and prayed that the woman who was going to take her place might be a good woman, and worthy of her boy. in her simple affection for jules she believed that he had only to show that he cared for a woman to have her throw herself into his arms. it was hardly three o'clock, too early for a call, jules thought, as he walked toward the _rue st. honoré_; but he was so impatient to see mademoiselle blanche again that he could not wait till later in the afternoon. during the week the sun had hardly appeared, and the succession of leaden skies had helped to depress his spirits. to-day, however, the sky was blue and the sun shone so brightly that it seemed almost like spring. he was in one of his buoyant moods, when he felt sure of his ability to conquer. in his fine clothes and with his confident manner, he looked very handsome; several pretty girls gratified him by staring at him as he passed. if he impressed people he didn't know, why couldn't he impress mademoiselle blanche? he planned a great many things to say to her. he would be particularly amiable to the mother, too, and tell her all about america. the number in the _rue st. honoré_ that madame perrault had given corresponded with one of the great white stucco apartment houses abounding in paris. he passed under the wide vaulted entrance, and asked the wife of the _concierge_ if madame perrault lived there. "_au sixième_," was the shrill reply, and he started up the narrow stairs. when he reached the _sixième_, the top floor of the house, he panted and waited for a moment before ringing, to catch his breath. then he carefully arranged his cuffs, touched with his gloved hand his silk cravat and his flowers and, with a sigh of anticipation, he rang the bell. a trim little servant of not more than fifteen opened the door. when jules asked for madame perrault, she shook her head. "she went out an hour ago, monsieur, and she won't be back till four." jules' heart sank. of course, mother and daughter were out together. he was about to turn away despairingly, but he suddenly thought of inquiring if mademoiselle were at home. the maid nodded. "shall i say that monsieur wishes to see her?" she asked, stepping back that he might enter. "if you please," he replied, as he followed the girl into the little _salon_. it was furnished wholly in japanese fashion; the walls were hung with japanese draperies, and a large thick rug covered the floor. on the mantel, prettily draped with a wide piece of flowered silk, stood a number of photographs, one of them a duplicate of the portrait of mademoiselle blanche that he had seen in the entrance of the circus. as jules glanced at this, he heard a light step in the adjoining room, and when he turned, mademoiselle blanche herself was looking at him out of her dark eyes. she walked toward him, flushing a little, and extended her hand. "i am sorry mamma is not here," she said. "she went out only a few minutes ago, and she'll be back soon. but we--" "you didn't expect any one so early. i ought to apologize, but i was impatient to come. then--i--i hoped to find you alone." "so you have," she laughed, pointing to a chair near the grate-fire. she wore a dress of dark silk with little white spots in it that became her wonderfully, jules thought. around her neck was a piece of muslin, open at the throat, and muslin encircled her wrists. once again jules was impressed by the delicacy of her appearance; her skin had an almost transparent whiteness, and there was no colour in her cheeks, save when she flushed, which she did at the least cause. "how pleasantly you are lodged here," said jules, looking around the room. the apartment was as small as his own, which he had considered one of the smallest in paris. "yes, we were fortunate to get it. and it seems so odd--it belongs to an actress who's spending the winter in the south of france. we have taken it furnished." "then you're to be here all the winter?" said jules, feasting his eyes on the clear white forehead, the white neck that he could see beneath the muslin. how beautiful she was! his surmise about the teeth had been correct; they were small and white, with little bits of red between them. "no," she replied, "i've been engaged at the _cirque_ until the first of january. then i shall go to vienna, and appear there for several months." "ah!" for a moment jules was silent. "but you will take a rest before you go to vienna?" she shook her head. "no. i should like to go home for christmas to be with my sisters. but they will come to paris instead." "but doesn't it tire you?" "no. it isn't hard. and i never like to stop. i must keep in practice." for an instant jules was touched by a curious sympathy. there certainly was something pathetic, even abnormal, in the thought that this frail woman hurled herself six days in the week from the top of a building. then he was thrilled again by the marvel of it, by the consciousness that he was sitting opposite the phenomenon, gazing into her eyes, hearing her voice, receiving her smiles. he could think of nothing to say, but he felt quite happy; he would have liked to sit there for hours in mute admiration. mademoiselle blanche, however, looked confused; she seemed to be shaping something in her mind. "it was very kind of you to send the flowers," she said at last. "i would have thanked you before if i had known where you lived. they were very lovely." his face shone with pleasure at the thought that she had recognized him as the sender, and he leaned toward her. "you needn't thank me," he said. "i felt repaid when i saw them in your belt." then he told her how he had gone to the circus every night just to see her; how he admired her performance, her grace and skill on the trapeze, her courage in making the great plunge. as he spoke, her face kept changing colour. she seemed to him like a bashful child, and he marvelled at her ingenuousness, for surely she must be used to praise. then he recalled what durand had said about her affectation of modesty, and he wondered if the journalist could have been right; but when he looked into the girl's clear eyes he saw nothing but beauty and truth. when he had finished speaking of her performance, he began to talk about himself, his favourite topic with women. he told her about his visit in the united states, and he made fun of the americans for drinking water instead of wine at table, and for many other customs that had amused him because they were so unlike the ways of parisians. he also imitated the speech of some of the americans he had known, and he was surprised to find that she understood what he said. she had learned english from her father, she explained; he had often performed in london, and she had been there with him twice. then he began to speak with her in english to display his accomplishment, and he felt disappointed on discovering that she could converse quite as fluently, and with a better accent. so he returned to french, and told her about his life in paris, his dear old madeleine who kept him so comfortable in his little apartment, his work at the office, and about dufresne and leroux. she showed no surprise when he revealed durand's duplicity; she merely said that she hadn't liked the journalist, and her mother had been vexed by the article. she seemed so interested that he went back to his early days, before the death of his father and mother, described his life at the _lycée_, his love of sport, his passion for the circus, his boyish adventures at montmartre, his happy days in summer at compiègne, his mother's goodness and her foolish pride in him. he was so unconscious in his egotism that it was touching to hear him; mademoiselle blanche seemed to be unconscious of it, too, for she listened with a serious, absorbed attention. while he was in the midst of an analysis of his own qualities, the little clock on the mantel struck four and mademoiselle blanche looked up quickly. "mamma will be here very soon now," she said. jules felt a sudden irritation. at that moment the coming of madame perrault seemed like an intrusion. the reference to it had the effect of stopping his confidences; it was as if she had already appeared in the room. he rose from his seat, and began to examine the photographs on the mantel. then he took up one of them, a large photograph of a man of more than fifty, with a white pointed beard, a shock of iron-grey hair, and laughing eyes. "is this your father, mademoiselle?" she shook her head. "that is my mother's _fiancé_." he turned to her quickly. "your mother's _fiancé_!" "yes. my mother has been engaged a long time. she would have been married a year ago but for me." "ah, then you don't like it--you don't want her to marry again?" "i should not care--that is, i should be glad for jeanne and louise. monsieur berthier is very rich, and he has been kind to the girls. he has offered to give them a home." jules came near laughing. it seemed to him ridiculous that the old powdered woman he had seen in the dressing-room of the circus should marry again. "then how have you prevented the marriage?" he asked. "because i must work," she replied simply, "and mamma cannot leave me. if mamma married monsieur berthier, she would have to stay in boulogne." "ah!" a light broke on jules. the mother would not marry until her eldest daughter was married. so, of course, she must be anxious to find a husband for mademoiselle blanche. he felt as if providence were paving the way toward happiness for him. for a moment he did not speak again. then he said: "but you will marry some day, and then your mother won't have to travel with you." she flushed, and made a deprecating gesture. "i shall always stay in the circus," she said. "it's my life. i can't think of any other." then he gradually drew her out. she surprised him by telling him of the monotony of her life. with most of the other performers she had merely a slight acquaintance; the coarseness of the women and the vulgarity of the men shocked her. her only companion in her travels was her mother. yes, it was lonely sometimes not to know other girls of her own age, and it was very hard to be separated from jeanne and louise. she worried a great deal about jeanne, who had shown a fondness for the circus. she thought if her mother married, jeanne would give up all thought of becoming a performer. of course, it was different with herself; she had been bred to the circus, but she couldn't bear the thought of jeanne's being there, too. jeanne was very pretty and lively; aunt sophie was obliged to be strict with her. louise was so different, so quiet and simple, and religious, almost a _dévote_. as she spoke of her sisters, mademoiselle blanche grew very animated. jules blamed himself for the momentary doubt he had felt about her. if durand could only hear her now! but durand doubted every woman. it was nearly five o'clock when madame perrault returned. when she saw jules, she showed no surprise, but smiled upon him broadly and extended her hand. mademoiselle blanche lapsed into silence and, as her mother talked, with a superabundance of gesture and with tireless vivacity, she could feel jules' eyes fixed upon her. she knew that jules hardly heard what was being said, and when he rose to take his departure, she made no effort to detain him. "i should like to come again," he said to the girl. "some afternoon, perhaps," madame perrault suggested amiably. "blanche always rests between three and four, but after that she could see you." "but i am at my office till six." "ah, yes!" madame perrault exclaimed with a smile. "that wicked journalist! you must tell him we were vexed with his article." "then may i come in the evening? perhaps you'll let me take you to the theatre some night?" madame perrault clapped her hands. "that would be perfect!" mademoiselle blanche said nothing, but it was to her that jules directed his next remark. "perhaps to-morrow night; i will come at eight o'clock." madame perrault displayed her gleaming teeth patched with gold, and her daughter merely bowed and said, "thank you." as jules was putting on his overcoat in the little hall, he heard a voice say: "_il est très gentil, ce monsieur_," but though he listened he could not catch the reply. he was radiantly happy, however. when he reached the street, he felt like running; with an effort he controlled himself, and walked buoyantly home with a smile on his face. he would take madeleine out to dinner, as he used to take his mother when they celebrated his holidays! vi the next night, promptly at eight o'clock, jules appeared in the little _salon_ in the _rue st. honoré_, bearing his offering of flowers to mademoiselle blanche. madame perrault gave him the quiet reception of an old friend, and he felt as if he had long been in the habit of calling at the apartment. madame perrault informed him that she had just risen from dinner, and asked him to drink a cup of coffee. then the three figures sat in the dimly-lighted room and talked; that is, jules and madame perrault talked, for blanche ventured a remark only when a question was put to her. a few moments later, madame perrault went into the next room where she was occupied with the little maid in making a dress; so jules was left alone with her daughter. they had very little to say to each other, and jules was content to sit in silence and rapt adoration. as he looked at her, her name kept singing in his mind: blanche! he wondered if he should ever dare to address her in this way. how beautiful she was as she sat there, the soft light of the fire falling on her face and hands, and on the folds of her gown! he was glad she was so quiet; he hated women that talked all the time. that was the great fault with madame perrault; if she said less, he would like her, in spite of her powder and paint. since hearing that she was engaged, and wanted to get her daughter married, jules' feelings toward her had softened. it was nearly ten o'clock before they left for the theatre. jules called a cab, and all three squeezed into it with a great deal of laughter on the part of madame perrault. as they rattled over the rough pavement, the noise was so great that they could not talk, and jules gave himself up to contemplating the serious face of mademoiselle blanche. the thought that he was riding with her to the scene of her triumphs thrilled him. he felt as if he were having a share in her performance, as if her glory were reflected on him. ah, if dufresne and leroux could see him now! how they would be impressed, and how they would envy him! before bidding his friends good-night, he asked if he might not take them home; he would remain till the end of the performance, anyway, he said. instead of entering the theatre at once, he sauntered along the _boulevard_ toward the _place de la bastille_. what were the other performers to him? without mademoiselle blanche the _cirque parisien_ would not be worth visiting. he did not return to the theatre till it was nearly time for her to appear. réju was standing at the door, and made a sign for him to pass in without paying. jules accepted the invitation with a twinge of conscience. he wondered what réju would think if he discovered durand's imposition. after the performance, jules waited at the stage-door for half an hour till mademoiselle blanche appeared again. then he asked her and her mother to take supper with him at one of the restaurants in the _boulevard_. madame perrault consented amiably, and they entered a little _café_, where a half-dozen young men and girls were sitting round a table, playing cards. jules wanted to order a bottle of champagne; but mademoiselle blanche objected; he could scarcely keep from smiling when she said she would much rather have beer. so he called for three bocks and some cheese sandwiches, and over this simple repast they became very gay. madame perrault was the liveliest of the three, and she amused jules by a description of her _fiancé_, who had been in love with her, she said, long before her marriage with blanche's father. she seemed to think it was very droll that he should want to marry her now; she had told him he would do much better to marry blanche, or to wait till jeanne grew up. under the warmth of her humor, jules' prejudices against her disappeared, and he found himself growing fond of her. at that moment he longed to confide in her, to tell her all about his infatuation for her daughter, and to ask her advice about the best way of pleasing the girl. when they had left the _café_, and jules had taken his friends home and dismissed the cab, he fell again into the depression of the week before. as he walked to the _rue de lisbonne_ in the damp night, he blamed durand for having introduced him to the perraults. if he hadn't met mademoiselle blanche he might have gone on living comfortably, enjoyed his daily work, his little dinners, his visits to the theatre, his comfortable apartment, with madeleine to look after his wants. now he was upset, at sea. he hated the routine of the office; the vulgar stories of dufresne and leroux disgusted him; the apartment was cold and lonely; madeleine was always interfering with him. he resolved not to go to the _cirque_ again; he would try to forget mademoiselle blanche and her mother's chatter. but when he went to bed it was of her that he thought, and he dreamed that he saw her again, in her white silk tights, climbing hand over hand to the top of the circus, tumbling through the air, and bouncing with a thud to her feet on the padded net. the next morning he felt better, and he called himself a fool for his misery of the night before. as he looked back on the evening, he decided that, of course, if they hadn't liked him, they would not have allowed him to take them to the theatre and back, and to a _café_ for supper. he wondered what they would think if he called for them again that night. perhaps it would be better to wait for two or three days. but at the end of the afternoon he felt so impatient to see mademoiselle blanche that he determined to risk seeming intrusive. so he bought another bunch of white roses, and at eight o'clock he reappeared in the apartment. madame perrault greeted him just as she had done the night before, without a suggestion of surprise in her manner. this made him feel so bold that he did not apologize, as he had intended to do, but took his place by the fire as if he had a right to be there. in this way, jules le baron's courtship began. it seemed to him a strange courtship. it taught him a great many things,--among others, how little he knew about women. as he had lived in paris all of his thirty years, with the exception of his three memorable months in america, he thought he understood women; now he saw his mistake. he had not led a particularly good life, though it was so much better than the lives of most of his acquaintances that he considered himself a man of rather superior character. if he had studied his character more carefully, he would have discovered that his superiority was not a matter of morals, but of taste and temperament. vice seemed to him vulgar, and it made him uncomfortable; so in its grosser forms he had always avoided it. he had, however, the parisian's frank, ingenuous, almost innocent fondness for the humorously indecent, and his attitude toward life was wholly french. the mention of virtue made him laugh and shrug his shoulders. most women, he thought, were naturally the inferiors of men; so the better he understood the character of mademoiselle blanche, the more surprised he grew. indeed, there were times when he felt awed in her presence and ashamed of himself. she seemed to know the world and yet to be untainted by it, to turn away instinctively from its evil phases. if her innocence had been ignorant, he could not have respected it; the knowledge that she had lived in the midst of temptation made her goodness seem almost sublime. jules fell into the habit of calling for the perraults in the evening, and he soon became recognized at the _cirque_ as their escort. réju, who still showed respect for him as a journalist, admitted him to the theatre every night without charge, and he was also permitted to enter the sacred precincts beyond the stage-door, where, instead of waiting on the sidewalk, he stood in a cold corridor, dimly lighted by sputtering lamps. after the performance, he sometimes took his friends into the little _café_ for beer and sandwiches, and occasionally madame perrault would prepare a supper at home. jules' equilibrium became restored again; he made fewer mistakes at the office and he even deceived the twins, who had come to the conclusion that he must be in love. with madeleine, in spite of his first confidences, he had little to say about mademoiselle blanche, and she did not dare ask him questions. his silence and his improved appetite, together with his renewed amiability, made her hope that he had recovered from his infatuation, and she felt easier in mind. on the saturday evening following his first call on mademoiselle blanche, while jules was sitting in the little apartment, he asked the girl if they might not pass sunday together. "we might drive through the _bois_ into the country," he suggested. she had been looking into the fire, and she glanced at him hesitatingly. "we always go to mass on sunday morning," she said. for a moment jules appeared confused. "but can't you go to early mass?" madame perrault, who was in the next room, called out: "it's no use trying to persuade her not to go to high mass, monsieur. she'd think something terrible was going to happen to her if she didn't go. now, i go at eight o'clock; so i have the rest of the day free." jules looked at mademoiselle blanche and smiled, and she smiled back. "i like to hear the music," she explained apologetically. "oh, she's too religious for _this_ world," madame perrault laughed. "i believe she'd go to mass every morning of her life if she didn't have to stay up so late at night. she ought to be in a convent instead of a circus." "in a convent!" jules exclaimed, in mock alarm. "don't you ever go to church?" the girl asked, turning to jules. he looked confused again. "i? well, no. to tell the truth, i haven't been in a church for nearly ten years. oh, yes i have. i went to a funeral two years ago at the trinity." "but weren't you--weren't you brought up to go to church?" "brought up to go to church? oh, yes; my mother went to church every sunday of her life. i used to go with her after my father died." a long silence followed. mademoiselle blanche turned again to the fire, and jules had a sensation of extreme unpleasantness. like many parisians, he never thought about religion. he had been so affected by the skepticism of his associates that he had no real belief in any doctrine. he saw now for the first time that serious complications might arise from his religious indifference. it was very disagreeable, he thought, to be confronted with it in this way. indeed, the more he thought about it, the more annoyed he became. he felt that he must justify himself in some way. so at last he spoke up: "i suppose you're shocked because i don't go to church, aren't you, mademoiselle?" mademoiselle blanche looked down at her hands lying folded in her lap. "i'm sorry." "sorry?" he repeated, trying to laugh. "why are you sorry? i rather like it. i never did enjoy going to church." "we don't go to church to enjoy it, do we?" she asked gently. he sank back in his seat, and looked at her. "no, i suppose not." then, after a moment, he suddenly leaned forward. "we can't all be good like you, mademoiselle. perhaps if i had known you always, i should go to church. i'd do anything to please you." "but you ought not to go to please me. you ought to go for your own good." "so you think it does good, then--going to church?" "i'm sure of it," she replied, gazing into the fire. "sometimes,--when i feel unhappy because i haven't seen the girls for so long, and because i must be separated from them so much, or when aunt sophie complains about jeanne, or jeanne has been unkind to louise, or disobedient, then, after i've been to church, i feel better." "why do you feel better?" he asked, more to keep her talking than because he cared for her answer. "because i feel sure," she went on, holding her head down, "i feel sure it will all come out right--if i only have faith. jeanne is a good girl; she's never disobedient or unkind with me." "then you worry about jeanne?" "yes--sometimes." "but you don't worry so much after you've been at church?" "no." "and that is why you like to go to church?" "that's one reason. but there are others--a great many others." he felt like laughing at the simplicity of her reasoning, and yet he was touched. he had a sudden desire to take her in his arms and stroke her soft hair and tell her he loved her. then he heard her mother's step in the next room, and this roused him. "i should like to go to church with you sometimes," he said. "may i?" "take him to-morrow, blanche," cried madame perrault, and at that moment jules could have kissed her, too. "there's going to be a special service at _st. philippe de roule_ at ten o'clock. the music will be good." that was how jules first happened to go to church with mademoiselle blanche. after mass they walked up the _champs Élysées_ and then along the _avenue du bois de boulogne_, in the midst of the multitude of promenaders. a few of the men recognized the girl, and turned to look after her. she seemed not to see them, but jules did, and he felt very proud to be her escort. she looked very pretty in her tight-fitting black jacket and little hat tipped with fur, her cheeks scarlet with the early frost. she was the last person in the crowd, jules thought, who would be taken for an acrobat. it seemed to him wonderful that she should appear so unlike the marvel that she was, and this lack of resemblance to herself made her the more attractive to him. after that day, jules went to church with mademoiselle blanche every sunday. at first the sight of the priests in their vestments, of the altar-boys in their white surplices, of the white altar gleaming with candles and plate and enshrouded in incense, and the reverberation of the organ, mingled with the voices singing the music of the mass, all reminded him so strongly of his mother, that his old affection for her swept over him, and brought tears to his eyes. his own disbelief had made him doubt even the faith of others. it had also inspired him with the hatred for priests, so common even among parisians of traditions like his own. now, as he watched them, chanting at the altar, they seemed harmless as other men. he tried, as he went mechanically through the service, to count the men he knew who went to church. nearly all of his acquaintances, he found, scoffed at it. then gradually the service became subtly mingled with his love for the girl beside him, and for her sake he loved it. the organ seemed to sing her praise exultingly. he would have liked to tell her of this fancy, but he did not dare; he knew it would shock her. in a short time, going through the mass with her grew to mean to him an expression of his love, a spiritual exaltation which he offered as a tribute, not to god, but to her. vii by the month of november, jules had identified himself with madame perrault and her daughter. he took his position as their friend and recognized escort so quickly and so quietly that he was himself surprised by it. there were moments when he had a fear that it was all an illusion, that some night he should find the stage-door of the _cirque_ slammed in his face. it was while watching mademoiselle blanche in the ring that he found it most difficult to realize his happiness. he actually _knew_ this wonderful creature in white tights who darted from trapeze to trapeze, who posed like a marble statue on the rope, who shot through the air like a thunderbolt! he saw her every day; he loved her, and she knew that he loved her. sometimes he fancied that she loved him in return--from an expression in her face, a glance of her eyes, a blush, a tremor when his hand touched hers. he did not dare speak to her about his love; he doubted if he should ever dare to speak; at a word he feared his happiness might be shattered. sometimes on sunday afternoons he drove with mademoiselle blanche and her mother into the country, and on sunday nights he would dine and pass the evening with them in the little apartment. occasionally he had long talks with the mother; in these he told about his family and about his property, laying stress on the fact that even if he lost his place at the office his income was large enough to support him. she told him, in return, about her own family and her husband's, and gave him a humorous account of her sister-in-law, blanche's aunt sophie. "blanche is a little like her," she said. "sophie takes everything _au grand sérieux_. then she's strict with the children, and that's a great mistake, for jeanne hates restraint, and louise doesn't need it." she also told him amusing stories about monsieur berthier's devotion to her. he had offered himself to her while she was at the convent where she was educated, near boulogne, and she had refused him twice. her family had objected to her marriage with blanche's father, simply because he was an acrobat. no, she hadn't fallen in love with him at the circus. she never saw him perform till a short time before she became engaged to him. ah, it had been hard for her to be separated from him so much. sometimes she travelled with him in his long journeys; but while the children were very young, she couldn't. blanche had been such a consolation to him. madame perrault believed that husband and wife ought never to be separated; it was bad for both of them. if she had her life to live over again, she would always travel with her husband, no matter how far he went. most of jules' talk with madame perrault, however, consisted of a discussion of the qualities of her daughter, whose praises she constantly sang for him. blanche's ambition, she said, was to provide dowries for her sisters; she had already accumulated a few thousand francs, and these she had set aside for the girls. she never seemed to think that she herself needed a _dot_. ah, sometimes madame was very much worried about her daughter's future. blanche could not marry any of the other performers; they were not worthy of her, and their coarseness and roughness shocked her. of course, they were good enough in their way, but their way was not blanche's way. then, as madame became more familiar with jules, she also grew more confidential. yes, blanche had had a great many admirers. the young prince of luperto had fallen desperately in love with her in bucharest three years before, and he had followed her all over europe. but she had refused to notice any of his letters,--and oh, _mon dieu!_ such letters! madame had read every one of them, and she had met the prince the night he tried to force himself into blanche's dressing-room. he seemed _such_ a gentleman, and he had the most beautiful eyes! but blanche,--she was so frightened. she cried and cried, and for weeks she was in terror of her life! then there were others,--so many, so many. one by one, madame perrault unfolded their histories to jules, and he listened in rapt attention, with a growing appreciation of the daughter's charms and of the mother's amiability. jules often wondered why he did not hear more talk about the circus in the little apartment. the subject was rarely mentioned. mademoiselle blanche displayed no nervousness before or after her performance. she practised a little in the morning at home, she said, to keep her muscles limber; she had done the same things on the trapeze so often that they had become easy to her. once jules met in the apartment the oily little frenchman who always held the rope when mademoiselle blanche climbed to the top of the _cirque_, and then he learned for the first time that monsieur pelletier was mademoiselle's agent. "and he is such a trial to us," the mother explained when he was gone. "he makes such bad terms, and we have to pay him such a high percentage; and then he sometimes mixes up our dates, and we don't know what to do. ah, if we could only have some one to take care of our affairs that we could trust. it is so hard for two unprotected women." jules thought of this speech many times. indeed, he fairly brooded over it. for several weeks he had felt that his career was too limited; he hated the thought of being tied down to his business all his life. he was made for something better than that, for a grander, a more conspicuous _rôle_. in his youth he had thought of the army, then of a diplomatic career; for a time, too, of the stage. but he had been too poor to enter either of the first two professions, and for the stage he was unfitted by temperament. now, in his imagination a brilliant career stretched before him, combining both glory and love. up to the present he had not lived; his life was about to begin. the world seemed to open out to him! he would travel from one end of the earth to the other in an unbroken march of triumph. even paris lost attractiveness for him and seemed uninteresting and petty; he pitied the poor _boulevardiers_ who were bound to a wretched routine of existence, who loved it simply because they knew of no other. he would not only visit america again--this time not in a sordid capacity, friendless and lonely, but surrounded by a retinue--he would go also to russia, to india, to australia, perhaps to japan and the other countries of the remote east. the night when he was first enchanted by this vision, he could not sleep for excitement till nearly four o'clock. then he saw the vision realized, only to be shattered by madeleine's cracked voice, and her injunction that it was time for him to get up and go to his work. in the evening, when he saw his friends again, he found them very unhappy; they had just received news from jeanne that aunt sophie was very ill, threatened with pneumonia. madame perrault was in tears, and mademoiselle blanche's eyes showed that she, too, had been crying. the next day, they said, jeanne had promised to write, and the next night jules learned that bad news had been received. the doctor pronounced the case pneumonia, and said the patient was in great danger. mamma must come on, jeanne wrote. but madame explained to jules with sobs that she could not leave blanche. "and my poor jeanne, what will she do, a child of fourteen with only the little louise to help her." then jules became inspired. his faithful madeleine--she would save the situation. madame perrault might go to boulogne by the first train, and madeleine would take her place, would be a second mother to mademoiselle blanche, accompany her to the theatre, help her to dress, come back with her, keep her from being lonely. jules wanted to rush off at once, and bring madeleine to the _rue st. honoré_, for inspection and approval. then the girl's quiet wisdom asserted itself. jeanne had said there was no immediate danger; so if mamma took the train in the morning, that would be in quite time enough. after their _petit déjeuner_ they might call on madeleine, or monsieur jules might tell them if she would come. then jules burst into a eulogy of madeleine's qualities: he had never before realized what a good soul she was. he would bring her with him, he said, in the morning, on his way to the office; he knew she would be glad to come. on this occasion jules had a chance to display his executive ability. after leaving his friends at the circus, he drove home furiously, found madeleine sound asleep in the big chair by the fireplace, woke her up, and explained the situation. "now, my dear madeleine," he said at the end, "you are to go to that poor girl and take her mother's place; she will love you, and you will love her. so be good to her for my sake, madeleine," and he leaned over, and patted the old woman's wrinkled hand affectionately. madeleine was moved, chiefly, however, by jules' unwonted tenderness. she had never known an actress, not to speak of a performer in a circus, and she felt alarmed at the thought of meeting one. but she felt sure that mademoiselle blanche must be good. hadn't jules said so? jules had not said that he was in love with mademoiselle; he trusted madeleine to find that out for herself; he also trusted madeleine to find out a few other things for him. secretly he was blessing the chance that enabled him to send madeleine to mademoiselle; for the moment he did not even think of the personal discomfort it would cause himself. that night jules told his friends that madeleine had consented to come, and he promised to bring her with him in the morning. madeleine was greatly agitated, and rose unusually early to make an elaborate toilette. she rarely went out, save to the shops and to mass; so she had not kept up with the fashions, and her best dress was made in a mode long before discarded. she was a very grotesque figure as she walked in her queer little bonnet with long ribbons flying from it, and her wide skirts. when they reached the apartment in the _rue st. honoré_, jules thought he saw an expression of amusement in madame perrault's face, but blanche greeted madeleine with great kindliness. then the mother explained that she had just received a letter from jeanne, saying aunt sophie was in no immediate danger, but begging her to come as soon as possible. jules saw that both his friends were pleased with madeleine, and it was quickly arranged that she should install herself in the apartment that day, and at four o'clock madame perrault would leave for boulogne. he departed radiantly happy, with the promise to return at three to take madame to the station. he secured leave of absence from the office, and on his return to the apartment he found madeleine there, helping mademoiselle blanche to make a new dress. "i'll be ready in a minute," madame perrault cried from the adjoining room. "are you coming with us, mademoiselle?" jules asked. "no, i won't let her," her mother replied. "it's too cold, and it would tire her. you aren't afraid to ride alone in a cab with me, are you?" jules was surprised by her vivacity; he knew that she was greatly worried about her sister, yet in the midst of her agitation she could joke. if he had known her less he would have supposed that she was a woman of little feeling. she presently flounced out of the room, putting on her gloves and smiling. "madeleine and blanche have become great friends," she said. "i'm afraid i shall be jealous of her. when i come back there won't be any place for me." then she took her daughter by both hands and jules saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. "good-bye, dear," she said, kissing the girl on both cheeks. "you must write to me every day, and i'll write to you. in a week, at least, i shall be back. i have a presentiment that sophie will improve as soon as i get there." mademoiselle blanche clung tightly to her mother, and kissed her again and again. "there, there! now, my child--there!" with a parting embrace, madame perrault tore herself away, crying as she passed out of the door, "good-bye, madeleine. take care of the little one! and remember monsieur jules is coming back to dinner. i'm going to invite him." this was the first time she had ever called jules by his first name, and on hearing it he felt a thrill of joy. she hurried before him down the steep stairs, wiping her eyes. when they entered the cab, she had controlled herself again, and was smiling as usual. the cab rattled so noisily over the pavement that during most of the ride to the station they kept silent. they arrived there half an hour ahead of time, and this they spent in walking up and down the platform. "you must be very kind to my blanche while i'm away," said madame perrault. "she will be very lonely. she hasn't been separated from me before since her father died." jules assured her that he would be a second mother to her. he would take her and madeleine to the _cirque_ every night, and in the morning on his way to the office he would call to ask if he could do her any service. "she'll be spoiled when you come back," he concluded with a smile. for a moment they walked without speaking. the station was so cold that their breaths made vapour in the air. yet jules felt warm enough; his whole being seemed to glow. "there's something i want to tell you." she made a sign with her head that she was listening. "i'm in love with mademoiselle blanche," he said, impressively, finding a delicious relief in speaking the words. she smiled roguishly into his face. "is that all?" they looked into each other's eyes, and read there a mutual understanding. "then you've known all along?" "of course, from the very first, from the first night you came into the dressing-room, and pretended to be a reporter." "ah, i thought you had forgiven that." "so i have--that is, there was nothing to forgive. you didn't deceive me." "do you mean that you knew at the time i wasn't a reporter? and blanche--she knew too?" "no, poor dear, she didn't know. yet it was plain as daylight. ah, my friend, i haven't lived fifty years for nothing. don't you suppose i could tell from your looks and your manner, and what you said, and what you _didn't_ say,--don't you suppose i could tell from all that, what you had come for?" jules looked into her face again. "how good you are!" he sighed. she burst out laughing. "good? i am not good. blanche taught me that years ago. there's nothing like having a good daughter to take a mother down. she makes me feel ashamed every day of my life." "that's just the way she makes me feel," jules cried, delighted to find that some one else shared his feeling. "then she's so gentle and so kind," he rhapsodized, "and she thinks so little about herself! do you--do you think----oh, that's what almost drives me to despair sometimes. i hardly dare go near her. i hardly dare to speak to her." madame perrault took a deep breath. "you almost make me feel young again," she said, with a smile. "do you think i could make her love me?" jules asked, marvelling at his own humility. "do you mean that you want to know whether i think she's in love with you or not?" madame perrault said briskly. "ah, my friend, i can't answer that question. you must ask her yourself." "then you give me permission to ask her? you are willing? you have no objection?" he stopped suddenly, and looked radiantly at madame perrault's face. "how _good_ you are, madame!" he repeated. she began to laugh again,--a peculiar, gurgling laugh that came from her throat. "why should i object? you are a good fellow. you would make blanche a good husband. it's time for her to get married. she needs some one to protect her. i can't follow her about all the rest of my life. she is twenty-two. why shouldn't she marry?" jules' ardor was cooled by this practical reasoning; it made him practical too. he told madame perrault again of his little property. he could well afford to marry, he said. he loved mademoiselle blanche with all his heart; he couldn't live without her; he would give up everything for her; he would follow her everywhere. ah, if he only knew whether she cared for him or not! she was so strange, so reserved. it was so hard to tell with a girl like her. "you are right there, my friend. she has great reserve. with my jeanne or louise, i should know everything. but with blanche, _non!_ but i never pry into her secrets; i have learned better. she has a great deal of inner life; she thinks a great deal; she is not like the other flighty women that you see in the circus. if she had not been born to the circus, if she had been brought up as louise has been, she would be a _religieuse_." jules would have become rhapsodical again if the whistle of the train had not sounded, and he was obliged hurriedly to help madame perrault into her compartment. he shook the hand that she offered him, received a few last messages, and he watched the train as it pulled out of the station. then, with a sigh, he turned and walked back to his office. viii after the departure of madeleine, jules would have found his apartment cheerless, if he had not used it merely for sleeping. as soon as he rose in the morning, he went to madame perrault's, where he breakfasted with mademoiselle blanche. in spite of her duties elsewhere, madeleine kept his rooms in order, and his new domestic arrangements did not in the least inconvenience him. indeed, he liked them, and he almost dreaded the return of mademoiselle's mother. this would probably not take place for several weeks, however, for the illness of her aunt sophie proved to be very tedious, though after the first ten days she was pronounced out of danger. madeleine had speedily won the affections of mademoiselle blanche, and she secretly confided to jules that the girl was an angel. "i knew you'd think so," jules replied. "i've thought so ever since i first saw her." "ah, but it's wicked that she should have to do those dreadful things every night!" madeleine cried, rolling her eyes, and throwing up her hands in horror. "it freezes my blood." "but she likes it," jules explained. "ah, it's wicked just the same, the poor child!" madeleine had speedily adapted herself to her duties as dresser to mademoiselle blanche, and her nightly trips to the theatre were the most exciting experiences of her life. after seeing the plunge from the top of the circus, however, she had refused to look at it again. "it freezes my blood," she would repeat, whenever jules referred to it. "it's too horrible!" "but she makes a lot of money by it," jules insisted. "she would do much better to stay poor," madeleine replied, with a tartness that was rare with her and made jules burst out laughing. "madeleine," he said, confidentially. "madeleine, come over here." madeleine bent her head towards him with a smile on her face. "madeleine, do you think there's any one--any one that she cares about particularly--any one you know? eh?" madeleine's wrinkles deepened, as the smile spread over her face and lighted her faded eyes. "ah, monsieur jules, she is very fond of her sisters. she is always talking about them, especially about _la petite_ jeanne. then she's very fond of her mamma, too, of course." "madeleine, you're trying to plague me now. you know i don't mean that. i mean any--any--?" "any gentleman, monsieur jules?" the old woman asked. "yes, madeleine, any gentleman." madeleine grew thoughtful. "she often speaks of monsieur berthier, who is going to marry her mother. she says he's very kind to her sisters." "and is that all, madeleine? doesn't she speak of any one else? doesn't she ever speak of--of me?" "oh, yes, monsieur jules, she thinks you've been very good to her and her mother. she often speaks of that." this was all the information that jules could extract from madeleine. on several occasions he tried her again, but though she seemed amused by his questions, she evaded them. once he said to her: "madeleine, how would you like to go away with me--to travel--a long distance?" madeleine carefully considered the question. then she replied simply: "i should not like to leave paris, monsieur jules, but, if you wanted me to go, i would go." after that, madeleine was less worried. she had little to say, and, like most silent people, she observed and thought a great deal. for mademoiselle blanche she had conceived a genuine affection, and she looked forward with regret to the time when she would have to leave the _rue st. honoré_ for jules' lonely apartment. one saturday night, on their return from the circus, jules asked mademoiselle blanche if she were going to high mass the next day as usual. he was surprised when she replied that she was going at eight o'clock instead. "but that is too early," he said. "you won't have sleep enough." "i'm going to communion," she explained. "oh!" he could not understand why this announcement should impress him as it did. he had supposed that of course she went to communion; she had probably gone to confession early in the afternoon before the _matinée_. once again he felt awed by her goodness. how strange it was that she should be in the confessional at three o'clock, and two hours later perform in her fleshings before a crowd of people! the very publicity of her life seemed to exalt the simplicity and the purity of her character. jules was so absorbed in thinking of these things that he did not speak again till the cab reached the _rue st. honoré_. then, as he helped mademoiselle out, he said: "i'll go to church with you to-morrow, if you will let me. you won't leave before half-past seven, will you?" she protested that he ought not to get up so early; he needed a good night's rest after his hard work of the week. but he laughed and waved his hand to her in parting, and told her not to wait for him after a quarter to eight; now that he didn't have madeleine to call him, he might not wake up in time. he was in time, however, and as he walked to church in the cold december air with mademoiselle by his side, he felt repaid for his sacrifice. she wore a tight-fitting fur coat and a black cloth dress, with the little fur-trimmed hat he had admired when he first walked with her in the _champs Élysées_. her face was protected by a thick dotted veil, but under it he could see her sparkling eyes and the color in her cheeks. "i'm paying you a very great compliment," he said, as they hurried along towards _st. philippe de roule_. "i haven't got up so early on a sunday since i was a boy." she smiled in reply; it was too cold for her to speak. he could see her breath steaming faintly through the veil. he felt a curious desire to hear her voice again; he did not realize that her devotion to the church made her seem more remote from him, but he had an unpleasant consciousness that his own lack of religious faith created a barrier between them. in the church he kept glancing from the priest celebrating the mass, to her. she was absorbed in reading her prayer-book, and she did not once look up at him. he compared her as she appeared then with her appearance in the glamor of the circus ring. she was the same person, yet different. she represented to him a kind of miracle. how humble she was, how sweet and good, as she knelt there! when the priest began to distribute the communion and blanche left her seat and joined the throng approaching the altar, jules was touched with a tenderness he had never felt before. he buried his face in his hands, and prayed that he might be made worthy of her. he did not dare pray for her love; a certain sense of shame at having neglected god and church for so many years, at having lived solely for his own gratification, kept him from that; but if he had examined his motives, he would have found that this was really what he was praying for. he deceived himself so easily that he instinctively felt that he might be able to deceive god too. on leaving the church, jules proposed that they go to a restaurant for breakfast. "we'll make a holiday of it," he said, "and drink to your aunt sophie's health." but blanche protested that madeleine would expect them, and would be worried if she were not back by half-past nine. "then we'll go out at one o'clock. i'll take you over to bertiny's, in the _champs Élysées_. it's very gorgeous; the twins took me there once to celebrate dufresne's luck when he won five hundred francs at the races." though the sun was shining, it was still very cold, and as they hurried to the little apartment jules could see that she was trembling. madeleine had prepared some hot coffee for them and some eggs, and over these they were very gay. jules was in a particularly good humor, and mademoiselle blanche laughed at his jokes, though most of them she had heard before. she had a very pretty laugh, he thought,--like her mother's, though not so deep and gurgling. after breakfast her face flushed from her walk and she looked even prettier than she appeared in the church. as madeleine cleared away the table, blanche began to water the flowers by the window, and jules opened the copy of the _petit journal_ that he had bought on the way from the church. he kept glancing up at mademoiselle, however, and each time he looked at her he had a new sensation of pleasure. how domestic she looked in the little dress of gray wool that she had put on after her return from mass! she seemed to create an atmosphere of home around her. in her belt were the roses he had given her the night before, still fresh and sparkling with drops of water from her fingers. how good it was, he thought, that he could be with her like this! how lonely his own apartment would be to him when madame perrault came back! he almost wished that she would never return, that she would marry monsieur berthier, and they might go on in this way forever. he laughed at the thought, and just then mademoiselle turned her head. "monsieur seems to be amused," she said. "what is he smiling at?" "i'm smiling because i'm so happy," jules replied. "don't you smile when you're happy?" she took a seat by the table, where she rested one hand. "no, i don't think i do," she said, apparently giving the question serious consideration. "when i am very happy i look serious. then mamma sometimes fancies i feel sad." he took a cigarette-case from his pocket and began to smoke. "do you know," he said at last, "i shall be sorry when your mother returns?" "sorry?" "yes, because madeleine will come back to me then, and i shall have to stay at home. i can't come any more as i do now." a look of alarm appeared in her face. "but why can't you come just the same?" she asked, innocently. he burst out laughing, and he felt a sudden desire to pat her on the cheek as he might have done to a child. what a child she was, anyway! yet he would not have wished her to be different; she seemed to him just what a young girl should be. "when your mother comes, i can't take breakfast with you any more, and i can't come early on sunday mornings and stay all day. i shall have to go back to my lonely apartment." "but you have madeleine," she said, with a faint smile. "madeleine, yes, and she is good enough in her way." then he suddenly threw his cigarette into the fireplace, and bent toward her. "don't you know," he whispered, in a voice so low that madeleine, who was moving about in the next room, could not hear him, "can't you see that it's _you_ i shall miss? can't you see that you've become everything in the world to me? without you, dear blanche, i shouldn't care to live. before i met you i didn't know what life really was--i didn't know what love was. i loved you the first time i saw you, and the more i've seen you, the better i've known you, the dearer you've become to me. i don't think i ever really understood what it was to be pure and good till i knew you. you've made me ashamed of myself. sometimes i feel as if i had no right to go near you. but i do love you, blanche, and they say love helps a man to be good. i haven't dared to tell you this before; i've been afraid to ask you if you loved me. but this morning in church, it all came over me so--so that i must tell you. blanche," he went on, taking her hand, "you aren't offended with me for saying this, are you? i love you so much--i can't help loving you. if you'll only love me a little, dear, i'll be satisfied. won't you tell me if you do care for me a little--just a little?" he knelt by her side, and tried to look into her face; but she turned her head away, and he saw that her neck was crimson. her bosom kept rising and falling convulsively. then he pressed toward her and clasped her in his arms and kissed her again and again,--on the face, the forehead, the hair, even on her ears when she buried her head on his shoulder. his lips were wet with her tears, and he felt radiantly, exultantly happy. "i love you, i love you!" he kept repeating. for the first time he felt sure that his love was returned; but he was not satisfied. he wanted to hear her speak out her love. his lips were on her cheek, and she was lying motionless in his arms, as he whispered: "won't you say that you love me, dear? just three words. that isn't much, and it will make me the happiest man that ever lived." instead of speaking, she put her arms on his shoulders, as a child might have done, and he pressed her close to his breast again. then he heard a noise behind him, and he saw madeleine standing, big-eyed, in the doorway; she seemed too startled to move. he rose quickly to his feet, and still holding blanche's hand, he said: "madeleine, come here!" she came forward timidly, as if afraid she might be punished for her intrusion. "mademoiselle blanche is going to be my wife, madeleine." madeleine held out her arms to the girl, and for a moment they stood clasped in each other's embrace. "ah, monsieur jules," the old woman cried, "i pray god your mother can look down from heaven and see what a good daughter she's getting!" ix after confessing his love, jules experienced, mingled with his exultation, a feeling of bewildered amazement at his own boldness. this was followed by a poignant regret that he hadn't spoken before. now, however, that his weeks of doubt and of intermittent misery were over, he gave himself up to his happiness, which manifested itself in a wild exuberance of spirits. in a short time he was speaking humorously of those weeks, ridiculing himself as if he had already become different, almost another person from what he had been then. he told blanche about his tortures, and even succeeded in extorting a confession from her that she had been in love with him since the first sunday when he had called at the apartment and acknowledged durand's duplicity; she, too, had had her doubts and her fears. then they became very confidential, and by the time the morning was over, and they found themselves in the restaurant, they felt as if they had known each other intimately for years. in spite of blanche's protests, jules ordered a bottle of champagne and an elaborate luncheon. "i suppose i ought to have asked madeleine to come," he said, "but i wanted to be alone with you. some day before your mother returns, we'll have another _fête_, and take madeleine with us." in the morning, when he spoke about a definite engagement, and she protested that her mother must be consulted, he had told her of his talk with madame perrault at the railway station. now he went on to make plans for their marriage. there was no reason, he argued, why they should wait a long time; her mother had been engaged to monsieur berthier for three years, but she would not marry till blanche had a protector. jules liked to talk of himself in this character; it gave him a feeling of importance. so, altogether, he went on, the sooner the marriage took place the better. he would give up his place in the wool-house, and devote himself to his wife's career; for, of course, they couldn't be separated. they would be very happy travelling about, from one end of the world to the other. it never occurred to either of them that blanche might retire from the ring after marriage. she herself seemed to regard the circus as part of her life; she had been born in it, and she belonged to it as long as she was able to perform. as for jules, he could not have dissociated her from the thought of the circus. even now he felt as if he had himself become wedded to it, that he had acquired a kind of proprietary interest in it. he discussed blanche's professional engagements as if they were his own. why, he asked, couldn't the marriage take place during the weeks that intervened between her engagement at the _cirque parisien_ and her appearance in vienna? jeanne and louise could come up to paris for christmas and the new year, and be present at the ceremony. by that time he would have his affairs arranged so that he could go with her to vienna. of course, they must dismiss pelletier after their marriage. jules would take charge of his wife's affairs; his capacity for business would enable him to make good terms for her. he would plan wonderful tours; he would write to america, perhaps, and secure engagements for her there; artists were wonderfully well paid in america, better than in any other country, and they would enjoy seeing the new world together. blanche listened to his talk with a touching confidence; she seemed to think it natural that he should speak as if he had authority over her. she made no protest against any of his suggestions, though she repeated that nothing could be decided till her mother returned to paris. "but we'll write to your mother," said jules. "we'll write to her this very day--this afternoon when we go back." for a moment her face clouded. "what's the matter? don't you want me to write to your mother?" she did not reply at once. when she did speak, she kept her eyes fixed on her plate. "it will be so hard to be separated from her." jules laughed, and bent toward her. "but you can't stay with her always," he said tenderly. "then we'll take madeleine with us. that will be a capital plan. she's strong and healthy, though she's over sixty, and she won't mind the travelling. besides, we shall be in vienna three months, and we'll rent a little apartment. it will be like being at home." he spoke as if their future were settled, and his tone of confidence seemed to reassure her. "i should like to have madeleine," she said simply. "she is so good." on their return to the apartment, they devoted themselves to writing long letters to madame perrault. jules' letter was full of rhapsodies, of promises to be kind to the girl who had consented to be his wife, and of his plans for the future. they read their letters to each other, or rather jules read all of his, and blanche read part of hers, firmly refusing to allow him to hear the rest. they spent a very happy afternoon together, and in the evening madeleine had a sumptuous dinner for them, with an enormous bunch of fresh roses on the table. in the evening they went to the _comédie française_, to finish what jules declared to be the happiest day of his life. jules counted that day as the beginning of his real career. he looked back on himself during the years he had lived before it almost with pity. since leaving the _lycée_, he had been merely a drudge, a piece of mechanism in the odious machinery of business. he had been content enough, but with the contentment of ignorance. how lonely and sordid his existence out of the office had been! he thought of his solitary dinners in _cafés_, surrounded by wretched beings like himself deprived of the happiness that comes from home and from an honest love. to the twins and his other comrades at the office he said nothing of the change that had taken place in his life; he was afraid they would chaff him; of course, when they heard he was going to marry an acrobat, they would make foolish jokes and treat him with a familiar levity. he determined not to tell them of his marriage until the eve of his departure from business; he would have to give the firm at least a fortnight's notice; but he would merely explain to monsieur mercier that he intended to devote a few months to travel, and thought of going to america. madame perrault replied at once to jules' letter. she made no pretence of being surprised by the news it contained; and she expressed her pleasure at the engagement, and gave her consent. but they must not make any definite plans until her return to paris. that would be in about two weeks, for aunt sophie was very much better now and rapidly gaining strength, though she had as yet been unable to leave her bed. as soon as sophie could go out, she was to be carried to the house of her cousin, angélique magnard, who would give her the best of care. then madame perrault would be able to take jeanne and louise to paris for the holidays; the girls were wild to see their dear blanche again and to meet jules. monsieur berthier talked of coming with them; he, too, was eager to make the acquaintance of blanche's future husband. after these preliminaries, madame perrault devoted herself to practical matters. she felt it her duty to inform monsieur jules that blanche had no _dot_; she had earned a great deal of money, but most of it had been spent in maintaining the family; since the death of her father she had been their sole support. of course, after marriage, her daughter's earnings would belong to jules; but he must distinctly understand that he was taking a penniless bride. after her own marriage, madame perrault would have no fear for the future; monsieur berthier had promised of his own accord to provide for the girls; indeed, it was chiefly for their sake that, at the age of fifty-three, she was willing to marry again. so blanche would no longer have her family dependent on her. jules replied with an impassioned letter. he didn't care whether blanche had a _dot_ or not. he wanted to marry her because he loved her, because without her his life would be unendurable: he would marry her if she were the poorest girl in france. it took him several pages to say this, and he read the letter with satisfaction, and then aloud to blanche, who laughed over it, and gave him a timid little kiss in acknowledgment of his devotion. he thought he had done a commendable act, and he felt convinced that every word he had written was true. at the office jules grew reserved, and he resented haughtily the familiarities of the twins. indeed, to all of his companions in the wool house he could not help displaying the superiority he felt. he would be there only a few weeks longer, and he acted as if he were conferring a favor on his employer by staying. the twins spent many hours in discussing the change in him; but they could not discover the cause. "you ought to have heard him talk to old mercier the other day," said leroux. "you'd think he was the president receiving a deputation." early in november, blanche received a letter from her mother, saying aunt sophie was so much better that they had decided to move her the next day, and two days later she would herself leave boulogne with the girls and monsieur berthier. jules was both glad and sorry to hear the news,--sorry because his long _tête-à-têtes_ with blanche would end for a time, and glad because he would be able to arrange definitely with her mother for the marriage. madeleine grieved at parting with the girl, but was consoled when jules explained that she would probably be needed every night at the circus after madame perrault's return, for, of course, monsieur berthier would want to take his _fiancée_ to the theatres. in speaking of monsieur berthier, jules had adopted a facetious tone, which half-amused and half-pained blanche. "how droll it will be," he said one day, "to have two pairs of lovers billing and cooing together." "mamma doesn't bill and coo," the girl replied, with just a suggestion of resentment in her tone. "she's too sensible." then jules patted her affectionately on the cheek, and told her she mustn't take what he said so seriously. "monsieur berthier must be a very good man, or he wouldn't get such a good wife," he said lightly. then, with a comic look in his eyes, he added as an afterthought: "what a very good person i must be!" the next night, when jules appeared in the _rue st. honoré_ for dinner, he found the little apartment crowded. madame perrault embraced him, and by addressing him as "my son," seemed to receive him formally into the family. then she introduced the two girls, who were much larger than he had imagined them to be. jeanne, rosy-cheeked and black-eyed, approached him fearlessly, and offered her hand with a smile; louise, fair and slight, with her light brown hair braided down her back, looked frightened, and blushed furiously when she received her salutation. the little fat man standing in front of the mantel, jules recognized at once from his pointed white beard and laughing eyes. "i should have known you in a crowd on the _boulevard_," jules said, as he extended his hand. "you're exactly like your photograph." "and you are even better-looking than mathilde said you were," monsieur berthier replied. "ah, little one," he went on, turning to blanche, and giving her a pinch on the arm, "you're getting a fine, handsome husband." jules tried to make friends with the girls. with jeanne he had no difficulty; she was quite ready to banter with him, and he found her pert and quick-witted. louise, however, was so shy that he could extract only monosyllables from her. she seemed to him very like blanche, only less pretty. jeanne had blanche's beauty, more highly-colored and exuberant; her snapping black eyes showed, too, that she had a will and a temper of her own. jules began to chaff her, to make her show her spirit, but she parried his jests good-humoredly, and she retaliated very smartly. "i don't see how you ever dared to fall in love with blanche," she said. "aren't you afraid of her?" "afraid of her?" jules laughed. "why should i be afraid of her?" "oh, i don't know. i suppose because she's so good. i'm afraid of her sometimes. and i'm afraid of louise when she gets her pious look on. how did you happen to fall in love with her? do tell me. i'll never tell in the world." "i just saw her, that's all," jules explained with mock gravity. "isn't that enough?" "in the circus?" jules nodded. "then you fell in love with her because she does such wonderful things, and looks so beautiful in the ring. now, you wouldn't have fallen in love if you'd just met her like any one else." "but it was because she wasn't like anyone else that i did fall in love with her," jules insisted, with the air of carrying on the joke. "but if she'd never been in the circus--if you'd just met her here, or anywhere else except in the circus--do you think you would have fallen in love with her then?" "of course i should," jules replied unhesitatingly, though he knew he was lying. jeanne shrugged her shoulders and looked skeptical. "i wish i could be in the circus," she said, "and get flowers, and be admired, and earn a lot of money like blanche. and isn't it the funniest thing," she went on, growing more confidential, "blanche doesn't care about it at all." "about the flowers, and being admired, and all that?" "yes. and she says the circus isn't a good place for a young girl. but i say if it's good enough for her, it's good enough for me. anyway, if mamma doesn't let me do what blanche does, i'm going on the stage when i grow up." jules was amused by her talk, and drew her out by deft questions. while she was animatedly describing her life in the convent of boulogne, where the nuns were always holding up louise as a model of good behavior to her, dinner was announced, and they all went out into the dining-room, where jules and blanche had passed so many hours together. this time jules' place was between jeanne and louise. jeanne went on with her chatter, and louise scarcely spoke, save to blanche, with whom she kept exchanging affectionate smiles. "the girls are vexed with me," said madame perrault, "because i won't let them go to the circus to-night." the pale face of louise brightened with eagerness and jeanne turned to her mother and cried pleadingly: "oh, i think it's a shame. the first time we've been in paris, too, and we want to see blanche perform again so much! why can't we go, mamma? please, please let us go." "oh, let the children go," said monsieur berthier good-naturedly. "it would be cruel to send them to bed early their first night in paris." then jules added his voice in the girls' behalf, but madame perrault shook her head decidedly. "i can't have them up so late. besides, they need to rest after their journey. if you are good, jeanne, and don't tease me to go to-night, i'll take you and louise to the _matinée_ on saturday." "oh, the _matinée_!" jeanne pouted, turning for sympathy to jules. "who cares for the _matinée_! isn't it too bad?" she went on in a low voice, so that her mother shouldn't hear her. "when i grow up, monsieur jules, i shall go to the theatre every night--yes, every night of my life. i don't care what happens." jeanne was sullen and louise looked sad when they were left alone with charlotte, the little maid. "i won't go to bed till twelve o'clock," jeanne cried, as her mother, with parting injunctions, went out, followed by the others. "i shall sit up and cry all the evening." "nine o'clock, my dear," said madame perrault serenely. "you know what i said about saturday." the door was slammed behind them and, as they filed downstairs, they heard jeanne go stamping back into the _salon_. "don't you think you're severe with the child, mathilde?" said berthier. "no, félix, not too severe, if you mean that. it's the only way to keep her in check. she has too much spirit. i'm afraid of it sometimes." "that's just the way you used to be at her age," he laughed. "and that's just why i mean to keep her down," she replied, almost sternly. "jeanne has all the spirit of the family," said berthier, glancing at jules. after the performance they returned to the apartment for supper. jules was surprised to find the table steaming with hot dishes, bright with flowers and with wine-glasses. madeleine, who seemed to be in the secret, put on an apron, and proceeded to assist charlotte. "we've prepared a little feast for you," madame perrault explained, "in honour of blanche's engagement. félix has provided the champagne." berthier rubbed his hands and smiled, and they took their places at the table. they were all hungry and in good spirits. this was the happiest time of the day for blanche; though she never consciously worried about her work, she always felt relieved when her performance was done, and she was free to go home and rest. the little rosy-cheeked charlotte busied herself around them, passing dishes and bringing on fresh ones. "it's a shame to keep this poor child up so late," said berthier, when she had left the room for a moment. "why not send her to bed?" "i'll send her as soon as she brings in the rest of the things," madame perrault replied. "she and madeleine can have something to eat together. i sha'n't have to send madeleine home with you to-night, jules. we've made a bed for her in charlotte's room. she's a good creature, your madeleine." charlotte came in with the rest of the dishes, and madame perrault told her to eat something, and go to bed. "and tell madeleine not to wait up for us. you can clear the things away in the morning. did jeanne go to bed at nine o'clock, charlotte?" "yes, madame." "and without any trouble?" "yes, madame." "what did she do to amuse herself during the evening?" charlotte's cheeks took on a deeper red. "she tried to imitate mademoiselle blanche in the circus," she confessed. "ah, that accounts for the broken chair! good night, charlotte." then, as the girl left the room, madame perrault sighed. "that jeanne will be the death of me." "i'll take her in hand when she comes to me," berthier laughed. "we'll have to find a husband for her. that will cure her of her craze for the circus." "a husband for jeanne, little jeanne!" madame perrault exclaimed in horror. "she's barely fourteen." "and in two years she'll be a woman. i was in love with you at fifteen. don't you remember? we thought of eloping." "_taisez-vous!_" cried madame perrault, flushing, and trying not to join in the laughter that the speech excited from jules. "you make me a great fool before my daughter and my new son." "he isn't your son yet," berthier insisted, to tease her. "but he will be soon." "that's just what i wanted you to say!" jules cried. "the sooner the better. tomorrow would suit me." the glasses had been filled with champagne, and berthier lifted his glass high in the air, crying: "let us drink to the _fiancés_! may their marriage be long and their engagement short! here's health and happiness to them!" they all stood up smiling and drank together. then as they sat down again, berthier went on: "ah, i know the folly of long engagements. get married, get married, my children, as soon as you can, while love is young. i once knew a young girl--as beautiful as the morning--more beautiful, a thousand times more beautiful. well, this young girl loved a handsome, yes, i may say a fairly handsome, at any rate, an honest young fellow, who fairly worshipped her in return. but the stern parents of this beautiful young girl----" "_taisez-vous!_" madame perrault repeated. "no more nonsense. if your beautiful young girl hadn't obeyed her parents, where would blanche perrault be at this moment, i should like to know?" "ah, my friend," said berthier to jules, "it's the women who forget. only the men are constant in this world." madame perrault rolled her eyes in mock horror. "constant--the men!" she repeated scornfully. "they don't know what constancy is. if it weren't for the constant women in the world, the men would go straight to the devil." berthier burst into hilarious laughter. he loved nothing better than to be vanquished in an argument by madame perrault. indeed, he often argued simply in order to provoke her. he gave jules a quick glance and a nod which plainly said: "isn't she a fine woman? have you ever seen a woman so clever?" the innocent pleasantries of the old lovers, however, were lost on jules. he wanted to discuss in all seriousness his forthcoming marriage, and this was certainly a suitable occasion. so he determined to put the conversation on another basis. "i am sure monsieur berthier is right about long engagements," he said, "and there's no reason why our engagement shouldn't be short. i love blanche, and blanche loves me, and we think we can make each other happy. i can afford to marry--i have a little property--and when she marries me blanche will have a protector in her professional career." "bravo!" cried berthier. "that was said like a man!" "and the sooner i'm married, the better for you," jules went on, fixing his eyes on berthier's white beard. "then madame perrault won't be tied down to blanche, and there's no reason why you shouldn't be married, too." "we might have a double marriage!" said the little man jocosely. "no, no, _no_!" madame exclaimed. "when i'm married i shall be married very quietly in boulogne, without any fuss. these children shall be married first. then some day, félix, you and i shall walk to the church and it will be over in five minutes." berthier breathed a long sigh, and laid his hand gently on madame perrault's arm. "i've waited a great many years for those five minutes, _chérie_." "blanche's engagement at the circus ends the last day of the year," jules resumed, "and she begins her season in vienna on the fifteenth of january. now, there's no reason in the world that i can think of to prevent our being married between the first of january and the fifteenth." then, from every point of view, they discussed the time of the marriage. madame perrault raised the question of dresses for the bride, of jules' inability to arrange his affairs in so short a time, but these and all other objections were overruled. blanche herself had very little to say; when her mother asked her point-blank if she wanted the marriage to take place so early, she replied that she was willing if jules and the others decided it was best. she seemed more like a passive spectator than one actively interested in the discussion; her eyes kept roving from jules to her mother, and from her mother back to jules. berthier supported jules valiantly, and at two o'clock, madame perrault was finally won over, and it was decided that the marriage should take place during the first week in january. jules kissed blanche on the cheek, and there was general embracing and laughter. then the little party broke up, and monsieur berthier followed jules down the stairs. "ah, my boy," he said, as they stood on the sidewalk, before saying good-night, "i'd give all the money i've made for your youth. youth is the time for love. in my youth it came to me, but i lost it. take good care of it, my friend," he concluded, tapping jules' hand affectionately as they were about to go their separate ways. x jules at once began preparations for his marriage. he gave notice of his intention to leave the wool-house, and to move from his apartment. monsieur mercier showed no regret at his departure. "i've observed that you were no longer interested in your work," he said coldly. jules turned away with a sense of disappointment and pain, feeling that he had been badly treated. though he said nothing to the twins about his going, they speedily heard of it and gibed him for the reason. he preferred to maintain an air of mystery, but one morning leroux came into the office, shaking a copy of the _triomphe_ in the air. "let me congratulate you!" he cried, extending his hand. "i respect a man that can make a stroke like that. i've known you were up to some game all along," he added insinuatingly. jules looked at the paper, and in the column devoted to news of the theatre he read of the engagement of mademoiselle blanche, of the _cirque parisien_, to monsieur jules le baron, a young business man of wealth. dufresne added his congratulations, and one after another during the day jules' other comrades came up to shake his hand. no wonder he had been putting on airs with them! they treated him very jocosely, however, teased him about his reputed wealth, and tortured him with their coarse jokes, so that he looked forward with relief to escaping from them. all of jules' leisure was passed with blanche and her family. he made friends with the girls and with monsieur berthier. the better acquainted he became with louise the more he liked her; jeanne sometimes vexed him by making fun of him, though he was careful not to betray his annoyance. for monsieur berthier he felt a genuine esteem; the little man was always in good humor, though jules suspected that, in spite of his success in business, his whole life had been clouded by the disappointment of his youth. as for madame perrault, notwithstanding the apparent lightness of her character, which had at first prejudiced him against her, the effective way in which she managed her affairs made him realize that she was a woman to be respected. sometimes jules wondered what kind of man blanche's father had been; he fancied that of the two the mother had been by far the stronger. jules passed christmas with his friends and spent a month's salary on gifts for blanche and her sisters. for the girls madame had a _fête_ in the morning after mass, with a christmas tree laden with presents, and decorated with candles and trinkets and _bonbons_. she chose this time of day, as both in the afternoon and evening blanche gave performances. the next morning madame perrault learned through pelletier that the circus in vienna where blanche had been engaged to appear was a little more than ninety feet high; so the plunge would be fifteen feet deeper than it was in paris. this news created excitement in the family. it made madame so nervous that she urged that the engagement be given up and an offer that had come from nice be accepted; but jules laughed at the idea. "what's a difference of fifteen feet to blanche?" he said. "it's just as easy for her to dive ninety feet as to dive seventy-five. the only thing for blanche to do is to go to vienna as soon as her engagement here is over. then she can practise the plunge every morning for two weeks. we'll simply have to get married a little earlier than we intended." madame perrault saw the force of the argument, and monsieur berthier seconded jules. as for blanche, she declared that she should not be afraid of the plunge; at bucharest she had made a plunge of nearly eighty-three feet. so it was agreed that the civil marriage should take place very quietly on the third of january, and the religious ceremony the day after. jules and his bride could leave paris by the afternoon train, accompanied by madeleine. madame perrault was anxious to keep any notice out of the papers, if possible; she thought it might injure blanche professionally. she had been greatly vexed by the paragraph in the _triomphe_ and had attributed it to durand; but jules explained that the _triomphe_ was not durand's paper; besides, the journalist had been sent for the winter to the riviera as correspondent. on the last day of the year jules bade farewell to his associates at the wool-house. most of them regretted his departure, for before his sudden accession of dignity he had been well liked among them. the next morning, on the first day of his emancipation, when he went to the apartment in the _rue st. honoré_, he found some pieces of silver there, the gift of his old comrades. he knew at once that the twins had started a subscription for him, and he felt ashamed of his treatment of them during his last weeks among them. he soon forgot about them, however, and was absorbed in the preparations for his new life. he had sold most of his furniture, save a few pieces that were so intimately associated with the memory of his mother that he could not part with them. for madeleine this was a trying time; she performed her numerous duties, involving several journeys to the _rue st. honoré_, with a look of bewilderment in her face, as if she could not adjust herself to the change that was about to take place in her life. two days before the time chosen for their civil marriage, jules was sitting alone with blanche, beside the fireplace where he had passed most of his courtship. they had been making plans for vienna, and jules felt as if he were already at the head of a household. "do you know," he said, glancing at the engagement ring on her left hand that sparkled in the firelight, "i haven't been able to make up my mind yet what to give you for a wedding present. i wish you'd tell me what you'd like. i want to give you something that will please you very much." she looked intently into the fireplace, and did not reply. "isn't there something that you want especially?" then jules saw her face flush, and he went on quickly: "ah, i know there is, but you're afraid to tell. now, out with it. is it a diamond brooch, or one of those queer little gold watches that women carry, set with jewels, or one of those bracelets that we saw in the shop in the _rue de la paix_ the other day?" she began to laugh, and without turning her eyes toward him, she said:-- "you know i don't care for those things. but there--there is something--" "well, out with it." "it isn't a--it isn't what you think--a present or anything like that; but it is something i should like to have you--something that would make me very happy." "then tell me what it is," said jules, impatiently. "what are you afraid of? am i such an ogre?" for a moment she did not answer. then she said timidly: "i wish you'd go to confession before we're married." he burst into a laugh that rang through the apartment. "oh, is that all? so you're afraid to marry such a wicked person as i am till the church has forgiven him and made him good again." she shook her head. "no, it isn't that, jules. i don't believe you are wicked. i don't believe you ever were; but i should be so much happier if you would go to confession, and then before we're married in church we could go to communion together." he threw himself beside her chair, seized her head in his hands, and kissed her on the forehead. "i'm not fit to be your husband. you're too good for me," he said softly. she drew away from him with a smile. "and will it make you very much happier if i go to confession?" he asked. "yes, jules, very much." for an instant he hesitated, looking into her eyes. "then i'll go," he said. she turned to him, and threw her arms around his neck. as he held her closely to him, his lips pressed against her hair, he went on:-- "but it will be hard for me, blanche. i haven't been to confession for more than twelve years. think of all the things i shall have to tell." "it will be over in a few minutes," she said reassuringly. "then you'll be glad you've done it." he rose to his feet and drew his chair nearer hers. "i've even forgotten how to make a confession. i don't even remember the _confiteor_." "then i shall have to teach it to you. it's in my prayer-book, and you can take it and learn it." "but i sha'n't know what to do. i shall appear awkward and foolish." "it's easy enough. you begin by examining your conscience; then you--" "examining my conscience! i shall have to wake it up first. it's been sound asleep all these years. ah, my dear blanche, you can't imagine how pleasant it is to have your conscience asleep." she ignored his jesting, and went on: "then you have to be sorry for what you've done,--for the sins, i mean." "but if you're not sorry. they've been very pleasant, a good many of them." "of course, if you aren't sorry you can't go to confession. that's what people go for, because they _are_ sorry, and because they intend to try to be better." "but all the confessions in the world wouldn't make me better. it's only you that can do that. i'm sorry for my sins simply because, when i think of them, they take me so far away from you. if i hadn't met you, i shouldn't have thought they were so bad. but when i think of you, blanche, and when i look at you, you seem so good--well, i--i feel ashamed, and then i want to be good too. why can't i confess to you?" he went on banteringly. "you'd do me more good than all the priests in christendom. only i'm afraid i should shock you. i suppose the priests hear stories like mine every day; so one or two more or less wouldn't make any difference to them." she turned her head away, and he saw that he had offended her. so he patted her cheek and smiled into her face. "what a little _dévote_ she is, anyway! she's vexed even when i joke about her religion. don't you see that it's all fun, dear? i'm going to do everything you say, make a clean breast of it to the priest, tell him i'm sorry, and promise to be good for the rest of my life. it won't be hard to promise that. how can i help being good when i shall have you with me all the time?" then for an hour they talked seriously about the confession. the more he thought of the ordeal, the more nervous jules felt. sins came back to him, committed during those first few years after he left the _lycée_, when his freedom was novel and delicious. how could he tell of those things, how could he put them into the awful baldness of speech? he knew that no sin could be concealed in the confessional; but he asked blanche if he would have to be particular, if he couldn't say in a general way that he had broken this commandment or that. he was alarmed by her reply that she told everything, that sometimes the priest asked probing questions. he couldn't endure the shame of speaking out those horrors. he was afraid, however, to acknowledge his fears to the girl; they might make her suspect what he had done, and inspire her with a loathing for him. jules had heard that some men told the women they were going to marry of their lapses, and he had been greatly amused. it never occurred to him that he ought to reveal the dark passages in his life to blanche; these would simply shock her, give her wrong ideas about him, perhaps make her suspicious and jealous after marriage. his sins he had always regarded as follies of youth: they did not in any way affect his character or his honor as a gentleman. now, however, he was looking back on himself, not from the point of view of the man of the world, but of a good woman. that night, on leaving blanche at the theatre, instead of roaming in the _boulevards_, or reading the papers in the _cafés_, as he had of late been doing till half-past ten, he took a _fiacre_ to the madeleine, where he spent one of the most disagreeable hours of his life. vespers were being sung, and the church was nearly full; he sought an obscure corner, knelt there before a picture of christ carrying the cross of calvary, repeated an "our father," and a "hail mary," which came back to him like an echo of his mother's voice, and then gave himself up to the task of examining his conscience. the whole panorama of his manhood passed before him, the life of the young parisian at the close of the century,--selfish, cynical, pleasure-loving, sense-gratifying, animal. he buried his face in his hands. oh, what an existence! yet he dared to take a pure young girl for his wife, to make her the mother of his children! he could not think of himself or of his sins without reference to her, and the more he thought of her and of them, the deeper his shame became, and this shame he mistook for contrition. this then was what blanche had meant by saying that he must be sorry for what he had done, and must promise to fight against temptation. from the depth of his heart he believed he was sorry. then he took from his pocket the prayer-book that she had given him, and read several times the act of contrition and the _confiteor_. the repetition recalled them to his memory, and he was ready for his confession to the priest the next day. with a sigh he rose from his seat, feeling as if he had thrown off the burden of his past life and received a benediction. the next afternoon, when jules entered with blanche the church of _st. philippe de roule_, he found groups of people kneeling around the confessional boxes and in front of the altars. he had resolved to confess to father labiche, who, blanche had told him, was the most lenient of all the fathers. the names of the priests were printed on the boxes, and the largest crowd was gathered around the box assigned to jules' choice. "i'm afraid you'll have to wait a long time," blanche whispered. "never mind," jules replied nervously. he felt almost glad that he was to have a respite. the sight of the confessional boxes and of the people whispering prayers, together with the atmosphere of devotion that pervaded the place, had filled him with terror. blanche made a sign to him to go forward and join the group awaiting father labiche, and she herself stopped near the group beside it, knelt and made the sign of the cross. jules, too, knelt before one of the hard-wood benches, and prayed that he might have the courage and grace to make a good confession. then he went over again the sins that he had to confess, and he repeated the _confiteor_ and the act of contrition. all day long these prayers, and the items of his confession, had been surging in his mind, and now, as he sat up and waited for his turn to come in the procession that passed in and out on either side of the confessional, they kept repeating themselves. he looked at the wrinkled women around him, and wondered if their feelings were like his; he could see no nervousness, no fear in their faces; they seemed to be absorbed, almost exalted in their devotion. then he began to grow impatient, and wished that the people who entered the confessional would not take so much time. he could catch glimpses of the dark figure of the priest, bending his head from one side to the other, and glancing out at the people. in his line at least fifteen persons were waiting their turn before him; it would take father labiche more than two hours, jules feared, to hear them and the fifteen others in the opposite line. his thoughts turned to blanche, and he wondered if she had been heard yet. he looked around, and saw her in the crowd behind him, reading her prayer-book; she kept apart from the others, and had evidently finished her confession and was waiting for him. how gentle and good she looked; how different from her appearance in the ring! once again he saw her tumbling through the air in her silk tights. he tried to drive this thought from his mind, but again and again he saw her, climbing hand over hand to the top of the circus, hurling herself backward, spinning through the air, striking the padded net with a thud, bouncing up again, and landing, with the pretty gesture of both hands, on her feet. and in two days she would be his wife! they would go away together, and whenever she performed in public, he would appear with her, hold the rope while she climbed to the top of the building, make the dramatic announcement that would awe the audience into silence, and then scamper across the net to the platform before she fell. for more than an hour jules thought of this brilliant future; then he suddenly realized where he was, and he saw that he had moved up within three places of the confessional. in a few moments it would be his turn to go into that dark box, where so many ghastly secrets were told, where he would be obliged to reveal all the vileness and the weakness of his human nature. his nerves vibrated; he felt as if something within him were sinking, as if his courage were leaving him. then his lips began again to repeat the _confiteor_, and his mind ran nervously over his self-accusations. the woman before him remained so long in the confessional that he wondered if she would ever come out; but when she did appear he had a sudden access of terror. he rose mechanically, however, made his way into the box, and knelt beside the little closed slide, through which the priest conferred with the penitents. he could hear the low murmur of father labiche's voice, and the more faint responses of a woman confessing on the other side. he tried not to listen, but he could not help catching a few words. suddenly the slide was opened, and he confronted the kindly face of the old priest whose right hand was raised in blessing. blanche had seen jules enter the confessional, and she waited for him to appear again. the woman who had entered before him on the other side soon came out; so jules was now making his peace with god. she lowered her head, and breathed a simple prayer of thankfulness. ten, fifteen minutes passed; still he did not come. she wondered why father labiche kept him there so long. when at last he did appear, his face was white. poor jules! she thought. how hard it must have been for him, and how good he was to have gone through it so heroically. he walked forward to the main altar, and there he knelt for several moments. when he came back, he found her waiting. "come," he said, touching her on the arm. they did not speak till they were in the street. "it was pretty tough," he said doggedly. "i thought he'd never let me out." she smiled up into his face. "but it's all over now, jules." "yes, it's all over," he repeated grimly. "but i should hate to go through it again." they hurried on through the nipping january air. "i'm afraid we shall be late for dinner, jules. it must be after half-past six, and then we have so many things to do to-night. my trunks aren't all packed yet." "i would help you if i could," jules replied, "but i must go back to the church. father labiche gave me the stations of the cross for penance. he said he thought it would do me good before i was married to reflect on the sufferings of christ," he explained with a smile. "then you told him you were going to be married?" she laughed, her breath steaming in the air. "he asked how i happened to come to confession after staying away so long; so i had to acknowledge that i did it to please you." the little apartment was in commotion over blanche's marriage and departure two days later; the _petit salon_ was littered with dresses, and the two girls were greatly excited over their new frocks. jules saw that he was in the way, and soon after dinner he left his friends, saying that he would have the carriages ready for them at half-past seven in the morning; blanche, her mother, and monsieur berthier would ride with him in one, and in the other the girls would go with madeleine and pelletier, who had been invited on account of his long business association with the family. that night at church jules did his best to put himself into a religious frame of mind and to feel a proper pity for the sufferings of christ. as he passed from station to station in the way of the cross, he reflected seriously on the significance of each, and he said his prayers devoutly. but his mind was constantly distracted by the thought of the girl he loved and of his marriage the next day. at the most inopportune moments visions of blanche would haunt him as she looked in the ring, climbing the rope and whirling through the air. when his prayers were said he felt radiantly happy. he had done his duty, and he felt that he deserved to be rewarded. it was only nine o'clock, but he hurried home at once to go on with his packing. when he went to bed that night, he dreamed that he was making his first appearance in the circus at vienna, holding the rope for his wife, and speaking the thrilling words of warning to the audience. in the morning jules and blanche received communion at early mass, and later they went with madame perrault and monsieur berthier to the mayor's office, where the civil marriage ceremony was performed. this jules regarded merely as a formality, though it made him feel that she was at last his, his forever! no one could take her away from him now! the next morning was clear and cold, and the sun shone as he looked out of his window in the dismantled apartment. he smiled as he thought that his lonely days as a bachelor were over. at ten o'clock he drove to the _rue st. honoré_ with madeleine, who looked a dozen years younger in her simple black silk with a piece of white lace at her throat, the gift of madame perrault. blanche, in her white satin dress with the bunch of white roses he had sent to her in her hand, had never seemed to him so beautiful. it was after eleven o'clock when they reached _st. philippe_, and a crowd of idlers hung about the door and followed them into the church. to jules the mass that preceded the marriage ceremony seemed interminable; he kept glancing at blanche's flushed face and downcast eyes, and plucking at his gloves. then, when he found himself standing before the priest, holding blanche's hand, and listening to the solemn words of the service, he came near bursting into tears. he thought afterward how ridiculous he would have been if he hadn't been able to control himself. he was relieved when the service was ended, and as he walked to the vestry with his wife on his arm, he could have laughed aloud for joy. when the register had been signed and they had shaken hands with the priest, they drove at once to the _café_ in the _avenue de l'opéra_, where jules had ordered a sumptuous breakfast. there they remained till four o'clock. monsieur berthier was the gayest of them all, and he was seconded by jeanne, who pretended to flirt desperately with jules and made pert speeches to pelletier. then they all returned to the _rue st. honoré_, where blanche changed her wedding finery for a travelling dress. during the farewell between blanche and her family, jules suffered; he never could bear the sight of women in tears. he was greatly relieved when he put his almost hysterical wife and madeleine into the carriage, and slammed the door behind him. xi they went straight to vienna, arriving fatigued from their long journey. after three days, spent at a little french hotel, jules found near the _ringstrasse_ a furnished apartment that suited him, and they took possession at the end of the week. blanche soon felt at home, but madeleine, though she had become deeply attached to her new mistress, and now had more companionship than she had known since the death of jules' mother, secretly grieved for her beloved paris, and looked and acted as if utterly bewildered. the day of his arrival in vienna, jules proceeded to the circus and had a long talk with herr prevost, the manager, with regard to his wife's engagement. he explained the difference in the plunge blanche would be obliged to take there from her usual one, and persuaded prevost to make this a feature in his advertisements; he also secured permission for blanche to practise in the ring every morning till her engagement began. so he went back to the hotel elated, and explained to blanche that, after all, in the theatrical life good management was half the battle. now that she had shaken off that worthless pelletier and he himself had taken charge of her affairs, she would undoubtedly be recognized in a very few years as the greatest acrobat in the world. she must sit at once, in costume, for some new photographs, and he would send them to the leading managers of europe and america. if they could only arrange to go to america under good auspices, their fortune would be made. instead of receiving, as they were doing in vienna, five hundred francs a week, they would be paid as much as twice that amount in new york, if not more. indeed, jules had so much to say about america, he seemed to have it on the brain. blanche experienced no difficulty in making her plunge in the new amphitheatre, and after her first trial there, declared that she had no fear for the public performances. jules, however, insisted on her practising every morning; she must keep her muscles limber, he said; besides, if she didn't practise, she might lose confidence. he found himself treating her as her mother had done, directing her movements like those of a child, and she obeyed him as if she considered his attitude toward her eminently natural and right. even madeleine adopted a motherly tone with her, chose the dresses she should wear each day, and instructed her in a thousand feminine details. blanche, jules was surprised and secretly annoyed to discover, could speak german, and in the mornings she sometimes gave him lessons. he also picked up a good deal of german slang in the _cafés_ that he frequented during the day, where he drank coffee and read whatever french and english papers he could find. after his wife's performances began, he found himself falling into a routine of life. in spite of his distaste for his duties at the wool-house, he had expected to miss them at first; but he quickly became accustomed to his leisure. he really considered himself a busy person, for in addition to his nightly appearance in the arena, momentary but intensely dramatic, he spent considerable time in fraternizing with the viennese journalists, to secure newspaper puffs for his wife, in conferring with prevost, and in corresponding with managers for future engagements. after his first month in vienna, he felt as if he had been connected with the circus for years. blanche heard constantly from home, from either her mother or one of the two girls,--more often from louise than from jeanne, who hated to write letters. six weeks after her departure from paris, her mother became madame berthier, without, as she had said, "any fuss," and was now installed with the children in the big house where félix had passed so many lonely years as a bachelor. jules and blanche wrote a joint letter of congratulation, and after that blanche seemed even happier than she had been; it was so good, she said, to think that the girls were provided for. in the afternoons jules took walks or drives with his wife, and on sundays he accompanied her to early mass in the little church that they had discovered near their apartment. blanche would have liked to go to high mass, but to this jules strenuously objected; it was too long, and he couldn't understand the sermon, and altogether it made him sleepy. sometimes on sundays they would go to one of the _cafés_ for _déjeuner_ or dinner, and over this they used to be very happy, for it recalled the first months of their love. after a time, however, these walks grew less frequent. jules stayed at home more, and madeleine became solicitous for blanche's health. jules had long talks with prevost; blanche had been engaged at the circus for three months, and prevost wished to reengage her for the spring season; but jules explained that he had already received several offers for the spring, and had refused them all; his wife needed a long rest, and from vienna they would go to boulogne for a few months, to be with her people. the reference to the engagements was not exactly true; jules had one offer only for the summer; that was from trouville. for the autumn he had a fairly generous offer from south america, and a better one from the hippodrome in london, to begin on the first of december. he had practically decided to accept the offer from london; but before giving a definite answer, he resolved to consult blanche about it. "it will just fit in with our plans," he said. "on the first of may we'll take a good long rest. we'll go to your mother's old house. it hasn't been let yet, you know, and no one will want it before then. so you and madeleine and i will live there together, and we'll pass the days out of doors, and take long walks by the sea, and forget all about the circus. then, when you are well and strong again, we'll go to london, and astonish the english, who think there's nothing good in france. what do you say, dear? don't you think that's a good plan?" "yes," she said slowly. "it will be very nice, jules, if--" "if? if what?" "if i'm alive," she answered softly, turning her head away. he took her in his arms and pressed his cheek against hers. "what a foolish little girl it is to talk like that! of course you'll be alive, and you'll be even better and stronger and happier than you are now. and then think of all the good times you'll have this summer with jeanne and louise and your mother and monsieur berthier. we'll have _fêtes_ for the girls at our house, and every day we'll go to see your mother. you don't think she'll be too proud to receive us, do you, now that she's rich and important? i suppose she's the queen of boulogne, with her carriages and her horses and her servants. she'll soon be getting a husband for jeanne, some fine young fellow with a lot of money. and won't jeanne put him through his paces? she's a high-stepper, that jeanne, and i should pity the man who got her and didn't understand her. think of trying to keep jeanne down!" in her moments of depression he always spoke to her like that, and for the time it cheered her; but when the spring came, she drooped visibly, and jules became alarmed; sometimes she would have attacks of convulsive weeping, and these would be followed by hours of profound sadness, during which she spoke scarcely a word. there were other days when she would be full of courage and hope, gayer than she had ever been; then they would drive into the country and she would take deep draughts of the fresh spring air, and her eyes would brighten and her cheeks flush. in spite of his anxiety, these days were very happy for jules; the thought that he might lose her made her dearer to him. sometimes he would take her hand and tell her that without her he couldn't live; she had made him realize how wretched his existence had been before marriage; he could not go back to that again. then she would rest her head on his shoulder and whisper that she would try to be brave. her sufferings seemed to be wholly in her mind; the doctor jules consulted said that, bodily, she was perfectly strong, and could easily fill her engagement at the circus; her work in the ring had given her a remarkable development of the muscles and the chest; if she stopped the work now, and ceased to practise, she would suffer from the inaction. jules, however, felt relieved when the fifteenth of april came, and they were able to leave vienna for paris. there they remained only a day, for they were eager to reach boulogne and the little home that madame berthier had arranged for them, in the house where blanche had been born, and had passed the few weeks in each year when she was not travelling. when they arrived, early in the afternoon, madame berthier and the girls, together with berthier, were at the station to meet them, and they received a rapturous greeting, the girls clinging to their sister with frantic embraces. "we had _déjeuner_ prepared for you at your house," said madame, when the first greetings were over. "i knew you'd want to go there the first thing. then to-night you are to come and dine with us. i feel as if i hadn't seen you for years." "but we've never met madame berthier before," jules replied, making a feeble attempt to be gay, for he saw that blanche's meeting with her mother threatened to upset her. madame blushed like a young girl, and turning, led the way to the carriages. "one of these is for you and jules," she said. "i don't mean just for now, but for all the time you are here. félix chose the horse for you, dear, and she's so gentle you can drive her alone if you want to." "i'm going to put the three girls and their mother in the big carriage," berthier said to jules, "and you and madeleine and i will follow them." the arrival of his stepdaughter seemed to have given him as much pleasure as any of the others, and his good-natured face was radiant. "jump in, girls," he cried, holding out his hand to blanche. "we'll have to turn those lilies of yours into roses this summer, my dear. here, jeanne, stop flirting with jules, or we won't let you come with us. you wouldn't have known our little louise, blanche, if you hadn't expected to find her here, would you? she's grown an inch in four months. it's the most wonderful thing i've ever known in my life. and would you believe it?--she's become a perfect chatterbox--she's worse than jeanne. sometimes i have to run out of the room to read my paper in peace and have a quiet smoke." the whole family seemed to have agreed to assume toward blanche the bantering tone that jules had adopted. when they reached the house they continued their gayety, though blanche, tired from her journey, sank weakly on the couch in the _salon_. she looked around, however, and saw that the room had been redecorated, probably by monsieur berthier, and when she felt rested she went all over the house and observed many new pieces of furniture, and many touches here and there that made the place more attractive and homelike. "ah, it is so good to be at home," she said to her mother when they were alone; and then madame berthier took her in her arms and kissed her on the forehead and told her she must have courage for jules' sake. after the excitement of paris and vienna, jules found it hard to accustom himself to the dull life at boulogne. he bought a small yacht, and found amusement in sailing with his new acquaintances, and sometimes, when the weather was fine, he took blanche and the girls with him. he also occupied himself with the little garden around his cottage; but this soon bored him, and he gave it over to monsieur berthier's gardener, who came every few days to look after it. in the afternoons he drove with blanche far into the country, and sometimes they stopped at a little _café_ by the roadside and had an early dinner, and then hurried home before the damp night should close around them. on these occasions they had many earnest talks, and jules was surprised by the seriousness and depth of his wife's mind; at any rate, she impressed him as being wonderfully profound. the longer he knew her, the more she awed and puzzled him; there were moments when she seemed to dwell in another world, a world that made her almost a stranger to him. since her return to boulogne she had grown much more cheerful than she had been during those last weeks in vienna; but a thousand little things she said showed him that beneath the surface of her thought there still lurked a strange melancholy, an unchangeable conviction that life was slipping away from her. he spoke of this once to her mother, and she explained mysteriously that he must expect that; it was very natural with one of blanche's temperament. she had known many cases like it before. as the summer passed, jules said little to his wife about the circus; indeed, her work was scarcely mentioned between them, though every morning she practised her exercises. jules, however, had decided that they should go to london late in november and, the first week of the following month, appear at the hippodrome, which had been established with great success the year before, at a short distance from the houses of parliament. the contract had not been signed, for jules had written to marshall, the manager, that he could not bind himself to an engagement until early in the autumn; but he explained that his word was as good as any contract. when september came, blanche seemed much better for her months of rest; her eyes were brighter, and her cheeks were shot with color. sometimes jules wished that she were not quite so religious; she went to early mass every morning now, and rather than let her go alone, he went with her, for madeleine had assumed the duties of the household. their evenings, which during the summer had been spent chiefly on the porch of monsieur berthier's house, were now passed in their _salon_, bright with flowers, sometimes with a wood-fire crackling on the old-fashioned hearth. blanche's fingers were always busy with soft, fleecy garments, which jules used sometimes to take in his hands and rub affectionately against his face. then he often noticed a light in her eyes that he had never seen before; it reminded him of pictures of the madonna. sometimes he was so touched when he looked at her that he would take her in his arms and hold her close for a long while. their evenings together became very dear to him; yet they said little to each other: he was content to sit and watch her, with the curtains drawn to shut out the rest of the world. occasionally father dumény would come in for an hour's chat. he was a large-framed, heavy man, with deep gray eyes shaded by enormous eyebrows that moved up and down as he spoke. he spoke as he walked, slowly and lumberingly, and he had a quaint humor that used to delight blanche and puzzle jules. when he appeared, she always brightened, and she liked to hear his doleful accounts of his rheumatism. he seemed to find humor in everything, even in his arduous duties and his ailments. "ah, my children," he would say, "why should any one go to the theatre for pleasure? this life is nothing but a comedy, if you only look at it in the right way." from blanche he derived a great deal of amusement; that she should perform in a circus always seemed a joke to him, and he was continually making fun over it. he had never been at a circus; so, though he had baptized blanche and had met her during her visits in boulogne, he had never seen her perform. once when jules showed him a photograph of blanche as she appeared while posing on the rope, he rolled his eyes and pretended to be much shocked, and they all laughed together. "i suppose you two people will be leaving this nest of yours before winter comes," he said one night. "you've made your plans already, haven't you?" jules looked down at blanche, but she avoided his eyes. "we haven't decided definitely," jules replied, "but we think of going to london." blanche sighed, and father dumény glanced at her quickly and then smiled up at jules. "she has a notion that she isn't going to live," jules added, nodding at his wife. "ridiculous, isn't it?" father dumény put his hands to his sides, and for a moment his great body shook with laughter. "why, i expect to baptize at least half a dozen of your children! in a few years we shall see them trotting around here in boulogne and coming to my sunday-school to be prepared for their first communion. we need all the good catholics we can have, in these days, to fight against the infidelity that's ruining the country. ah, my dear child," he said, patting blanche's hand, "when you're a grandmother with a troop of children around you, you'll look back and smile at these foolish little fears." after that night he came oftener, and kept blanche laughing with his gayety. "when you go to london," he said one evening, "i shall give you letters to some dear english friends of mine,--mr. and mrs. tate. i met the tates when i was in paris visiting father brémont more than ten years ago. mr. tate represented the banking-house of welling brothers, of london, there, and now he's in london as a member of the firm, i believe. you'll like mrs. tate, my dear. she's a good soul, and she speaks french almost as well as english. i shall expect to hear that you've become great friends." "but we aren't sure of going to england yet," blanche replied with a weary smile. "perhaps we shall go to america," jules laughed. "i want blanche to see the country." toward the end of september blanche drooped again, and her mother was with her nearly every moment of the day, remaining sometimes till late at night. the girls had gone back to the convent, but they were allowed to come home twice a week, and most of their freedom they devoted to their sister, whom they treated with a protecting tenderness that used to afford jules secret amusement. madame berthier maintained a cheerful composure in her daughter's presence, but when alone with jules she became so serious that for the first time he grew nervous. then as his anxiety deepened he began to resent it, as he did any long-continued annoyance. why should they be kept in idleness and suspense so long? how stupid to be buried in a wretched provincial town when they might be earning thousands of francs in vienna, or bucharest, or paris! then one night he was suddenly aroused from his sleep, and he felt a sensation of mingled horror and awe. he dressed himself quickly, his whole being wrung by the groans he heard from the next room, and tore out of the house to doctor brutinière's, five minutes away. after delivering his message, he ran breathlessly to summon madame berthier. it took her scarcely five minutes to dress, and then they were in the street together. madame berthier went at once to blanche's room, and jules paced up and down in the half-lighted _salon_. that was the ghastliest night of jules le baron's life. he was overwhelmed by the knowledge that blanche was in agony, that she was battling for life, that at any moment he might hear she was dead. why should the burden of suffering fall on her? oh, how cruel nature was, how pitiless to women! the poor child, the poor little one, to be tortured so! several times he listened for a sound, and the silence terrified him. suddenly he heard a shriek, loud and piercing, that only the most exquisite pain could have wrung, and he clenched his hands in impotent horror and misery. the stillness that followed made him fear that she was dead, and he could hardly keep from rushing up the stairs and learning the truth. after a few moments, as he stood at the door, he heard another cry, small, timorous, peevish, that changed to a wail and then died away. he turned into the room, clapsed his face in his hands, and cried, "thank god, thank god! and mercy for her, my god, mercy for my poor little blanche!" after what seemed to him a long time, during which he was tortured with suspense, a door opened and shut, and he heard a rustling on the stairs. he stepped out into the hall and saw madame berthier descending. she stopped, smiled, and put her hand to her lips; he could see traces of tears in her eyes. "come up," she whispered. "it's all over. it's a girl, and blanche has her in her arms." jules bounded up the stairs. "only a minute, you know," she said softly, "and you must be very quiet." when she opened the door he almost pushed her aside in his eagerness to enter. the doctor and madeleine were standing beside the bed, where blanche, white but bright-eyed and smiling, was lying with the babe nestling close to her. jules flung himself by her side, and kissed her passionately, murmuring incoherent words of love and thankfulness. xii the weeks of convalescence that followed were the happiest blanche had ever known. she felt wrapped in the devotion of her husband and her family, and exalted by her love for her child. at moments she feared that she could not live through such happiness. sometimes she would fancy that all her sufferings had been only a dream, and then she would turn and find with a thrill of joy the babe lying beside her. jules would sit by the bed holding her hand, and making jokes about their daughter's future. they had decided that she should be called jeanne, and no one but father dumény should baptize her. one morning, when blanche was sitting up in bed for the first time, jules entered the room with a letter in his hand and in his face a look of exultation. "it's from marshall," he said, "from the hippodrome in london, you know. he wants me to make a contract for six months, from the first of january. i was afraid he might back out because we held off so long. but this makes it all right. you'll have more than a month to get strong again and to practise in." jules was so excited by the prospect that he did not notice the look of alarm that had appeared in his wife's eyes. she lay still, with one arm extended on the coverlet, her head leaning to one side, and her dark hair making a background for her white face. "'we want you to open on the first,'" jules read aloud. "'let us hear from you as soon as possible and we will send on the contract for your signature.' of course," he went on, folding the note, "we must jump at it. what do you say?" for a moment she looked at him without speaking. then she replied weakly, "do what you think best, jules." "good!" he said, jumping up. "i'll write now. we've lost a lot of time, you know, and we must make up for it when we get back to work." "do you--do you think i'll be strong enough?" she went on, as if she hadn't heard him. "strong enough!" he laughed. "of course you'll be strong enough in seven weeks more. you're nearly your old self now," he added affectionately. "don't you worry about that." when he had closed the door and left her alone, she felt as if her body were sinking into the bed from weakness. the circus again! that ghastly plunge! since the birth of her child she had hardly thought of it. now the thought horrified her! how could she leave her babe and risk her life night after night? perhaps some night--oh! it was too horrible. she couldn't, she couldn't! she lifted her hands to her face as if to shut out the horror of the thought. then she turned to the little jeanne who was sleeping beside her, and drew her close to her bosom. she had lost courage! it would never come back to her. when jules returned she would tell him, and she would beg him, for jeanne's sake, to give up that engagement in london till she felt well again. oh, if they could only leave the circus forever! if she could only do as other women did, devote her life to her child. the circus was no place for a mother. then it suddenly flashed upon her that if she said these things to jules he would urge her to place jeanne in her mother's care while they were in england; but to that she would never consent, never. she would rather give up performing altogether. yes, when jules came back she would speak of this. he loved the circus, but for jeanne's sake he would give it up, she knew he would. but when jules did return, he was so enthusiastic about the engagement in london that she did not dare oppose it. "think of the sensation we'll make there!" he said. "how those stupid english will open their eyes! and then we'll surely have big offers from other places. after a london success we can make a fortune in america. they say the americans are crazy over everything that makes a hit in london. oh," he went on, stretching his arms and yawning, "it will be a relief to get out of this dull old town. think of the months we've wasted here. i feel rusty already." something in his tone as well as his words frightened her, and a feeling of helplessness came over her when he put his hand on her forehead and said gently: "you must try to get strong as soon as possible, dear. think of all the practising you'll have to do for your plunge." she turned her head away, and he observed nothing strange in her manner. she wanted to speak of taking jeanne with them, but a fear that he might object restrained her. two days later, when her mother and jules were in the room together, madame berthier, with apparent carelessness, asked what they were going to do with the little one while they were travelling. "of course you can't carry her about with you. so you'd better leave her with me. i'll take the best of care of her." she was startled by the light that flashed into her daughter's eyes. "no, no!" blanche cried. "we shall keep her with us always. i couldn't bear to leave her here. i couldn't--i couldn't go away without her." madame berthier and jules exchanged glances, and blanche saw that her intuition was correct. they had been discussing the project of leaving the child in boulogne. she felt as if they were conspiring against her. "don't you think it would be better if your mother--" jules began, but blanche cut him short. "we shall have madeleine. she will help me to take care of jeanne. i couldn't go without her," she repeated, with tears in her voice. "there, there!" said madame berthier, becoming alarmed. "have your own way. perhaps it's better that you should keep the child with you." blanche read annoyance in her husband's face, but she said nothing. a few moments later, madame berthier left the room and jules followed. she knew they had gone to discuss the little scene that had just taken place. but she resolved that she would not give up the child! rather than do that she would stay in boulogne. the fear of being separated from jeanne, made her decide not to refer in any way to her terror of the plunge. that might strengthen jules' belief that the presence of the child disturbed her, and he might insist on a separation. besides, she tried to convince herself that as she grew stronger her nervousness would disappear. it must of course be due solely to her weak condition. once restored to health, the plunge would be, as it always had been, merely part of her daily routine. but in spite of her rapidly increasing strength, blanche found that after three weeks she was still depressed by the thought of her season in london. jules complained that she was devoting herself too much to jeanne; she must drive out more, and walk with the girls, and give more time to her exercises. her mother, too, grew severe with her. "one would think there never was another child in the world," she said, and then blanche suspected that jules had been complaining of her. "the little one is a dear, and i love her," madame berthier continued, "but you have your work to do, and you must think of that too. no wonder jules is growing impatient." jules had already received the contract for the engagement at the hippodrome, and on signing it at his request, blanche had had a horrible fancy that she was putting her signature to a warrant for her own doom. once she thought of confiding her fear to her mother, but her mother would be sure to repeat what she said to jules. at any cost, she felt she must hide it from him. then she determined to tell father dumény, but when the moment came she had not courage to put her feeling into words, and she was ashamed of it as a superstition. so she decided that she would keep the miserable secret to herself, finding no relief save in gusts of weeping when she was alone with the child. once jules found her with traces of tears in her eyes. "what's the matter?" he asked gently, taking her hand. she turned her head away. "i don't feel well," she said. he looked at her closely. "you'll be well when you get back to your work. that's what the matter is. you aren't used to being idle. the best thing for us to do is to leave here the day after christmas. that will give you nearly a week for practice in london, and we'll have time to look about for rooms there. since we are going to have jeanne with us, we'll want to take an apartment in some quiet street." when he went away she sat for a long time without speaking. in a week they would be far away from this place, among strangers. she wondered why she had not suffered so on leaving home before. until now she had regarded the circus as part of her life; she had not hoped for any other kind of life. how strange it was that jules should love it so! sometimes it seemed----but it was right that she should go on with her work, for she must earn money for the little jeanne now. perhaps in a few years she would make a fortune, and then jules could not object to her leaving the circus. but before a few years passed she would be obliged to go through her performance more than a thousand times. at this thought her heart seemed to stop beating, and then it thumped against her side. their christmas in boulogne at monsieur berthier's house reminded them of their _fête_ in paris of the year before. berthier himself led in the gayety, and the girls were in the wildest spirits. blanche sat among them with the child in her arms, looking, as jules said, as if she were posing for a madonna. in the evening father dumény came to bid his friends good-bye. he pretended to pinch the little jeanne on the cheek, and he made jokes with blanche about her terror before the child's birth. "she's the healthiest baby i've ever baptized," he said. "you should have heard her roar when i poured the water on her head. that's a good sign. i suppose you'll make a great performer of her too," he continued, smiling into the face of the mother, but growing serious when he saw the effect of the question. "never!" exclaimed blanche. "we're going to earn a fortune for her," said jules with a smile. "so she won't have to work at all. we'll settle down in paris and make a fine lady of her, and marry her into the nobility." blanche did not speak again for a long time. they knew she was depressed at the thought of leaving home the next day. when father dumény rose, he took a letter from the pocket of his long black coat. "i almost forgot about this. here's the introduction i promised you to my friends in london. you will like mrs. tate, my dear," he said to blanche, "and she'll make a great pet of the little one. she hasn't any children of her own, poor woman. be sure to go to see them," he concluded, "and present my compliments to them." when he was gone, jules shrugged his shoulders and turned to his wife. "what do we want to meet those people for?" he said. "what will they care about us?" the next day they left boulogne, after many farewell injunctions from the berthiers, and much weeping on the part of blanche and her sisters. blanche stood for a long time with madeleine, who held the little jeanne in her arms, waving farewell to her kindred on the wharf, and watching the shores of france recede from her gaze. when the last vestige of land disappeared in the wintry fog and she found herself shut in by the shoreless sea, she turned away with a feeling of hopeless weariness. she had a morbid presentiment that she was leaving home forever. xiii mrs. tate ran her eyes over the pile of letters at her plate on the breakfast-table. she was a large, florid woman of forty, verging on stoutness, with an abundance of reddish-brown hair. "what a lot of mail!" she said to her husband, who was absorbed in reading the "daily telegraph,"--a small man, with black hair and moustache tinged with gray, and small black eyes finely wrinkled at the corners. "here's a letter from amy dated at cannes. they must have left paris sooner than they intended; and here's something from fanny mayo,--an invitation to dinner, i suppose. fanny told me she wanted us to meet the presbreys next week,--some people she knew in bournemouth." "fanny's always taking up new people," said tate from behind his paper, "and dropping them in a month." "and here's something else with a french stamp on it. let me see. from boulogne? it must be from father dumény. yes, i recognize the handwriting." "another subscription, i suppose," her husband grunted. "he hasn't written for nearly a year. i wonder what started him this time. what a dear old soul he is! do you remember the night we took him out to a restaurant in paris and he was so afraid of being seen? i always laugh when i think of that." "what's he got to say?" with her knife, mrs. tate cut one end of the letter open, and her eye wandered slowly down the page. "he's been ill, he says, but he's able to be about now. he came near running over here last summer, but he couldn't get away." for a few moments mrs. tate was absorbed in reading; then she exclaimed with a curious little laugh: "how funny! listen to this, will you? he's left what he really wrote for till the end,--like a woman. he wants us to look after a _protégée_ of his, a girl that he baptized, the daughter of an acrobat. did you ever hear of such a thing? she's in the circus herself, and she's going to appear at the hippodrome next week. she performs on the trapeze, and then she dives backward from the roof of the building--backward, mind you! could anything be more terrible?" "i should think she'd be right in your line," tate replied without lifting his eyes from his paper. "she'll be something new. you can make a lion of her." "don't be impertinent, percy. this is a very serious matter. it seems the girl's married and had a child about two months ago. she's going to resume her performances. she doesn't know a soul in london; so she'll be all alone." "i thought you said she had a husband." "so i did. he's given them a letter to us, but he doesn't think they'll present it. i suppose those theatrical people live in a world of their own. but of course i shall go to see her. perhaps i can do something for her. anyway, it'll be interesting to meet an acrobat. i've never known one in my life." "as i said," her husband remarked, turning to his bacon and eggs, "you can introduce her into society. people must be tired of meeting artists and actors and musicians. she'll be a novelty." "you're very disagreeable to-day, percy," mrs. tate responded amiably, after sipping the coffee that had been steaming beside her plate. "you are always attributing the meanest motives to everything i do." he gave a short laugh. "but you must acknowledge that you do some pretty queer things, my dear." she ignored the remark, and a moment later she went on briskly: "i must go and see this acrobat woman--whoever she is. if i don't--" "what's her name?" tate asked, turning to his paper and searching for the theatrical columns. "madame jules le baron, father dumény calls her. but i suppose she must have a stage name. most of them have." "i don't see that name in 'under the clock!' the hippodrome? no, it isn't there. i wonder if this can be the one: 'on monday evening next, mademoiselle blanche, the celebrated french acrobat, will give her remarkable performance on the trapeze and her great dive from the top of the hippodrome.'" mrs. tate sighed. "yes, it must be. mademoiselle blanche! how stagey it sounds! i wonder what she's like." "we might go to see her first and then we could tell whether she's possible or not." "go to the hippodrome!" "yes, why not? it's perfectly respectable. only it doesn't happen to be fashionable. in paris, you know, it's the thing to attend the circus. don't you remember the la marches took us one night?" "yes, and i remember there was a dreadful creature--she must have weighed three hundred pounds--who walked the tight-rope and nearly frightened me to death. i thought she'd come down on my head." "then it's understood that we're to go on monday? if we go at all we might as well be there the first night. it'll be more interesting." mrs. percy tate was a personage in london. for several years before her marriage, at the age of twenty-five, she had been known as an heiress and a belle. even then she had a reputation for independence of character, and for an indefatigable zeal for reforming the world. her name stood at the head of several charitable societies, and she was also a member of many clubs for the improvement of the physical and spiritual condition of the human race. since her marriage she had grown somewhat milder; her friends used to say that percy tate had "trained" her. they also said that she had "made" him; without her money he would never have become a member of the rich firm of welling and company. percy tate's business associates, however, knew the fallacy of this uncharitable opinion. with his dogged determination and his keen insight into the intricacies of finance, tate was sure of forging ahead in time, with or without backing. his association with welling and company gave the house even greater strength than it had had before; for in addition to his reputation as a financier, he had made his name a synonym for stanch integrity. he had passed sixteen happy years with his wife, wisely directed her charities, wholesomely ridiculed her enthusiasms, followed her into the catholic church, where he was quite as sincere if a much less ardent worshipper; and in all the serious things of life he treated her, not as an inferior to be patronized, but as an equal that he respected, with no display of sentiment, but with sincere devotion. she, on her part, was amused by his humor and guided by his advice, though she often pretended to ignore it; and she never allowed any of her numerous undertakings to interfere with her regard for his comfort or the happiness of her home. the manager of the hippodrome had extensively advertised the appearance of mademoiselle blanche, and on monday night the amphitheatre was crowded. the tates arrived early in order to see the whole performance; as they had never been at the hippodrome before, the evening promised to be amusing for them. tate, however, became so interested in the menagerie through which they passed before entering the portion of the vast building devoted to the exhibitions in the ring that they remained there more than an hour. the interval between their taking seats and the appearance of the acrobat rather bored them. "i wish they'd hurry up and let her come out," said mrs. tate. "and yet i almost dread seeing her make that horrible plunge. this must be the first time she's done it since the birth of her baby. isn't it really shocking?" "oh, i suppose these people are as much entitled to babies as any other people." she cast a reproachful glance at him, and did not reply for a moment. then she said: "but what must her feelings be now--just as she's getting ready?" "i dare say she's glad to get back to her work and earn her salary again. her husband probably doesn't earn anything. those fellows never do." "she must be frightened nearly to death." tate laughed softly. "you'll die from worrying about other people." "what are they doing now?" mrs. tate asked, turning her eyes to the ring. "i suppose that rope they're letting down is for her to climb up on, and that's the net she'll fall into. how gracefully that trapeze swings! i feel quite excited. every one else is too. can't you see it in their faces? there must be thousands of people here. how strange they look! such coarse faces." "it's the great british middle class. this is just the kind of thing they like." "it reminds me of pictures of the colosseum. i can almost fancy their turning their thumbs down. here she comes. how light she is on her feet! and isn't she pretty! but she looks awfully thin and delicate, and she's as pale as a ghost." "you'll attract all the people round us. of course she's pale. she's probably powdered up to the eyes, like the women we used to see in paris." "how lightly she goes up that rope," mrs. tate whispered, "and what wonderful arms she has! just like a man's. they look as if they didn't belong to her body." silently and dexterously blanche reached the main trapeze, and for a moment she sat there, with her arms crooked against the rope on either side, and rubbing her hands. for the first time during her career she was terrified in the ring. she had hoped that as soon as she resumed her work the terror she had felt since jeanne's birth would pass away. now, however, it made her so weak that she feared she was going to fall. she was thinking of the child as she had seen her crowing in the crib. if anything should happen to her she might never see jeanne again. she was vaguely conscious of the vast mass of people below her, waiting for her to move. she took a long breath and nerved herself for the start, before making her spring to the trapeze below; she must have courage for the sake of the little jeanne, she said to herself. mechanically she began to sway forward and backward; then she shot into the air, and with a sensation of surprise and delight she continued her performance. mrs. tate watched her with an expression of mingled fear, interest, and pleasure in her face. "isn't she the most wonderful creature you ever saw, percy?" she cried, clutching her husband's arm. "it's horrible, yet i can't help looking. suppose she should fall!" "she'd merely drop into the net. there's nothing very dangerous about what she's doing now. keep still." "i never saw anything more graceful. she _is_ grace itself, isn't she? see how her hair flies; i should think it would get into her eyes and blind her. i shall speak to her about that when i see her. i shall certainly _go_ to see her." in a round of applause, blanche finished her performance on the trapeze and then began her posing on the rope, whirling slowly, with a rhythmic succession of motions to the net. then jules, in evening dress, with a large diamond gleaming in his shirt-front, stepped out on the net, and for an instant they conferred together. suddenly she clapped her hands, bounded on the rope again, and while jules held it to steady her motion, she climbed hand over hand to the top of the building. there she sat, looking in the distance like a white bird ready to take flight, her dark hair streaming around her head. "i feel as if i were going to faint," mrs. tate whispered. her husband glanced at her quickly. "yes, you'd better--in this crowd. a fine panic you'd create! want to go out?" she seemed to pull herself together. "no, i think i shall be able to bear it. if i can't, i'll look away. what's that he's saying? what horrible english he speaks! i can't understand a word. _oh!_" she gasped, clutching her husband by one arm and holding him firmly as blanche dropped backward and whirled through the air; and this exclamation she repeated in a tone of horrified relief when the girl struck the net, bounded into the air again, and landed on her feet. they rose with the applauding crowd and started to leave the place. "in my opinion," said mrs. tate, clinging to her husband's arm and drawing her wrap closely around her, "in my opinion such exhibitions are outrageous. there ought to be a law against them. think of that poor little creature going through that every night. of course she'll be killed sometime. i wonder if she's afraid. i should think she'd expect every night to be her last." "what nonsense you're talking. of course those people don't feel like that. if they did they'd never go into the business. it's second nature to them." "but they're _human_ just like the rest of us, and that woman is a mother," mrs. tate insisted. "don't you suppose she thinks of her baby before she makes that terrible dive? it's a shame that her husband should allow her to do it." "there you are, trying to regulate the affairs of the world again. why don't you let people alone? they'd be a good deal happier, and so would you. her husband probably likes to have her do it." "well, i shall go to see her anyway," mrs. tate cried with determination. "then i can find out all about her for myself." for the next three weeks mrs. tate was absorbed by various duties in connection with her charitable societies. one morning, however, she suddenly realized that she had neglected to comply with father dumény's request, and she resolved to put off her other engagements for the afternoon and call at once on the acrobat; if she didn't go then, there was no knowing when she could go. at four o'clock she found herself stepping into a hansom in front of her house in cavendish square. the address that father dumény had sent led her to a little french hotel with a narrow, dark entrance, dimly lighted by an odorous lamp. she poked about in the place for a moment, wondering how she was to find any one; then a door which she had not observed was thrown open, and she was confronted by a little man with a very waxed moustache, who smiled and asked in broken english what madame wanted. she stammered that she was looking for madame le baron, and the little man at once called a _garçon_ in a greasy apron, who led the way up the narrow stairs. when they had reached the second landing the boy rapped on the door, and mrs. tate stood panting behind him. for several moments there was no answer; then heavy steps could be heard approaching, and a moment later madeleine's broad figure, silhouetted by the light from the windows from behind, stood before them. mrs. tate saw at a glance that she was french, and addressed her in her own language. "_mais oui_," madeleine replied. "madame is at home. will madame have the goodness to enter?" "say that i'm father dumény's friend, please," said mrs. tate as she gave madeleine a card. then she glanced at one corner of the room, where a large cradle, covered with a lace canopy, had caught her eye. "is the baby here?" she asked quickly, going toward it. "ah, no--not now. she sometimes sleeps here in the morning; but she is with her mother in the other room now." madeleine disappeared, and mrs. tate's eyes roved around the room. she recognized it at once as the typical english lodging-house drawing-room; she had seen many rooms just like it before, when she had called on american friends living for a time in london. it was large and oblong, facing the tall houses on the opposite side of the street that cut off much of the light; the wall paper was ugly and sombre, and the carpet, with its large flowery pattern, together with the lounge and chairs, completed an effect of utter dreariness. mrs. tate wondered how people could live in such places; she should simply go mad if she had to stay in a room like this. then she wondered why madame le baron hadn't brightened up the apartment a bit; the photographs on the mantel, in front of the large french mirror, together with the cradle in the corner, were the only signs it gave of being really inhabited. how vulgar those prints on the wall were! they and the mirror were the only french touches visible, and they contrasted oddly with their surroundings. while mrs. tate was comfortably meditating on the vast superiority of england to france, the door leading to the next room opened and blanche entered the room. she looked so domestic in her simple dress of blue serge that for an instant her caller did not recognize her. she held out her hand timidly. "father dumény has spoken to me about you," she said. "father dumény must think i am an extremely rude person. i meant to come weeks ago," mrs. tate replied, clasping the hand and looking down steadily into the pale face. "but i've been busy--so busy, i've had hardly a minute to myself. however, i did go to see you perform." "ah, at the hippodrome?" "yes, the very first night. mr. tate and i went together. we were both--er--wonderfully impressed. i don't think i ever saw anything more wonderful in my life than that plunge of yours." mrs. tate adjusted herself in the chair near the window, and blanche took the opposite seat. "i'm glad you liked it," she said with a sigh. "liked it. i can't really say i did like it. i must confess it rather horrified me." "it does some people. my mother never likes to see me do it--though i've done it for a great many years now." "but doesn't it--doesn't it make you nervous sometimes?" "i never used to think of it--before my baby was born." "ah, the baby! may i see her? just a peep." "she was asleep when i left," blanche replied, unconsciously lowering her voice as if the child in the next room might know she was being talked about; "but she will wake up soon. she always wakes about this time. madeleine is with her now, and she'll dress her and bring her in." for a quarter of an hour they talked about the little jeanne, and blanche, inspired by mrs. tate's vivid interest and sympathy, grew animated in describing the baby's qualities; when she was born she weighed nearly nine pounds, and she had not been sick a day. then she had grown so! you could hardly believe it was the same child. she very rarely cried,--almost never at night. mrs. tate had heard mothers talk like that before, but blanche's _naïveté_ lent a new charm to the narration; she kept in mind, however, their first topic, and at the next opportunity she returned to it. "then what do you do with the child at night?" she asked. "i suppose your servant goes to the circus with you, doesn't she? of course you can't leave the baby alone." "ah, no," blanche replied. "we have a little girl to stay with her." mrs. tate was surprised. so these circus people lived as other people did, with servants to wait on them, with a nurse for the child. she had instinctively thought of them as vagabonds. on discovering that they were well cared for, she had a sensation very like disappointment; they seemed to be in no need of help of any sort. she was curious to know more of the life of this girl, who seemed so _naïve_ and had such a curious look of sadness in her eyes. mrs. tate deftly led blanche to talk about her husband, and in a few minutes, by her questions and her quick intelligence, she fancied that she understood the condition of this extraordinary _ménage_. percy had been right; the wife supported the family and the husband was a mere hanger-on; but it was evident from the way he was mentioned that the romance still lasted. then blanche made a reference to jules which led her visitor to make inquiries with regard to him, and these changed her view of the situation. so, before marriage, monsieur had been in business, and he had probably given it up to follow his wife in her wanderings. she surmised that they were not absolutely dependent on the circus for their daily bread; perhaps this accounted for their comfortable way of living. while apparently absorbed in conversation mrs. tate continued this train of thought. she had never known any one connected with the circus before, she explained with a smile; people who lived in london all the time were apt to be so very narrow and ignorant; but she wanted to hear all about it, and madame must tell her. blanche was able to tell very little, for she was not used to discussing her work. by adroit questioning, however, mrs. tate led her on to an account of her early career from her first appearance as a child with her father to her development into a "star" performer. the narrative seemed to her wildly interesting. how fascinating it would be if she could persuade the girl to relate her story in a drawing-room! it would be the sensation of the winter. but this poor child never could talk in public, even in her own tongue. "but do tell me," said mrs. tate, when blanche had described the months her father had spent in teaching her to make the great plunge. "doesn't it hurt your back? i should think that striking with full force day after day on that padded net would destroy the nervous system of a giant." blanche smiled and shook her head. "it never used to hurt. i've only felt it lately, since the baby was born," she said. "then it does hurt now?" mrs. tate cried eagerly. "sometimes. i feel so tired in the morning now. i never used to; and sometimes when i wake up my back aches very much. but i try not to think of it." "but, my dear child, you ought to think of it. you mustn't allow yourself to be injured--perhaps for life." blanche turned pale. "do you think it can be serious?" she asked timidly. mrs. tate saw that she had made a false step. "of course not--not _serious_. it's probably nothing at all. i haven't a doubt a physician could stop it easily. have you spoken to any one about it?" "no; not even to my husband. i shouldn't like to tell him. it would make him unhappy." mrs. tate became thoughtful. "i wonder if dr. broughton couldn't do something for you. he's our physician, and he's the kindest soul in the world. i'm always sending him to people. suppose i should ask him to come and call on you some day. perhaps he'll tell you there's nothing the matter, and then you won't be worried any more." she glanced into the pale face and was startled by the look she saw there. "oh, you needn't be afraid," she laughed. "he won't hurt you. but, of course, if you don't want him to come, i won't send him." blanche clasped her hands and dropped her eyes. "i think i should like to have him come if--if--my husband----" "but he needn't know anything about it," said mrs. tate, with feminine delight at the prospect of secrecy. "we won't tell him anything. if he meets monsieur le baron here you can just say i sent him to call on you. besides, he can come some time when your husband isn't here," she added with a smile. "jules generally goes out in the afternoon," blanche replied, feeling guilty at the thought of concealing anything from him. "he likes to read the french papers in a _café_ in the strand." "then i'll tell dr. broughton to come some afternoon. he'll be delighted. i don't believe _he's_ ever known an acrobat either," she laughed. they talked more of blanche's symptoms, and mrs. tate speedily discovered that since the birth of the baby blanche had not been free from terror of her work; every night she feared might be her last. she did not confess this directly, but mrs. tate gathered it from several intimations and from her own observations. she felt elated. what an interesting case! she had never heard of anything like it before. this poor child was haunted with a horrible terror! this accounted for the pitiful look of distress in her eyes. then mrs. tate's generous heart fairly yearned with sympathy; but this she was careful to conceal. she saw that by displaying it she would do far more harm than good; so she pretended to be amused at the possibility of blanche's injuring herself in making the plunge. "it must have become second nature to you," she said, "after all these years. you're probably a little tired and nervous. dr. broughton will give you a tonic that will restore your old confidence. meantime," she added enthusiastically, "i'm going to take care of you. i'm coming to see you very often, and i shall expect you to come to see me. let me think; this is thursday. on sunday night you and monsieur le baron must come and dine with us at seven o'clock. we'll be all alone. i sha'n't ask any one. but wait a minute. why wouldn't that be a good way for your husband to meet dr. broughton? i'll ask him to come, too. he often looks in on sundays. that will be delightful." she rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. "i suppose i must go without seeing the baby. but i shall----" she looked quickly around at the clicking sound that seemed to come from the door. then the door opened, and jules, in a heavy fur-trimmed coat and silk hat, stood before her. she recognized him at once, and as he bowed hesitatingly, she extended her hand and relieved the awkwardness of the situation. "i won't wait for madame to introduce me," she said, just as blanche was murmuring her name. "then you are the lady father dumény spoke to us about!" jules said with a smile. "yes; and your wife and i have become the best of friends already." "and you've made friends with the baby too, i hope," jules replied, removing his coat and throwing it over a chair. she liked his face more than she had done at the hippodrome; he had a good eye, and, for a frenchman, a remarkably clear complexion. "no; she's asleep," blanche replied. "i asked madeleine to bring her in if she woke up." "but you must see her," jules insisted. "i'll go and take a peep at her." he went to the door leading to the next room, opened it softly, and glanced in. then he made a sign that the others were to follow, and he tiptoed toward the bed where jeanne lay sleeping, her face rosy with health, and her little hands tightly closed. madeleine, who had been sitting beside the bed, rose as they approached and showed her mouthful of teeth. for a few moments they stood around the child, smiling at one another and without speaking. then they tiptoed out of the room, and closed the door behind them. "i shall come again soon some morning," mrs. tate whispered, as if still afraid of disturbing the child, "when the baby's awake." then she went on in a louder tone: "she's a dear. i know i shall become very fond of her. and you're coming to us next sunday night," she added, as she bade jules good-bye. "your wife has promised. i shall expect you both. perhaps i shall come before then; i want to get acquainted with jeanne." she kissed blanche on both cheeks, after the french fashion. "i sha'n't forget, you know. we have great secrets together already," she laughed, turning to jules as she passed out of the door. xiv as soon as percy tate confronted his wife at the table that night he saw that something was on her mind. "you've been to see those circus people," he said. "how did you know that?" "oh, clairvoyance,--my subtle insight into the workings of your brain!" "i suppose hawkins told you. well, i _have_ been to see them." tate began to pick at the bread beside his plate. he often became preoccupied when he knew his wife wanted him to ask questions; this was his favorite way of teasing her. "it's the strangest _ménage_ i ever saw in my life," mrs. tate exclaimed at last, unable to keep back the news any longer. "and it's just as i thought it would be. that poor little creature simply lives in terror of being killed." tate rolled his eyes. "'in the midst of life we are in death,'" he said solemnly. "it's altogether too serious a matter to be made a joke of, percy. if you could have heard--" "now, my dear, you know what i told you. you went to see that woman with the deliberate expectation of finding her a person to be sympathized with, and i can see that you've imagined a lot of nonsense about her. why in the world don't you let such people alone? you belong in your place and she belongs in hers, and the world is big enough to hold you both without obliging you to come together. you can't understand her feelings any more than she can understand yours. you wonder how you'd feel if you were in her place; you can't realize that if you _were_ in her place you'd be an altogether different person. if you had to go through her performances, of course you'd be scared to death; but you forget she's been brought up to do those things; it's her business, her life. i knew you'd go there and work up a lot of ridiculous sympathy, and badger that woman for nothing!" at the beginning of this speech mrs. tate had sat back in her chair with an expression of patient resignation in her face. when her husband finished she breathed a long sigh. "i hope you've said it all, percy. you're so tiresome when you make those long harangues. besides, you've only succeeded in showing that you don't understand the case at all." then, as they finished their soup, mrs. tate gave an account of her call of the afternoon, ending with a graphic repetition of the talk with blanche about the pains in her back. "i shall certainly tell dr. broughton about it," she cried. "that poor child--she really _is_ nothing _but_ a child--she's just killing herself by inches, and her husband is worse than a brute to let the thing go on." "so you want to stop it and take away their only means of support." "it isn't their only means of support. it seems the husband has money. that makes it all the worse." "now, let me say right here, my dear, i wash my hands of this affair. if you want to rush in and upset those people's lives, go ahead, but i'll have nothing to do with it." "i wish you wouldn't scold me so, percy. it seems to me i usually bear the consequences of what i do. and i don't see what harm there can be in consulting dr. broughton. you're always cracking him up yourself." tate burst into a loud laugh. "if that isn't just like a woman! turning it onto poor old broughton." "oh, sometimes you're so _aggravating_, percy!" two days later, in spite of her husband's opposition, mrs. tate consulted dr. broughton, and he promised, as soon as he could, to call some morning at the little hotel in albemarle street. before he appeared there mrs. tate ingratiated herself into the affections of the family. as blanche grew more familiar with her, she confided to her many details of her life, and mrs. tate speedily possessed the chief facts in connection with it. these facts did not increase her esteem for jules, whose days, in spite of his duties as his wife's manager, were spent in what she regarded as wholly unpardonable idleness. she also suspected that jules disliked her; it must have been he who sent word that they would be unable to accept her invitation for dinner on sunday evening. this, however, did not prevent their being invited for the following sunday. mrs. tate was determined to secure her husband's opinion of her new _protégés_. before sunday came dr. broughton unexpectedly made his appearance in the tates' drawing-room one evening. "i've seen your acrobat," he said to the figure in yellow silk and lace, reading beside the lamp. "don't get up. been out? i hardly thought i'd find you in; you're such a pair of worldlings." "we came away early. i had a headache," said tate, shading his eyes with one hand and offering the other to the visitor. "or, rather, i pretended i had." the doctor, a short, stout man of fifty, with grayish brown hair, and little red whiskers jutting out from either side of his face, and with enormous eyebrows shading his keen eyes, gathered his coat-tails in his hand, and took a seat on the couch. "it's late for a call--must be after ten. but i knew this lady of yours would want to hear about her acrobat. nice little creature, isn't she? seems ridiculous she should belong to a circus." "she doesn't belong there," mrs. tate replied, briskly inserting a paper-knife in her book and laying the book on the little table beside her. "i've never seen any one so utterly misplaced. did you have a talk with her?" "yes--a talk. that was all; but that was enough. her husband was out." "o, you conspirators!" tate exclaimed. "then you've satisfied yourself about her?" said his wife, ignoring him. "yes. she has a very common complaint, a form of meningitis; slumbering meningitis, it's often called. many people have it without knowing it; and she might have had it even if she hadn't taken to thumping her spine half a dozen times a week. the trouble's located in the spine." "there, i told you so!" exclaimed mrs. tate; and "what a lovely habit women have of never gloating over anything!" her husband added amiably. "percy, i wish you'd keep quiet! do you really think it's serious, doctor?" the doctor held up his hands meditatively, the ends of the fingers touching, and slowly lifted his shoulders. "in itself it may be serious or it may not. sometimes trouble of that sort is quiescent for years, and the patient dies of something else. sometimes it resists treatment, and leads to very serious complications,--physical and mental. i've had cases where it has affected the brain and others where it has led to paralysis. in this case it is likely to be aggravated." "by the diving, you mean?" said mrs. tate. "exactly. that has probably been the cause of the trouble lately--if it wasn't the first cause. it may go on getting worse, or it may remain as it is for years, or it may disappear for a time, or possibly, altogether." mrs. tate breathed what sounded like a sigh of disappointment. "then it isn't so bad as i thought," she said. for a moment the doctor hesitated. then he replied: "yes, it's worse. the mere physical pain that it causes madame le baron is of comparatively little account. i think we may be able to stop that. the peculiarity of the case is the nervousness, the curious fear that seems to haunt her." in her excitement mrs. tate almost bounced from her seat. "that is _exactly_ what i said. the poor child hasn't a moment's peace. it's the most terrible thing i ever heard of. and to think that that man--her husband----" "it's always the husband," tate laughed. "broughton, why don't you stand up for your sex?" "percy wants to turn the whole thing into ridicule. i think it's a shame. i can't tell you how it has worried me. i feel so----" "for heaven's sake, broughton, i wish you'd give my wife something to keep her from feeling for other people. if you don't, she'll go mad, and i shall too. she wants to regulate the whole universe. i have a horrible fear that she's going to get round to me soon." the doctor smiled, and bent his bushy eyes on the husband and then on the wife. "it's a peculiar case," he repeated thoughtfully, when they had sat in silence for several moments. "it couldn't be treated in the ordinary way." "how in the world did you get so much out of her?" mrs. tate asked. "she's the shyest little creature." "i had to work on her sympathies. i got her to crying,--and then, of course, the whole story came out. as you said, she's haunted by the fear of being killed." "but that's the baby," said mrs. tate quickly. "she told me she never had the least fear till her baby was born." the doctor lifted his eyebrows. "it's several things," he replied dryly, refusing to take any but the professional view. then they discussed the case in all its aspects. the haunting fear dr. broughton regarded as the worst feature. "she says when she goes into the ring, that usually leaves her; but if it came back just before she took her plunge it would kill her. the least miscalculation would be likely to make her land on her head in the net, and that would mean a broken neck. it's terrible work,--that. the law ought to put a stop to it." "the law ought to put a stop to a good many things that it doesn't," mrs. tate snapped. "to think that in this age of civilization----" "there she goes, reforming the world again!" her husband interrupted. "but if the law doesn't stop it in this case," she went on, "_i_ will." for a time they turned from the subject of blanche and her ills to other themes; but when, about midnight, dr. broughton rose to leave, mrs. tate went back to it. "we're going to have the le barons here for dinner next sunday," she said. "i wish you'd come in if you can. i want percy to see what they're like." "she relies on my judgment after all," said tate, following the guest to the door. as they stood together in the hall, "you think the case is serious then?" he asked quietly. the doctor whispered something in his ear, and tate nodded thoughtfully. "and how do you think it'll end if she doesn't stop it?" dr. broughton tapped his forehead with his hand. "this is what i'm most afraid of." he seized his stick and thrust it under his arm. "but giving up her performance, i'm afraid, would be like giving up her life. she was practically born in the circus, you know, and i suspect from what your wife has told me that her husband fell in love with her in the circus. outside of that she seems to have no interest in anything,--except, of course, her family and her baby. but to take her out of the circus would be like pulling up a tree by the roots." dr. broughton was so used to making hurried exits from patients' houses that he lost no time in getting away from tate. as he went down the steps his host stood with one hand on the knob of the front door, thinking. the doctor had unconsciously given him a most fascinating suggestion. around this his mind played as he walked back to the drawing-room, where his wife was yawning, and gathering, some books to take upstairs. he said nothing to her about it; before expressing his fancy, he decided to wait until he saw those curious people. xv mrs. tate was right in surmising that jules had conceived a dislike for her. the first day he saw her he decided that she was a tiresome, interfering englishwoman, and he watched with annoyance her growing intimacy with blanche, whom he wished to keep wholly to himself. of his wife's success at the hippodrome he felt as proud as if it were his own; he loved to read the notices of it in the papers, and while blanche was performing, to walk about in the audience and hear her praises. he had come to look upon her as part of himself, as his property; and this sense of proprietorship added to the fascination that her performance had for him. though his first ardor of devotion had passed, he was still tender with her; but his tenderness always had reference more to her work than to herself. he watched her as the owner of a performing animal might have watched his precious charge. sometimes he used to lose patience with her for her devotion to the little jeanne; if jeanne cried at night she would want to leave the bed to soothe her. in order to prevent this, jules had the child's crib moved into madeleine's room, to the secret grief of the mother, who, however, did not think of resisting his commands. in his way jules was fond of jeanne; but he could not help thinking that before she came blanche had given all her love to him. however, there was some excuse for that; but there was no reason why a stranger like mrs. tate should come in and take possession of them, act like a member of the family, and put a lot of silly ideas into his wife's head. the mere fact that mrs. tate was english would have been enough to prejudice jules against her even if he had not objected to her personal qualities. he hated the english, and he hated england, especially london. even blanche, who was blind to his faults, speedily discovered that his boast of being a born traveller had no foundation in fact. on arriving in london he had gone straight to a french hotel, where he was served to french cooking by a _garçon_ trained in the _cafés_ of the _boulevards_. since then he had associated only with the few french people he could find in the city; if he hadn't been eager to read everything printed about blanche, he would never have looked at any but french papers. at home he spent a large part of his time in ridiculing the english, just as on his return from america he had ridiculed the americans. now, at the thought of being obliged to dine with a lot of those _bêtes d'anglais_ he felt enraged. he had already refused one invitation. why wasn't that enough for them? the second he would have refused too, if blanche had not insisted that another refusal would be a discourtesy to father dumény's friends. ah, father dumény, a fine box he had got them into, the tiresome old woman that he was, with his foolish jokes and his rheumatism! jules never forgot that dinner. in the first place, he was awed by the magnificence of the tates' house; it surpassed anything of the kind he had ever seen in france or in america; it had never occurred to him that the english could have such good taste. then, too, in spite of the efforts of his hosts to make him comfortable, he felt awkward, ill at ease, out of place. as soon as he entered the drawing-room, blanche was taken upstairs by mrs. tate, and jules was left with the husband and with dr. broughton. a moment later the doctor disappeared, and for the next half-hour jules tried to maintain a conversation in english. tate turned the conversation to life in paris as compared with the life of london, but jules had so much difficulty in speaking english that they fell at last into french. meanwhile, blanche sat in the library with mrs. tate and dr. broughton, whom she had not seen since the day of his call upon her. the doctor had at once won her confidence, and since her talk with him she had felt better, and she fancied that the tonic he gave her had already benefited her. but she still had that pain in her back, she said, and that terrible fear; every night when she kissed the little jeanne before going to the hippodrome, she felt as if she should never see the child again. if she didn't stop feeling like that, she didn't know what would happen. "if you could give up the plunge for a while," the doctor suggested, "you'd be very much better for the rest. then you might go back to it, you know." "but i'm engaged for the season," blanche replied in french, which the doctor readily understood, but refused to speak. "i can't break my contract." "perhaps you could make a compromise," mrs. tate suggested. "you could go on with your trapeze performance,--with everything except the dive." "i was really engaged for that," said blanche, a look of dismay appearing in her face. "there are many others that perform on the trapeze." "but you might try to make some arrangement," mrs. tate insisted. "your husband could talk it over with the managers." "ah, but he would not like it," blanche replied with evident distress. "it would make him so unhappy if he--if he knew." "if he knew you were being made ill by your work!" mrs. tate interrupted. "of course it would make him unhappy, and it would be very strange if it didn't. but it's much better to have him know it than for you to go on risking your life every night." dr. broughton gave his hostess a glance that made her quail. a moment later, however, she gathered herself together. "i didn't mean to say that, dear, but now that i _have_ said it, there's no use mincing matters. the doctor has told me plainly that if you go on making that plunge every night in your present state of nervousness it will certainly result in your death--in one way or another. so the only thing for you to do, for the sake of your baby, and your husband, and for your own sake too,--the only thing for you to do is to stop it, at least for a time. if you were to break your neck it would simply be murder,--yes, murder," she repeated, glancing at the doctor, who was looking at her with an expression that showed he thought she was going too far. tears had begun to trickle down blanche's cheeks, and now they turned to sobs. for a few moments she lost control of herself, and her frail figure was shaken with grief. dr. broughton said nothing, and he looked angry. mrs. tate paid no attention to him; she went over to blanche, took her in her arms, and began to soothe her. in a few moments the sobbing ceased, and mrs. tate went on:-- "it's best that you should know this, dear, though perhaps i've been cruel in telling it to you so bluntly. we must tell your husband about it, too. i'm sure he'll be distressed to hear how much you've suffered, and he'll be glad to do anything that will help you. so now we'll send the doctor away, and bathe your face with hot water, and go down to dinner and try to forget about our troubles for a while." if jules had not been absorbed in his own embarrassment at the dinner-table he might have discovered traces of agitation in his wife's face. he was secretly execrating the luck that had brought him among these people, and he resolved when he returned home to tell blanche that he would have nothing more to do with them. if she was willing to have that prying englishwoman about her all the time, she could, but she mustn't expect him to be more than civil to her. the conversation had turned on english politics, and as jules had nothing to offer on the subject, his enforced silence increased his discomfort. mrs. tate was devoting herself to blanche, who sat beside her, relating in french stories of her life in paris. jules felt resentful; no one paid attention to him; when he dined out in paris he was always one of the leaders in the talk. he wanted to justify himself, to show these people that he was no fool, that he was worthy of being the husband of a celebrity. by a fortunate chance, the talk drifted to american politics, and jules, seeing his opportunity, seized it. a few moments later he was launched on an account of his travels in the united states. tate, relieved at having at last found a topic his guest could discuss, gave jules full play, and listened to him with a light in his eyes that showed his wife he was secretly amused. indeed, jules' criticisms of america and his descriptions of the peculiarities of americans greatly entertained them. the dinner closed in animated talk, much to the relief of mrs. tate, who feared it would be a great failure; it made her realize, however, that as show people the le barons were quite useless. she was afraid blanche had been bored; she had been sitting almost speechless during the meal, sighing heavily now and then, as if thinking that in a few hours her respite would be over, and she would have to return to her horrible work. mrs. tate was quite ready to make any sacrifice to rescue blanche from the terrors of her circus life; in the enthusiasm of the moment she said to herself, that rather than let her continue making that plunge, she would offer to _pay_ her husband what she earned, in order to take his wife out of the ring altogether. at the thought of persuading him to do this, mrs. tate felt that at last she had a definite task to perform; it was almost like a mission, and the harder it proved to be, the more exalted she would feel. after their return to the drawing-room, mrs. tate, with a delightful feeling that she was engaged in a conspiracy, made a mysterious sign to dr. broughton to come to her. "i suppose percy's been whispering to you not to have anything to do with this scheme of mine, but don't pay any attention to him. do you know, i think the best way would be to take the husband into the library and have it out there. he must _be_ told, you know. he hasn't a suspicion of it,--not a suspicion. you wait a few minutes, and as soon as i get a chance, i'll ask him to follow me out." the doctor smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "you must take the responsibility," he said carelessly. "i shall merely do my professional duty. mr. tate has just been telling me about a curious idea----" "don't pay any attention to his ideas. percy thinks everything ought to be left to regulate itself. a fine world it would be if every one thought as he does. now you go back to him, and follow me when i tell you. no, i have a better plan. you go into the library with percy. i'll come in there in a few minutes." a quarter of an hour later, when mrs. tate entered the library with jules, she found her husband and the doctor there, half-hidden in a cloud of smoke. "this poor man, too, has been dying for another cigar," she said; "but he's too polite to say so. so while he's smoking we can have our talk. we'll take our coffee in here, too. percy, you go and see that madame le baron is properly served. i've had to leave her there alone for a minute, but i said i'd send you in. dr. broughton and i are going to have a secret conference with monsieur le baron." "secret conferences are always dangerous," tate replied, rising to leave the room. "look out for them!" he added with a smile to jules, as he hesitated at the door. when he had closed the door behind him, he stood in the hall a moment, thinking. tate was a man of sense, of "horse-sense," one of his friends used to say of him, and not given to forebodings. now, however, he had a distinct regret that his wife was interfering in this matter, and fear of the consequences. she often did things that he disapproved, and he made no objection, for he believed that she had as much right to independence as himself; but in this case he would have liked to interfere. he had spoken to dr. broughton about his feeling in the matter, and the doctor had merely laughed. well, the doctor knew better than he did; perhaps, after all, his own theory was absurd. at any rate, he could not be held accountable for any trouble that might result from his wife's meddling. this thought, however, gave him little consolation. he usually suffered for her mistakes much more than she did herself. when he went back to the drawing-room, he had difficulty in sustaining a conversation with blanche; he kept thinking of the conference in the next room, wondering what the result would be. he was prepared to see jules enter with a pale face and set lips and with wrath in his eyes. when jules finally entered between his hostess and the doctor, tate scanned his face narrowly; it was not white, and the lips were not set, but the whole expression had changed to a look of dogged determination and ill-concealed rage. he sat near his wife, staring at her as if he had never seen her before. for a few moments the conversation was resumed, but the atmosphere seemed chilled. then the doctor rose to say good-night, explaining that he had promised to call on a patient in curzon street before going home. this seemed to be the signal for the breaking-up, and all of the guests left at the same moment, mrs. tate calling out to blanche at the door of the drawing-room that she would look in on her the next day if she were not too busy. when the front door had closed, tate turned to his wife. "well, you had a stormy time of it, didn't you?" she walked toward the centre of the drawing-room and stood under the chandelier, keeping her eyes fixed on her husband's face, which seemed to be much more serious than usual. "what makes you think so?" she asked, removing a bracelet from her arm and nervously twirling it. "i could tell from the expression in his eyes, and from the way you and the doctor acted. he was furious, wasn't he?" "furious? le baron? hardly; though i could see he didn't believe a word we said. he was almost too startled to understand it at first. the little goose hadn't said a word to him about it." "and what did he say when you told him she ought to give up her performance? how did he like that?" "he didn't like it at all, apparently. but i didn't expect him to like it. it means money out of his pocket." "no, it means more than that, if i'm not mistaken." "what else can it mean?" she said, lifting her eyebrows questioningly. "it means the end of whatever affection he has for his wife. of course he never had much. a man of his sort doesn't." she looked at him with curiosity in her face. "what difference does her performing make in his affection for her?" "can't you see that he didn't fall in love with _her_? he fell in love with her performance." mrs. tate put one finger to her lips and hesitated for a moment. then she said slowly:-- "how ridiculous you are, percy! as if any one ever heard of such a thing!" xvi on the way home in the hansom that he had called, jules scarcely spoke. blanche kept glancing at him covertly; she had never before seen that look in his face, and it alarmed her; he seemed to be trying to keep back the anger that showed itself in his half-closed eyes and his firm-set chin. when they reached the lodgings, blanche found madeleine sound asleep by the fireplace, and without waking her, she started to go into the next room to see if jeanne were comfortable. when she reached the door, jules said in a low voice:-- "wait here a minute. i have something to say to you." at the sound of the words, madeleine's eyes opened slowly, and she blinked at jules, who was glancing angrily at her. "this is a pretty way you take care of jeanne. she might have had a dozen convulsions without your knowing anything about them." in spite of jules' command, the reference to the convulsions, which had nearly cost jeanne her life a few weeks after birth, sent blanche agitatedly into the nursery. madeleine lumbered behind her, and both were relieved to find the child sleeping contentedly in her cradle, her cheeks flushed, and her chubby hands clenched at her breast. blanche would have liked to pass several moments there in rapt adoration, but jules appeared at the door and made a sign to her to come to him. "madeleine will look out for her," he said, pointing to the cradle. "go to bed, madeleine." blanche tiptoed out of the room, removed her wraps, and, with the overcoat jules had thrown on the couch, hung them in the little closet beside the big mirror. jules, who had taken a seat in front of the fire-place, watched her impatiently, and then motioned her to sit in the chair opposite him. "now perhaps you'll be kind enough to tell me what all this means. i knew that englishwoman would be up to some mischief. what does it mean?" he said sternly. blanche looked timidly into his face; the expression of anger that she had noticed on their way home was still there. she did not know what to say, and tears of misery filled her eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. then weakened by her previous outburst, she covered her face with her hands, and began to sob, giving expression to all the torture that had come from the horror of her performance, from her incessant terror of being killed and separated from jeanne. jules was at first touched, and then alarmed, by the unexpected display of grief. he waited, thinking that it would soon expend itself; then when the sobs continued, he went over to her, and taking her gently in his arms, tried to soothe her by stroking her hair and calling her by the endearing names he had used during the first weeks of their marriage, and begging her to control herself for his sake, it hurt him so. after this last appeal, blanche put her arms round his neck, and buried her head on his breast, and for a few moments they sat together without speaking, her body shaken now and then from the violence of her grief. then jules began to question her quietly, and the whole story of her sufferings since jeanne's birth came out so pathetically that, in spite of his anger, he was touched, and convinced that, after all, the englishwoman had been right. in his remorse that blanche had suffered in silence, and he had not found it out, had done nothing to help her, he declared he would have the diving stopped at once, no matter what the cost might be. rather than see her unhappy, he would make her give up performing altogether, if that were necessary. at any rate, he would go to marshall the next day and see what could be done about taking her name off the bills. they would leave this disgusting london, perhaps for the south of france, where blanche could have a long rest, and gather strength for her visit to america the next year. for a long time they talked over the plan, and then jules made blanche go to bed. "you'll not be able to do your work tomorrow," he said, "if you sit up much longer. of course, you can't stop it at once. marshall wouldn't listen to that. you're his best attraction, and he'll have to advertise your last appearances." for more than an hour after blanche left him, jules walked up and down the little drawing-room, smoking cigarettes. the revelation of his wife's trouble had so upset him that he felt unable to sleep. but it was of himself, not of her, that he was chiefly thinking. dr. broughton had told him that a long rest might cure blanche of her nervous terror and relieve her of the pains in the back, but it was probable that she would be affected again as soon as she resumed her performance. if this proved true, his own career would be ruined; there would be no more travelling, no more triumphs! blanche would sink into obscurity, would become a mere nonentity, devoted to her child and house-keeping, like scores of other wives and mothers that he knew and despised in paris. out of the circus, she was utterly commonplace, jules said to himself, and the fact came to him with the force of a revelation! but for that he would never have married her; the brilliancy of her talent had dazzled him! and now, if she had to leave the circus, how beautifully he would have been tricked! he would be tied down to her and her child! the expense of maintaining them would oblige him to live meanly, in a way that he had never been used to, that he loathed. what a fine trap he had got himself into! there was absolutely no escape, unless blanche recovered from her ridiculous cowardice. and all on account of that infant, who had come into the world without being wanted, and had spoiled his life! for the moment jules hated jeanne. he wished she had never been born, or had died at birth; then all this trouble wouldn't have occurred. but for jeanne, blanche might have accepted that offer for a summer season at trouville. then he wouldn't have been bored at boulogne, and father dumény wouldn't have given him that letter to those beasts of english. then jules' wrath turned from jeanne to father dumény, and on him he poured all his old bitterness against priests. they were always interfering, those black-coated, oily-tongued hypocrites. oh, if he had father dumény there! he would have liked to choke him! the more jules thought, the more convinced he became that his wife's nervousness was due to imagination rather than to any physical cause. then, too, blanche had been homesick after her long stay in boulogne, where she saw her mother and her sisters every day. what a fool he had been to allow her to go there! he hated the whole pack of them--father dumény, madame berthier, her tiresome old husband, all! what right did they have to interfere with blanche? she was his wife, she belonged to him alone. when he reached this point jules had worked himself into a fine indignation; but he had exhausted his cigarettes, and it was now nearly twelve o'clock. instead of going to bed, however, he threw himself on the couch in the corner of the room, where a few hours later blanche found him, sleeping soundly. jules woke in an irritable mood, cross with madeleine, indifferent to jeanne, with whom he usually liked to gambol after breakfast, and silent with his wife. for a time he said nothing to blanche about their talk of the night before, and the expression of his face prevented her from touching upon it. till eleven o'clock he was busily engaged in writing letters; when he had finished these, he turned to blanche, who was sitting alone by the table, making a dress for jeanne. "i've just written to hicks in new york," he said, "the man who made me that fine offer for next september. i told him we couldn't sign the contract yet. that'll probably make him offer us more money, and it'll give you time to find out whether you can go on with your work again." "but i shall surely go on with it," said blanche, hardly daring to look into his face. "i shall be well again after a rest. i know i shall. the doctor said--" "never mind what the doctor said. i don't believe he knows anything about it. you're just a little nervous, that's all. you worry about little things too much, about jeanne especially. why can't you let madeleine take care of jeanne? she knows a good deal more about children than you do. that's what we pay her for. the child costs us enough, heaven knows, and if your salary's going to be cut off, we'll have to be pretty economical." for a moment blanche said nothing; her lips quivered, but she controlled herself. jules looked at her narrowly, and said to himself that she was not half so pretty as she had been; she was growing thinner, and there were little lines in her face that ought not to be in the face of one so young as her mother said she was. how weak, how helpless she seemed! once the thought of her weakness and ingenuousness had given him pleasure; now it only made him realize his own superiority. "perhaps," she suggested hesitatingly,--"perhaps mr. marshall might be willing to make a new contract. perhaps he would let me go on with my performance on the trapeze and the rope--without the dive." "i've thought of that," jules replied, rising and going to the closet for his overcoat. "but it isn't at all likely. he's been advertising your dive all over london, and it's been his best feature. he'll be pretty mad when i tell him you're going to give it up. he'll probably try to make me pay a forfeit for breach of contract." "for breach of contract!" she repeated blankly. "i--" "oh, don't worry about it," said jules, with a pang of regret for the pain he had caused her. "i think i can make that all right. i suppose that old doctor would write a certificate if i asked him." he drew on the fur-lined coat, and as he took his gloves from his pocket he started for the door, without kissing blanche. then, at the door, glancing back, and seeing her standing in the middle of the room with a look of helpless pain in her face, he turned and walked towards her, and bent his face to hers. "there, there, dear, don't worry," he said. "you'll be all right again in a little while!" at the door he added: "i shall be back in an hour or two, and tell you what marshall says." the hour or two proved to be three hours, and these blanche passed chiefly in walking up and down the apartment. she could not keep still; she felt convinced that something dreadful was going to happen. she hardly dared even to talk to jeanne, as if she fancied the child might divine her misery. she feared that she would be unable to give up her performance, and she feared she would have to go on with it. if she did give it up, she had a presentiment that she would pay dear for the release; if she did not, she knew it would result in her death. ever since coming to london, she had prepared herself for the catastrophe. no one, not even kind-hearted mrs. tate, could imagine the agony of mind she had endured. and it was all for jeanne! her very sufferings had fed her love for the child. if she and jules could go away with jeanne, far away, where they would never hear or think of performances again, how happy they would be! but she must go on with her work; she ought to fight against her weakness. jules had said she would grow strong again; she had always believed what he said, and perhaps he was right now. perhaps after a rest she would want to go back to the ring. but she was afraid, she was afraid! poor little jeanne! every few moments she ran into the room where jeanne was taking her mid-day sleep. she wanted to clasp the child to her breast and walk up and down the room with her. but for several weeks she had not dared to hold her in her arms for fear of dropping her from nervousness. instead of going directly to the hippodrome, jules turned into piccadilly, where he had seen the sign of a french physician. he had suddenly decided to seek further medical advice before speaking to marshall, and he did not propose to trust blanche's case to another englishman. he was obliged to wait in dr. viaud's outer office for more than an hour. the doctor received him with what seemed to jules an almost suspicious courtesy; but this disappeared as soon as he explained that he was french. jules was gratified by the interest paid to his repetition of blanche's confession of the night before. the doctor did not interrupt till jules had mentioned the advice given by the english physician. "broughton!" he exclaimed, repeating the name after jules. "you couldn't have consulted a better man. he's at the head of his profession here in london." when he had questioned jules about blanche's symptoms, he said thoughtfully: "i cannot add anything to the advice dr. broughton has given,--that is, of course, with my present knowledge of the case. but i have absolute confidence in his judgment. the pains in the back i do not fear so much as the terrible apprehension that you say haunts your wife. in itself that is, of course, great suffering; and the consequences may be fatal. your wife's dive requires iron nerve, and that is being constantly weakened by her continual worrying. i agree with dr. broughton that she at least needs a rest as soon as possible. there can't be two opinions about that. but i should not like to interfere with dr. broughton's--" jules understood at once, and rose from his seat. "i merely wanted to see what you thought. if you had disagreed--" "ah, but dr. broughton is very reliable!" said the frenchman, with a smile and a shrug, as if afraid of even a suggestion of professional discourtesy. jules left him feeling bitterly disappointed. there was no hope then! he had surmised that the shrewd-eyed englishman knew his business. there was nothing to do but to go to marshall and explain the situation. when he returned from the hippodrome to the apartment blanche met him at the door. his face was darkened with a scowl. "what did he say?" she asked nervously, as he entered and threw his overcoat on a chair. "was he--was he angry?" "angry? no; he was altogether too cool. if he'd been angry i shouldn't have cared. i'd have liked that a good deal better." "then we sha'n't have to pay a forfeit?" said blanche, glancing up into his face. he turned away and threw himself wearily on the couch. "no, you won't have to pay a forfeit, but you'll have to go on with the engagement." "with the diving?" she said, her face growing white. "no, with the other work--on the trapeze and the rope. he said you'd have to elaborate that, and he'd pay you half what you're getting now till you were ready to do the diving again. he wants to keep you on account of your name. he's advertised you all over the city, and even out in the country places near london." "but he--he doesn't object to my giving up the plunge?" blanche repeated, in a tone which suggested that her professional pride was hurt. "he didn't when i told him the doctor had forbidden your going on with it for a while. besides, he had another reason for not objecting." "what was that?" "he showed me a letter he'd just had from that woman who made such a sensation in bucharest while we were in vienna. don't you remember? i showed you some of her notices. she does a swimming act, and dives from a platform into a tank. she's been playing in the english provinces, and now she wants to come to london." "so he's going to engage her in my place?" blanche gasped. "in your place?" jules repeated irritably. "how can he engage her in your place when he's going to keep you? we've got to live, and it won't hurt you to go on with your work on the trapeze and the rope. he knows your name will be an attraction, and if he engages that englishwoman, she'll be another card for him--a big one. he says she's been drawing crowds in manchester for six weeks." "what's her name?" "king--lottie king--or something like that." "is she pretty? did he show you her pictures?" "yes; her manager sent him a whole box of them. she's _petite_, with wicked little eyes." "dark?" "no, blonde." "and what is her dive?" "what?" "how high is it?" "fifty feet, marshall said; but one of the circus hands told me it wasn't much more, than forty." "oh!" there was a suggestion of a sneer in her tone, and jules looked up in surprise. "of course, it's nothing compared with yours," he said, to console her. "when is she going to begin?" she asked, after a moment. "going to begin? do you mean here in london? marshall hasn't signed with her yet. she's engaged in manchester for three weeks longer." "then i shall have to go on with my dive till she comes?" "i suppose so," jules replied coldly. she saw that he did not wish to continue the conversation; so she went into the nursery, leaving him lying on the couch, where he often took an afternoon nap; since coming to london he had grown very lazy, and had gained flesh. blanche found jeanne wide awake and crowing in madeleine's arms. she sat beside the cradle, and taking the child in her lap, sent madeleine out of the room. jeanne snatched at the brooch she wore at her throat, and laughed into her face. blanche tried to smile in reply, but the tears welled into her eyes again, and fell in big drops on her cheeks. xvii three days after jules' talk with marshall, the forthcoming engagement at the hippodrome of miss lottie king was announced in the london newspapers. blanche signed a new contract, by which she agreed to perform for several weeks longer on the trapeze and on the rope at half the salary she had been receiving. marshall said that no mention of the plunge would be made in the papers; her name would continue to "draw," and the public would be satisfied with miss king's great dive into the tank. this remark made jules very angry, and it also depressed blanche, who felt as if she had already been deposed from her supremacy as the chief attraction at the hippodrome. indeed, as the time drew near when she was to cease making the plunge, instead of feeling happier, she grew more despondent; she had already elaborated her performance on the trapeze by introducing several new feats that she and jules had planned together, but with these she was not satisfied; she felt like an actor obliged to play small parts after winning success in leading characters. as for jules, he did not try to hide his discontent at the change in his wife's work. in the first place, it made his brief but dramatic public appearance unnecessary; in future he would be obliged to conduct blanche to the circus, and live again like any mere hanger-on to the skirts of a public performer. the _rôle_ was ignoble, unworthy of him. then, too, he chafed at the thought of his wife's decline in importance at the hippodrome; he fancied that when her inability to go on with the plunge had become known to the other performers they would lose respect for her and for himself. he secretly doubted if the public would accept blanche merely for her performance on the trapeze and on the rope. almost any one could do that; but in the plunge she was without a rival. he hoped that, as a compensation for his vexation, the performance of miss king would be a failure. forty feet! what did that amount to in comparison with the magnificent plunge of more than ninety feet that blanche had made at vienna? already jules had begun to think of his wife in the past tense chiefly, as if she lived in the triumphs she had made by her nightly flight through the air. indeed, she seemed to him almost another person now. instead of looking on her almost with reverence, as he had done, he felt sorry for her, as if she were his inferior; and though he continued to treat her with kindness, there was a suggestion of pity, almost of contempt, in his manner toward her. she sought consolation in her child, who, she thought, grew stronger and more beautiful every day. for jeanne's sake she tried to be glad the time was so near when she should give up risking her life; but the nearer it grew, the more depressed she became, and the more she thought about that woman who was to take her place. mrs. tate, who had definitely taken blanche under her protection, and called at the little hotel several times each week, had been delighted at what she considered the fortunate solution of a shocking difficulty. now that blanche was to stop making that horrible dive, there was no reason why she shouldn't be the happiest woman in the world. with her keen instinct, however, she observed that blanche was not happy; she wondered, too, at the frequent absence of the husband from this _ménage_. jules couldn't be very devoted, she thought, for a man who had been married little more than a year. perhaps, however, he avoided her; for, in spite of his french politeness, he had not been able to conceal his dislike for her. for this reason she did not ask him to dinner again. she often took blanche and jeanne to drive in the afternoon, and pointed out the celebrities that they passed in the park. "my husband says i take you to drive just to show you off," she said jokingly one day. "he thinks i have a mania for celebrities." "ah, but i'm not a celebrity!" blanche replied, with a smile that was almost sad. "not a celebrity? of course you are. i haven't a doubt that half the people we meet recognize you. you know, it's been quite the fashion to go to the hippodrome this year." "but i sha'n't be a celebrity much longer," said blanche, glancing at the bare boughs of the trees, and wondering if any other place could be as desolate as london in winter. "why not? you don't think of retiring into private life altogether, do you?" mrs. tate laughed. "no, but i shall only be an ordinary performer after this week." "but i'd rather be an ordinary performer and keep my neck whole than be an _ex_traordinary one and risk my life every night," mrs. tate retorted sharply. she was vexed with blanche for not appreciating her emancipation. they rode on in silence for a few moments. then blanche said,-- "there's some one going to take my place, you know." "some one that's going to make that dreadful plunge?" mrs. tate cried in horror. "no, not that. she jumps into a tank of water--from a platform--only about forty feet. my jump is more than seventy-five feet," blanche added with a touch of pride. mrs. tate rested her hands in her lap and burst out laughing. "what a ridiculous thing! i beg your pardon, dear, but i can't help being amused. of course it doesn't seem funny to you. you're used to it; but it does to me." then she questioned blanche about the new performer, and blanche repeated what jules had told her and what she had since heard of the woman at the hippodrome. mrs. tate was greatly interested, and laughed immoderately; afterward, however, when she had returned home and thought over the conversation, she regarded it more seriously. "what do you think, percy?" she said at the dinner table that night. "those hippodrome people have engaged a creature to dive into a tank of water from a platform. of course, that's to take the place of madame le baron's plunge. could anything be more absurd? the worst of it is that the poor little woman is frightfully jealous already. i could see that from the way she talked. what a dreadful world it is, isn't it? they're all like that, aren't they, even the best of them? do you remember that poor madame gardini who sang here one night? she told me if she had her life to live over again she'd never dream of going on the stage. she said opera-singers were the unhappiest people in the world,--just poisoned with jealousy. and these circus people are exactly like them!" "what makes you think she's jealous? what was it she said?" "it wasn't _what_ she said, it was the _way_ she talked about the woman. her husband says she's a great beauty." "ah, the husband says so, does he?" tate remarked dryly. a moment later he added: "i wish you hadn't had anything to do with those people!" "you've said that a dozen times, percy, and i wish you'd stop. for my part, i'm very glad i've met them. if i hadn't, that poor little creature would be in her grave before the end of a year." "perhaps she'll wish that she _were_ in her grave before the end of the year." "what do you mean by that?" "nothing, dear, nothing. don't catch at everything i say. how is she now--any better? i suppose she's easier in mind now that she's going to stop that diving?" "that's the strangest thing about it," mrs. tate answered, with a change of tone. "i thought she would be, too, but she isn't. i really believe she's sorry she's giving it up. but perhaps that's because she's been doing it all her life. she'll miss it at first--even if it did worry her nearly to death!" "has dr. broughton been to see her lately?" "no; he said it wouldn't be necessary. he's going to wait to see what effect the rest from the diving will have on her." for a few moments tate looked thoughtfully at his wife. "upon my word," he said, "i half suspect that you _want_ something to happen to that little woman. it would just be romantic enough to suit you." "percy, how can you talk so? you're simply brutal." "she might at least break a leg to please you," her husband laughed, "before giving up that plunge." blanche made her last dive without the accident that tate had regarded as indispensable to dramatic effect. indeed, since knowing that she was to give it up, she seemed to have lost much of her terror of the plunge; she thought of it now chiefly with regret. that night, as she rode home with jules and madeleine, she seemed depressed; jules, too, was even more sullen than he had been for the past two weeks. when they had entered the lodgings and were eating their midnight meal, she said:-- "if to-morrow is pleasant we might take jeanne for a drive in the country. the air would do her good." "i can't go," he replied indifferently. "i have something else to do. besides, it would cost too much. we shall have to be economical now that you're going to be on half-salary." the next morning jules left the hotel at eleven o'clock, saying that he shouldn't be back for luncheon. he did not explain where he was going, and blanche did not question him. she busied herself with jeanne, and this distracted her till jeanne fell sound asleep. then she became a prey to her old melancholy, and for an hour she walked up and down the room, to the bewilderment of madeleine, who could not understand what the matter was. "is madame suffering with the pain in her back?" madeleine asked at last. no, madame was not suffering. she had not been troubled by the pain for several days; she hoped it would leave her for good now that she had stopped taking the plunge. "ah, god be praised that you do that no longer!" madeleine cried, lifting her withered hands to heaven and rolling her eyes. "it was too terrible. since that first night in paris, when i went with you and monsieur jules, i never dared to look. it was _affreux_!" "but jules loved it," said blanche, throwing herself into a chair beside the old woman. ah, yes, madeleine acknowledged. he used to rave about it in the little flat in the _rue de lisbonne_. once madeleine heard him talking in his sleep about the circus and the wonderful dive; he always slept with his door wide-open, and she often heard him talking away like one wide-awake. he had told her that it was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen, and no other woman in the world would have dared to do it. madeleine was always delighted to have a chance to talk about jules, and she babbled on, never suspecting that her words were making blanche suffer. "do you think," blanche said at last, "do you think he would have loved me if i hadn't done that--if i hadn't done that plunge, i mean--in the circus?" madeleine glanced at her quickly; she was unable to grasp the significance of the question. "but he did see you in the circus," she replied. "if he hadn't seen you there, _chérie_, he wouldn't have seen you at all." "yes, yes, that's true." blanche realized that it would be useless to try to explain what she meant. then, after a moment, she added, "and now that i've given up the dive,--perhaps i shall never be able to do it again; the doctor said i might not,--now that i've given it up, do you think he'll love me just the same?" madeleine's faded eyes turned to blanche and examined her closely. "if he'll love you just the same?" she repeated. "what has put such a strange idea into your head, child? of course he'll love you just the same." then madeleine was launched on a flood of eulogy. jules was so good, so faithful, so affectionate. there was not another like him. he had always been so tender with his mother; and oh, how his poor mother had worshipped him! madeleine's praises had the effect of soothing blanche for a time; they also made her ashamed of the half-conscious suspicion which had arisen in her mind, and which she would not have dared to formulate even to herself. she only permitted herself to acknowledge that his present manner toward her was different from his old one. she was also disturbed by his refusal for the past three sundays to go to church with her. the next afternoon jules came home in a rage. "i've been down to see marshall," he said. "what do you suppose the old fool's gone and done? he had the door of your dressing-room opened this morning and all your things turned out into miss van pelt's old room,--the little hole next door, you know. it's hardly big enough to breathe in. he said you weren't the star any longer, and he must give the room to miss king. it seems she's a kicker and he's afraid of a row." blanche had nothing to say in reply; this seemed to her only another indignity added to those she had already suffered. the worst was to come in the evening, when her rival would share the applause that used to be hers. a few moments later she asked,-- "was she there--that woman?" "no; she hasn't appeared yet, and marshall was a little nervous. she was to come up from manchester in a train that got in during the afternoon." "but suppose she doesn't come." "oh, she'll come fast enough. marshall had a telegram saying she'd started. her big iron tub arrived this morning. they were putting it in the ground and laying the pipes for the water when i was there. they keep it covered till her act begins." "what does she do besides her jump?" "oh, marshall says she goes through a lot of antics, stays under the water till she nearly dies of suffocation, and cooks a meal, and--" "under water?" blanche gasped. "no, of course not, you ninny," jules cried impatiently. his wife's simplicity had long before ceased to amuse him. "she does it while she's floating. then one of the circus boys falls into the tank, and she shows how she used to rescue people out in california." "then she's an american." "she's lived in america all her life, but her father was an englishman, and she was born in england. her father kept a swimming school out in san francisco; that's how she got into the business. they say she's got a lot of medals for saving lives." as jules walked into the next room to change his clothes for the evening, he said to himself that his wife was growing very stupid and tiresome. blanche sat alone for a few moments, feeling cold and forlorn. she could not keep from thinking and wondering about that woman; she was anxious and yet afraid to see her. she could not account for the dislike and terror with which the mere thought of the woman inspired her. she had never before regarded the other performers in the circus as her rivals; so, for the first time in her life, she knew the bitterness of jealousy. before preparing for the evening she went into the nursery, and for several moments sat beside the cradle where jeanne was peacefully sleeping, her little face rosy with health. the poor child, she thought, could never know the sacrifice she had made for her. she was glad she had made it; she had done her duty; but it was hard, it was so hard! then she bent over and kissed jeanne on the cheek; the child drew her head away, and buried her face impatiently in the pillow. blanche turned her gently in the crib, adjusted the lace covering, and stole out of the room. jules met her as she was closing the door softly behind her. "what have you been doing in there?" he cried petulantly. "why can't you let jeanne alone when she's asleep? every time she takes a nap you go in and wake her up. no wonder--" "i haven't waked her," blanche replied apologetically. "i only went in to see if she needed anything, and i sat beside her a moment." "well, you'll spoil her if you keep on. from the way you act one would imagine that jeanne was the only creature in the world worth thinking about!" they both took their places at the table which madeleine had prepared, and proceeded silently with their dinner. madeleine, who hovered about them, wondered what the matter was; she had never seen monsieur jules like this before; he usually had a great deal to say. when she had left the room for a few minutes, jules looked up from his plate. "i've been wondering whether we ought to keep madeleine or not. she's a great expense. we could get along just as well without her. the _garçon_ could serve our meals. we have to pay for the service whether we get it or not." when he had spoken he was startled by the look in his wife's face. not keep madeleine! the mere thought of parting with the old woman, whom she had come to regard almost as a second mother, shocked her so much that for a moment she could not formulate a reply. "but we couldn't get along without her!" she said. "think of all she does for me and for jeanne!" "oh, jeanne! it's always jeanne, jeanne. i'm sick of hearing her name. if jeanne hadn't been born we shouldn't be in the pretty box we're in now, and you'd be going on with your work like a sensible woman. i tell you we must economize. we're under heavy expenses here, and we're going to lose a lot of money by this imaginary sickness of yours." "i can't let madeleine go," blanche replied. "i should die without her. i should die of loneliness. and she loves you so, as much as if you were her son, and she loved your mother. she has often talked to me about her. i can't, i can't let her go. i'd rather--" "very well, then. don't say anything more about it. we'll have to economize in some other way. here she comes now. so keep quiet, or she'll want to find out what we've been talking about." xviii the hippodrome was crowded on the night of miss king's first appearance. jules, in evening dress as usual, leaned against the railing behind the highest tier of seats. at this moment he felt that he had been duped by fate, and he wanted to revenge himself on the crowd that had come to rejoice over his disappointment; for their presence seemed like a personal insult to him. but for the machinations of that crazy englishwoman, blanche would now be going on with her work; by this time they might have made arrangements for her visit to america in the early summer. however, the mischief was done, and there was no knowing when it would be undone. blanche might have recovered in a few weeks from her terror of the plunge; but after once yielding to it, she would probably never get over it. jules believed in presentiments, and he had a strong presentiment that blanche had taken her plunge for the last time. he tried to console himself, however, with the hope that lottie king would make a failure. the extensive advertising that marshall had given her made jules hate the girl; her name had been posted in places all over london where his wife's alone had been. to jules this was the most cruel evidence of his own decadence. half an hour before it was time for blanche to appear jules sauntered toward her dressing-room. when he reached the door, he stopped in surprise; he could hear an unfamiliar voice speaking english. some one must be in there with blanche and madeleine. when he entered, he saw a plump, pretty young woman, with a shock of yellow hair and big blue eyes, dressed in a tight-fitting bathing-suit of blue flannel and in blue silk stockings. he recognized her at once from her photographs. "hello!" she cried, glancing at jules familiarly. "is this him? introduce me, won't you?" for a moment blanche, whose face had been made up and whose figure, dressed in white silk tights, was covered with the cloak she threw off as she entered the ring, looked confused. then she presented jules to miss king, who beamed upon him with extravagant pleasure. "your wife's been telling me about you," she said. "i've been making friends with her. i wanted to see what she was like, and i supposed she'd want to see what i was like. so we've agreed not to scratch each other's eyes out. you speak english too, don't you?" this gave jules an opportunity to reiterate his story about having learned english in america. "so you've been to america!" miss king cried, her eyes bigger than ever, and her open mouth showing her white, square teeth. "were you with a troupe there?" jules shook his head. "i wasn't married then." "ah!" the diver glanced sharply at blanche, and then back at jules, as if making a rapid calculation of their ages. "been married long?" she asked. "a little over a year," blanche replied. "too bad your wife had to give her dive up, ain't it?" the girl said to jules. "i hear it was great. but i suppose you'll do it again, won't you, when you're better?" blanche flushed. "i don't know," she said, with a half-frightened look at jules. "well, i would if i was you. it's sensational things like that that ketches 'em. my act's kind of sensational, but it ain't in it with yours for cold nerve an' grit. when you do it again you'd oughter go to america. you can make a good deal more there than you do here. i came over just for the reputation. it helps you a lot over there if you've made a hit in europe." "but you are english, aren't you?" jules asked. "oh, yes, i s'pose i am, in a sort of way. i was born over here, but my father took me to america when i was about six, an' i'm american to the backbone." "have you been in the ring long?" blanche asked. "no, i only took to giving performances about five years ago; but i've been in the swimming business all my life. my dad had a swimming school out in 'frisco; but there's more money in this business. but i guess i'm keeping you folks. it must be most time for your act. good-bye. p'raps i'll see you later. i'm mighty glad you can speak english," she laughed, with a glance at jules. "i travelled with a troupe once with a lot of italians in it, and my, what a time i had tryin' to talk with 'em!" she hurried out, leaving jules with a vision of tousled yellow hair, a roguish smile, and gleaming white teeth, and with the sound of a rich contralto voice in his ears. as soon as the door closed, he turned to blanche. "how did she happen to come in here?" "she wanted me to help her with one of her slippers that was torn. madeleine sewed it up for her." "hasn't she got any maid?" "she left her behind in manchester. she was sick. she's coming on when she gets better." jules merely grunted and walked out of the room. the sound of the contralto voice was still in his ears. what a sweet voice it was! she seemed to him just like an american in spite of her birth, and jules preferred the americans to the english. he wondered what her performance was like, and he waited impatiently for blanche to finish her act on the trapeze and the rope. as his eyes followed blanche, he kept seeing the tousled hair and the broad smile revealing the white teeth. it took several moments for the tank to be arranged for the crowning performance. the audience waited in good-natured patience, however, and when finally the plump little figure in blue flannel ran out, there was a round of applause. lottie king had added a touch of rouge to either cheek, and she looked very pretty as she ran up the flight of steps leading to the edge of the tank, poised there for a moment with the fingers of both hands touching high in the air, and then dived in a graceful curve into the water. she speedily reappeared, shaking her head and laughing, and struck out for the rope that hung from the platform. this she climbed hand over hand, the water dripping from her figure, and glistening on her face. jules, whose eyes had been eagerly following her, was surprised to see that she was going to begin her act with the dive, instead of keeping it for the climax. she seemed to take it very coolly, he thought, as she stood on the swaying platform, rubbing her face with a handkerchief and rearranging one of the sleeves of her costume. then she steadied the platform, and, an instant later, she was cutting, feet foremost, through the air, her arms by her side and her body rigid. when she reached the water, there was very little splashing, and she speedily reappeared, shaking her head again and displaying her white teeth. jules had watched the dive breathlessly, just as he had watched blanche's on the night when he first saw her in the _cirque parisien_, and now he followed her feats of skill and strength with wonder and fascination. when she remained beneath the surface for more than three minutes he felt as if he himself were stifling, and when she reappeared, calm and smiling, he took a long breath. he supposed that the rescue of one of the circus hands who fell opportunely into the tank would end the performance; but instead of leaving the ring, lottie king climbed again to the platform. surely, jules thought, she would make a mistake if she repeated that plunge. instead, however, she swung on the edge, leaped backward into the air, and after several swift turns, fell with a crash into the water. as she swam to the ladder, the band burst into triumphant music, and the audience cheered, and began to climb down from the circular seats and to rush to the spot where she was to make her exit. then jules roused himself. he felt as if he had been in a dream. he had difficulty in reaching blanche's dressing-room, for the crowd had gathered at the entrance to the ring in order to catch another glimpse of the dripping figure of the diver. when finally he succeeded in making his way there, he found blanche sitting motionless, her arms resting on the table. he at once divined the cause of her dejection. "you see what you've brought on yourself," he said. "a lot you'll amount to now! you might as well give up the business." madeleine looked at him with mild reproach in her eyes. he paid no attention to her, however. he walked back to the door, and turning, he added: "but you can't stay here all night. i thought you'd be dressed by this time. i'll wait out here for you." jules looked anxiously up and down the corridor, but he saw no one. he could hear the noise of the crowd slowly wending out of the hippodrome, and from the dressing-rooms on either side the buzz of voices. miss king must have succeeded in making her escape to her room. xix if jules had tried, he would have been unable to explain the fascination that lottie king's performance had for him. in daring it was greatly inferior to his wife's plunge; but the fact that blanche had lost courage lent her rival's serene indifference to danger an added attractiveness for him. every night he watched her with more delight. besides being plucky and skilful, she was so pretty and so amusing! jules liked to talk with her in the evening before she made her appearance, and she used to convulse him with laughter by her sallies. she soon fell into the habit of running into blanche's room to ask madeleine to do services for her, and toward blanche she adopted a manner of half-amused patronage. by the end of the first week, blanche had conceived a great dislike for her. this might have been at least partly due to her discovery of the pleasure which jules took in the diver's society. mrs. tate had expected that, after ceasing to make her plunge, blanche would improve in health; but she speedily saw that she was mistaken. one afternoon she called at the hotel in albemarle street and found blanche alone with the little jeanne; madeleine had just gone out to do some errands. they had a long talk, during which blanche was obliged to confess that the pain in her back troubled her just as much as ever, and that she was very unhappy. when mrs. tate tried to find out why she was unhappy, she could elicit no satisfactory explanation. as soon as she arrived home that night, she repeated the conversation to her husband. "do you suppose the little creature can be mercenary, percy?" she said. "do you think she can be sorry she isn't risking her neck every day? i wanted to tell her this morning she ought to be ashamed of herself--she ought to think of her child. suppose she had been killed! what would have become of the child, _i'd_ like to know!" "that other person has made a hit, i see. they're booming her in the papers. did she speak of her?" "not a word!" "h'm!" "what do you mean by that, percy?" "oh, nothing." "i suppose you think she's jealous of her." "jealous?" tate repeated, lifting his eyes. "you told me yourself that she was jealous before she even saw the other performer." "yes, and now she's jealous of her success." "oh, _professional_ jealousy," he said, throwing back his head. a moment later he added: "there are worse kinds of jealousy than that in the world." mrs. tate looked at him closely, but his eyes were fixed on his plate. for a few moments they did not speak; she was pondering his last remark. they understood each other so well that they often divined each other's thoughts. now she saw that he did not care to discuss the subject, and she let it drop. she continued to think about it so much, however, that she determined to go to the hippodrome alone some day, to a _matinée_, and see for herself what blanche's successor as a star performer was like. she returned home with a sickly feeling of regret and torturing anticipation; she had not only seen lottie king, but she had also studied the face of jules le baron, who, unconscious of her gaze, stood within a few yards of her seat. what she had observed in his expression, however, she did not communicate to her husband. her visit at the hippodrome made her resolve to be even kinder to blanche than she had been; she would take her and the child to drive in the park two or three times a week,--oftener if she could. mrs. tate tried to shake off her forebodings, but for the rest of the day they clung to her, and the next morning she woke with them fresh in mind. so she resolved to drive at once to albemarle street. the weather was too dull to take the child out, and she would pass the morning with blanche and try to cheer her up. when she reached the hotel she felt relieved to find blanche in a much better frame of mind than she had been on the occasion of her last call. the pain had left her for a few days, blanche explained, and she had been greatly encouraged; even jules had spoken of her improvement; he had been so patient with her, and now she felt ashamed of having been so dispirited. mrs. tate went away with a feeling that she had been a fool, that her forebodings were ridiculous. one night at the end of the week, tate returned home with the announcement that he was to start for berlin the next day, to confer with the heads of a banking-house there with regard to the floating of a great loan. he gave her the choice of staying at home or of starting with him after only a few hours of preparation. she chose to start, and for two months she did not see london again; for, once away from the routine of his work, tate took advantage of the opportunity to run for a holiday from berlin down to dresden, and thence over to paris. during this time mrs. tate forgot her self-imposed cares, and gave herself up to the pleasures of travelling. when she returned home, she was surprised to hear that madame le baron had called several times, and had left word that she was anxious to see her as soon as she came back. this news sent her with a throbbing heart to albemarle street; she felt sure that something terrible had happened, something she might have prevented by staying in london. she was always assuming responsibilities and then dropping them! how often her husband had told her that! she had been more than culpable, she kept saying to herself, in going away without even bidding blanche good-bye, without even leaving an address. when she arrived at the hotel, at the close of a cold, foggy afternoon, she was surprised to be told by the _garçon_ that madame le baron had left, and had gone to an apartment in upper bedford place. "it was too expensive for them here," the _garçon_ explained with a contemptuous grin. "so they went to a private house." mrs. tate drove at once to the number the boy gave her, and a few moments later she was climbing the stairs to blanche's apartment. she was out of breath when she rapped on the door, and still breathing hard when madeleine admitted her into the shabby drawing-room. a moment later, as blanche appeared from the next room, she uttered an exclamation. "good heavens, child, what has happened to you! you're whiter than ever, and so _thin_! what have you been doing to yourself? have you had an illness?" blanche shook her head. "no, i haven't been ill," she replied, but her looks and her manner seemed to belie her words. the gray cloth dress which had once fitted her tightly now hung loosely about her; her face was drawn and of a chalklike pallor, and under the eyes were two black lines betraying weeks of suffering and sleeplessness. "you were thin enough before i went away," said mrs. tate, "but now you're a perfect spectre." then she went on to explain how she had happened to desert her friends for so long a time. "i know you have something to tell me," she said, starting from her seat, "but before you begin i want to see jeanne. how is she? but first tell me how you happened to come way up here. isn't it a long distance for you to climb after your performance every night?" "jules chose these rooms because they were so much cheaper than the hotel," blanche replied simply. "we prepare our own meals, too, and we save in that way. you know my salary is so much smaller than it used to be." mrs. tate made no comment, and they went into the other room, where jeanne was sleeping in the crib. "she sleeps nearly all the time," said blanche, with a faint smile that seemed to exaggerate the expression of pain and weariness in her face. "how big she's growing!" mrs. tate whispered. "there's certainly nothing the matter with _her_, the dear little thing, with her fat rosy cheeks. i'd just like to take her in my arms and hug her." for several minutes they stood talking about the child; then they left her with madeleine and went back to the drawing-room, which mrs. tate's keen eyes discovered was used also as a bedroom. "they must be economizing with a vengeance," she thought. blanche closed the door, and took a seat behind her visitor on the couch. "now i want to hear all about it," mrs. tate cried. "something has happened. what is it?" she took both of blanche's hands and looked into her eyes. "what is it?" she repeated. for a moment they sat looking at each other. then blanche bent forward, buried her head on mrs. tate's lap, and burst into tears. mrs. tate said nothing, and allowed the paroxysm to spend itself. then, gradually, the story came out. jules didn't love her any more, blanche moaned. he had been cruel to her, oh, so cruel; he had said such dreadful things! and then there had been days and days when he scarcely spoke to her or to the little jeanne or to madeleine, and he had grown so strict with them all; he hardly allowed madeleine enough to buy the things they needed. and once, he had said such dreadful things about jeanne. he didn't love even jeanne any more,--poor little jeanne! he said they would have been better off if she had never been born. oh, that had nearly killed her, that he should have spoken so about jeanne. she didn't care so much about herself, though sometimes she wanted to die. one night she had prayed that god would take her and jeanne together. jules had always been so good to her until--until that woman came, that woman who had taken her place in the circus. it was that woman who had come between them, with her white teeth and her mocking laugh. she was making a fool of jules; she did not care for him, but she pretended that she did, just to amuse herself. jules followed her about everywhere; he even talked of going to america, because she was to go in a few weeks, when her engagement at the hippodrome was over. but blanche would die; she would throw herself into the river with jeanne in her arms rather than go there now. ah, it had been so hard for her, alone in a strange country, with no one but madeleine to confide in. madeleine had been so good; but she, too, had grown afraid of jules in these last weeks. they scarcely dared to speak when he was at home, now. from broken utterances, mrs. tate pieced together the whole miserable story. for the moment, her pity was lost in admiration for her husband's perspicacity. he had foreseen this! now, for the first time, she realized what she had vaguely surmised before, the full meaning of his mysterious remark about blanche and jules. then she turned her attention to the prostrate figure before her, offering sympathy and counsel. she knew that she was speaking in platitudes, but they were all she could offer then; and, after all, it was blanche's own outburst that would do the poor pent-up creature the most good, the consciousness that she had some one to confide in. mrs. tate stayed in the little apartment a long time, and when she went away, blanche seemed to feel more hopeful. "act as if he were just as kind to you as ever," was her parting injunction, "and i know everything will come out all right. he'll find out that that dreadful woman is only making a fool of him, and then he'll care more for you than ever." in her heart, however, mrs. tate knew that what she said was not true. jules had probably grown tired of his wife. the more she thought of the case, the more she pitied blanche,--the more she realized what a tragedy in the poor little woman's life it meant. and she really had been to blame, she kept saying to herself. but for her interference, blanche would have gone on with her diving, that other performer would not have come to the hippodrome, and all of blanche's agony of jealousy and neglect would have been avoided. oh, what a lesson it taught her! never, _never_ would she interfere in a family again! she would have done much better to let blanche go to her death, rather than to drive her to despair, perhaps to a worse form of death by her meddling. on reaching home, she was in a fever of remorse and sympathy, and she passed a miserable hour waiting for her husband to return. when at last he did appear, she met him in the hall. "percy," she cried dramatically, "you're a prophet!" "am i, indeed?" he said, putting his umbrella in the rack. "do you mean to say this is the first time you've found it out?" "i'll never doubt your word again, percy," she went on, stifling a sob. her appeal to her husband for sympathy threatened to make her hysterical, but she controlled herself and gasped out: "don't you remember what you said about that man, le baron,--you know, the night he dined here, about his falling in love with his wife's performance! well, that's just what he did do. he didn't fall in love with _her_; he's never _been_ in love with her, poor thing. fortunately she doesn't know that. it's only her _performance_, that horrible plunge she used to make, that he's been in love with all along." "i don't see anything very prophetic about that," he said, walking into the drawing-room, where she followed him, clutching at the lace handkerchief in her hand. "it was as plain as daylight to any one that heard him talk and saw what kind of man he was." "i don't mean your seeing merely that. i could tell from what you said that you saw a great deal more. don't you remember what you said about _professional_ jealousy not being the worst kind of jealousy in the world? that was the first thing that opened my eyes. i went to the next _matinée_ to see for myself if it could be true, and if i hadn't been an idiot i should have realized it all then. but the next day, just before we left for berlin, i called on that poor woman, and she seemed so much easier in mind, i thought i must have misunderstood what you meant and been mistaken about that look." "my dear, i don't quite follow you. aren't you just a little bit illogical?" "no, i'm not. i'm perfectly logical. i never was more logical in my life." "i suppose you mean that the fellow has got tired of his wife, now that she's given up her dive, and he's fallen in love with the other woman." mrs. tate rose tragically from her chair and made a sweeping gesture with her right hand. "with the other woman's _performance_." tate looked at her for a moment, with smiling incredulity. "how ridiculous!" he said. "that's exactly what i said when you told me he had fallen in love with his _wife's_ performance. i said it was the most ridiculous thing i'd ever heard in my _life_. i couldn't have believed it if i hadn't observed it with my own eyes. but that afternoon i saw him--he stood near me, leaning against the railing--and i wish you could have seen the expression in his face while that woman was exhibiting herself, especially when she made her horrible dives." for a moment tate stood without speaking. then he said:-- "i'm afraid you're putting a romantic interpretation on a very simple sequence of events. that fellow probably did fall in love with his wife's performance, and incidentally he liked the money that went with it. when she stopped her diving and became an ordinary performer, like thousands of others, she ceased to interest him. then he looked around for some one else to be interested in, and when the other acrobatic person appeared he was just in the condition to be caught." "i don't believe it. it's a----" "there's one way, of course, of proving whether you're right or not," tate interrupted, with a quizzical smile. "what's that?" "if your theory is correct, the only thing for madame le baron to do is to go back to her performance. then she'll meet her rival on her own ground. from what i've read about that other performer, madame le baron's dive must be twice as difficult and twice as thrilling as hers." mrs. tate turned to her husband with a look of admiration, her breath coming and going in quick gasps. "percy, that's the wisest thing you've ever said in your life." a moment later she added, with a change of tone: "but isn't the whole thing _too_ absurd?" he started to go upstairs. "you know we're due at the bigelows in an hour?" "wait a minute," said mrs. tate. "i want to think over what you said. you can't imagine how this thing has worried me. it's all due to my meddling. oh, i know that; you needn't say anything to me about it. but i'm determined to help that poor woman if i can. oh, if i had only followed your advice, and let them alone!" she moaned. "there's no use worrying now. the mischief's done. he would probably have got tired of her anyway." "if something isn't done to bring him back to her," she went on without heeding his remark, "it will kill her. i'm sure of that. if you could only see her. she looks like a ghost, and her hands tremble so! i don't believe she's slept a wink for weeks. i don't see how she gets through her performances. a clinging creature like her just _lives_ on affection. before she was married she always had her mother to take care of her. to think that that man should treat her so! oh, it's a shame, it's a shame!" tate was standing at the door. "if she's going to kill herself over that fellow, she might as well have gone on with her diving and killed herself that way. you ask her if she doesn't want to go back to it," he added, with the quizzical smile, "and see if she won't jump at the chance." "do you suppose that she can suspect for an instant that her husband fell in love with her performance?" she said, her eyes following her husband up the stairs. "she probably hasn't reasoned it out, but i haven't a doubt she feels it intuitively," he replied, continuing his ascent. "you just ask her if she doesn't want to make the plunge again and see what she'll say," he concluded, smiling down at her from the floor above. xx mrs. tate tried, by an almost impassioned kindness, to atone for her neglect of blanche during her absence from london. she sent her flowers from her conservatory, she bought gifts for the little jeanne, she called at the apartment in upper bedford place nearly every morning. during these visits she did not once meet jules; blanche told her that he always went away soon after breakfast, and seldom returned before dinner. sometimes he did not accompany her to the hippodrome, but he never failed to appear there during the evening. the management had offered to reëngage miss king as soon as her contract expired, and the diver thought of postponing her return to america; but they had not as yet come to terms, as the girl wanted a much larger salary than she had been receiving. it was this information that reminded mrs. tate to ask blanche if she were sorry she had given up her plunge and if she ever wished to resume it. though she had at first been impressed by the solution of blanche's troubles suggested by her husband, she had on sober second thought dismissed it as ridiculously romantic; such things might happen in novels, but they never could occur in real life. her belief was shaken, however, when she saw the pale face light up at her question. "oh, yes," blanche cried, "i have thought of it. sometimes--sometimes i think it would be better if i hadn't given it up. then--then that woman wouldn't have come." her eyes filled with tears, but she controlled herself and, a moment later, she went on:-- "but i--i thought it was wrong for me to risk my life, and it made me so unhappy for jeanne's sake. but sometimes i think i might have stopped being afraid. before jeanne was born i never had the least thought of fear, even after father was killed, because i knew that was because the trapeze was weak. oh, i'm sure," she went on piteously,--"i'm _sure_ i shouldn't be afraid any more!" "but dr. broughton, you remember what he said, don't you?" "he said that when i stopped making the plunge i should be better," blanche replied simply. "but i'm not better; i feel worse,--oh, so much worse! i know i should be better if i tried it again. and i sha'n't be afraid any more," she repeated,--"even for jeanne. it would be so much better for us all!" this speech made mrs. tate wonder if, as her husband had suggested, blanche had divined that jules had cared for her performance rather than for herself, and fancied she could win him back by resuming it. her interest increased when she learned that jules and miss king had not spoken to each other for two evenings. miss king's maid, who had at last come from manchester, and who knew a little canadian french, had told madeleine about it. jules had urged miss king to accept marshall's terms, and was vexed with her because she refused and threatened to go back to america. this had made him even more disagreeable at home than he had been before; for the past few days he had not spoken one pleasant word to them, and he had not even noticed jeanne. it was this information that rang in mrs. tate's consciousness when she had left the apartment. jules and that woman had quarrelled! of course, they would make it up again,--perhaps in a few days, perhaps that very day; but if they did not, the quarrel might be one of the means of winning him back to his wife. at any rate, she would speak to her husband about it. when, on her return home, she did speak, he burst out laughing. "i don't see how you can find anything funny in that!" she said resentfully. "it's a very serious matter." "but it threatens to spoil my beautiful little romance!" "your beautiful romance? what do you mean?" "if you had persuaded her to go back to her diving, and if she drove the other woman out of the field in that way, it would be a proof of my theory that he's fallen in love with the _performance_ and not with the _performer_. but if his wife gets him back again now, it will be merely because the other woman has broken with him. there's nothing for him to do _except_ to go back to his wife and be forgiven." "well, i don't care what the reason is--if she only _gets_ him back. she'll certainly die of jealousy and misery if she doesn't,--that's plain enough. in my opinion, dr. broughton was entirely wrong in his diagnosis of the case. she says herself that she misses her diving and she wants to take it up again. her rest hasn't done her a particle of good. anyway, i'll speak to the doctor about it to-morrow. i'll write a note, and ask him to come in for tea if he can." "and hold another council of war," her husband suggested. "a council of _peace_," she retorted smartly. "oh, i know what you're thinking of! but i'm determined to undo the harm i've done. there's no time to be lost. if i can get that poor little woman to resume her plunge while the husband's still quarrelling with the other performer, i feel sure everything will come out all right. he'll be interested in her again. don't you remember how he used to brag about her? i suppose you don't, but he did; and i could tell that he was as proud of her as if she were the most wonderful creature in the world." "i don't see what she wants him for," tate said carelessly. "well, you're not a woman, and you can't understand how women feel about men. i sometimes think the worse men are, the more their wives adore them." tate smiled, but he made no reply; he was much more interested in the case than he would allow himself to appear to be. indeed, he was so interested that he left his office the next day earlier than usual, in order to take part in the conference. he found his wife in earnest talk with the doctor. before coming to the house, dr. broughton, at mrs. tate's suggestion, had made a call on madame le baron, and he expressed his alarm at having found her so thin and weak. "do you remember what i said the night we had our first talk about her?" he asked, glancing at tate. "i was afraid then that if she gave up her work it might upset her, though i didn't see how she could go on with the diving and keep whatever health she had. now she's a great deal worse off than she was when i last saw her." then they discussed the case in all its aspects. the doctor laughed when mrs. tate declared she believed the poor woman's happiness depended on her resuming her plunge. "oh, it may seem absurd to you!" she cried, growing more earnest under ridicule; "but percy believes it, though he may pretend to you that he doesn't. he was the one who first suggested it to me." "i really think the diving wouldn't hurt her health so much as her worrying about her husband does," the doctor admitted. "besides, she believes she won't be afraid of it any more. she says her rest from it has taken all her fear away." "then you think the best thing for her to do would be to resume the plunge?" said mrs. tate. for a moment the doctor stroked his chin. "under the circumstances i should say it might," he replied slowly. "at any rate, it would be worth trying. of course, if that haunting fear returned she'd have to stop it again." a look of triumph flashed from the face of mrs. tate; and when she glanced at her husband she saw that he was trying to dissemble his interest in the decision. "i shall tell her that to-morrow!" she cried. "it'll be the best news the poor thing has had for a long time. she's crazy to begin that plunge again." "i hope you are ready to take the consequences of your interference in this business," said tate, dryly. xxi the next morning, in a long and secret talk, mrs. tate communicated the doctor's judgment to blanche. she learned that jules was still sullen and depressed. that, of course, was a sign that his quarrel with the diver had not as yet been made up. blanche said that she would speak to him at once about resuming the plunge; so far as she knew, no one had as yet been engaged to take miss king's place, and perhaps mr. marshall would make a new contract with her on the old terms. mrs. tate hurried away in a state of feverish excitement, dreading, yet hoping, that she might meet jules on the stairs, in order to reveal the great news. she would have liked to return to the apartment that very afternoon, to learn the effect of the announcement upon him; but she controlled her impatience. jules did not return till late in the afternoon. from his manner blanche saw at once that he was in a surly mood. he flung his coat and hat on a chair and threw himself on the couch. for a long time she did not dare to speak to him. she thought he was going to sleep, but she suddenly saw him staring at her with a look that frightened her. "jules!" she said. he had closed his eyes again, and he seemed not to hear. "jules." he opened his eyes, and once more she met that look. "what is it?" he grunted. her plaintive manner vexed him; it seemed like a reflection on himself. "there's something i want to say to you," she went on apologetically, and with a suggestion of tearfulness in her voice, as if she felt disappointed at his manner of receiving her news. as he did not reply, she said: "it's about--about my plunge. i have been thinking that i'm--i'm so much better now--i mean i'm not so nervous--perhaps i can begin it again." he sat up on the couch, a light coming into his eyes. for a moment he was too surprised to speak. then he said: "well, i'm glad you're coming to your senses!" encouraged by the change in his manner, she repeated what dr. broughton had said to mrs. tate. at the mention of the names, jules' face darkened; since that night at the tates' he had felt a personal resentment against the doctor, almost as strong as his hatred of the englishwoman. "so that woman's been here again today, has she?" he said bitterly. after a brief silence, he added more gently: "if you feel able to do the plunge again, the sooner you begin the better. i know that marshall will be glad enough to renew the old contract. it will just fit in with his plans," he continued, with a grim thought of the diver's discomfiture on being superseded by blanche. "i'll speak to him this very night." blanche tried to smile, but the effort ended in a sigh. she had thought that jules would show more enthusiasm. "but we can't have any more nonsense," he said, glancing at her again,--this time, however, without the bitterness she had before observed in his face. "if you allow yourself to be afraid of the plunge again, it will simply ruin you as an attraction. it'll make the managers think you're unreliable, and they won't engage you." in spite of his apparent indifference, jules was secretly delighted at the thought of his wife's resuming her great dive. for the past few days he had never felt so keenly the humiliation of his own position. a petulant remark of lottie king's the day of their quarrel had kept ringing in his ears: "what do _you_ amount to anyway?" now he thought triumphantly of the restoration of his own dignity. with blanche as the star attraction of the hippodrome, earning a large salary, and with a choice of offers from all over the world, he would become a personage again! but he must guard her more carefully. he must in future keep her out of the way of interfering foreigners like mrs. tate, who would put a lot of nonsense into her head! that night, when jules consulted marshall, he learned what he had already surmised, that the manager was much upset by miss king's refusal to extend her engagement on any but exorbitant terms, and though it would be completed in two weeks, he had not as yet found a sufficiently strong attraction to take her place; so he was not only willing, but glad, to renew with blanche the contract she had at first made with him. jules felt the more elated on being told that miss king had not been nearly so good an attraction as his wife while giving the sensational plunge. he was in high spirits when he entered blanche's dressing-room and told her the news. blanche flushed with pleasure, not merely at the news, but at his affectionate manner as well; madeleine, however, though she said nothing, seemed depressed. she had hoped that the poor child would never make that horrible dive again. after that night blanche was so happy that she seemed like another creature from the thin, white-faced little woman of the past few weeks. her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. jules had been so different with her, she said to mrs. tate, since she had told him she would go on with the plunge. the night before he had taken her to the hippodrome, and after the performance they had gone with madeleine to a _café_; it reminded them of the days of their courtship in paris. the two weeks that followed were the happiest blanche had known since those first days after the birth of her child. jules' devotion extended not only to her, but to little jeanne and to madeleine as well. for several days the gloom that had wrapped the city during most of the winter lifted; the sun shone, and the feeling of spring was in the air. in the afternoons blanche took walks with jules in the park, and on sunday they went to mass together and then drove out to richmond and dined there. they agreed to pretend that they were still in their days of courtship, and jules delighted blanche by repeating some of the foolish speeches he had made to her in the first weeks of their love. then, too, they made great plans for the future. the negotiations with hicks in new york had been broken off, but jules had heard of an australian manager who was in london looking for performers to appear during the following winter in melbourne. how fine it would be if they could go out there and give performances in the chief australian cities! blanche, however, showed so little enthusiasm for this plan that jules abandoned it for a time. besides, he himself liked better the plan she suggested of returning to the _cirque parisien_. they might make an engagement there that would enable them to pass the winter in paris. how good it would be to be back there again! perhaps they could secure the little apartment in the _rue de lisbonne_. jules became so enthusiastic that he wrote to the manager in paris, proposing terms. after a winter there they might think of going to australia, where they would be much better paid than in paris. the thought of returning to france added to blanche's happiness. oh, to see her mother and jeanne and louise again! how good it would be! there had been times during the past few weeks when she felt as if she could not bear to be separated from them any longer. but in paris they could come to see her; perhaps monsieur berthier would let her mother and the girls pass a few weeks with her. of course, she would be with them in boulogne for the summer. when she spoke of this to jules, however, he said nothing. he had in mind other plans, a possible engagement at one of the french watering places; but he thought it best not to refer to this at present. he realized the importance of making as much money as possible and as quickly as possible. there was no knowing how long his wife's nerve would last. if she only held out for a few years longer, they could make a fortune in australia and america. then they could retire, and live comfortably in paris for the rest of their lives. he expected to earn a great deal of money in america; but he had reasons for not speaking of that country at all for the present. the two weeks during which blanche was enjoying her new happiness were an exciting time for mrs. tate, who felt as if she were responsible for the success of her _protégée's_ return to her former place in the hippodrome. every day she repaired to upper bedford place and held long conferences with blanche. everything promised well, she thought. jules showed no signs of returning to the thraldom of lottie king. how providential, mrs. tate thought, the quarrel between them had been! she did not know that, even before his break with her, jules had begun to tire of the diver's domineering manner and of her habit of ridiculing him; moreover, he had at last perceived that she was only playing with him. this had helped to prejudice him against her performance, and as the novelty of the performance wore off, he saw that it was far inferior in daring and skill to his wife's magnificent plunge. this had never lost its fascination for him, and now, as he assisted blanche in her daily exercises he felt the old thrill at its brilliancy and his own sense of importance in having a part in it. on the afternoon of the day when her plunge was to be resumed, blanche took a long rest. she was awakened by the crowing of jeanne in the next room. she raised her hands to her head; at the thought of the ordeal of the evening, a sudden dizziness came upon her. it was more than three months since she had made the dive, and she wondered if she should be equal to it. how horrible if at the last moment she should lose her nerve! she arose quickly, hardly daring to allow herself to think, and she hurried to the child. how strong and beautiful jeanne was! blanche took her in her arms and pressed her closely. when madeleine turned and lumbered out of the room, leaving them alone together, blanche began to kiss the child passionately, and tears welled over on her cheeks. then she bathed her face, for fear that jules would see that she had been crying. that night at dinner, jules was in high spirits. "marshall expects a big house," he said. "he's spent a lot of money advertising your dive. he thinks of getting a big poster made of you flying through the air." during the whole of the meal blanche was very quiet. madeleine noticed that her eyes were shining. when it was time to go to the hippodrome, jules, wrapping his wife in her cloak, put his arms around her, and kissed her on the ear, as he had often done in the days of their engagement. she drew away and started for jeanne's room. "where are you going?" he said. "i want to kiss the little one good-night." "but she's asleep!" he cried impatiently. "you mustn't wake her up." in spite of his protest, she silently made her way into the room where the child lay, closing the door behind her. jules listened, thinking that jeanne would cry on being disturbed; but there was no sound. then he knew that she was praying by the crib, and this angered him. it was about time to put a stop to her notions, he said to himself. when, a moment later, she came out, her face was covered with a thick veil, and, after glancing at her sharply, he said nothing. on arriving at the hippodrome, they found mrs. tate in the star dressing-room, which had been assigned to blanche again. "i have been waiting for you," mrs. tate said nervously. "i suppose i have no right to be here, but i felt that i _must_ see you, and i made my husband bring me. are you quite well?" she had observed the look of disgust given her by jules, but this did not disturb her nearly so much as the white face that blanche presented. moreover, she did not feel reassured when blanche smiled and said she felt perfectly well. "of course everything will be splendid. there's a tremendous crowd," mrs. tate added. "you'll have a great success." jules, after bowing coldly, had turned from the room. as soon as the door closed behind him, mrs. tate seized blanche by both hands and kissed her affectionately. "i mustn't keep you from dressing," she said with a smile. "perhaps i'll come in and congratulate you when it's all over." blanche grew a shade paler, and mrs. tate hesitated at the door. "what is it?" she said. "nothing." mrs. tate walked toward her. "nothing?" blanche turned her head away. "if anything should happen," she said quietly, "the--the little one--i should like my mother to take her." mrs. tate began to breathe hard; but she burst out laughing. "you silly child! of course; i shall look after jeanne anyway. don't you worry about _her_. now i must hurry out to that husband of mine. he'll be furious with me for keeping him waiting so long." a few moments before blanche appeared in the ring, jules returned to the dressing-room, resplendent in his evening clothes, with three diamonds gleaming on his shirt-front, and carrying a bouquet of white roses. "these are just like the roses i bought for you the night i met you. i selected them this afternoon, and they've just come. you must wear them in your belt, as you did then," he said, as she flushed with pleasure and thanked him. "i remember how tickled i was when i saw them; and oh, how i hated pelletier when you took them out and gave them to him to hold, while you were going through your act." then, as she adjusted the flowers in her belt, he went on: "it's the biggest house of the season! marshall says you're the best attraction he ever had. ready?" he asked, surveying blanche as she stood in her white silk tights. "you look just as you did when i first saw you," he added, putting one hand on her cheek and kissing her lightly on the other. "come along." then he threw over her the robe she always wore on her way to the ring, and they hurried from the room. as blanche ran out on the net and heard the applause of the vast audience, she felt a thrill of joy and an intoxicating sense of her own power. all fear seemed to leave her, and she laughed as she climbed hand over hand to the trapeze. from trapeze to trapeze she shot with delight; she had never felt so sure of herself, so exultant. when she returned to the net, jules, who had taken his place at the rope, whispered to her: "you're in great form to-night. keep it up." she was smiling as she started on her long climb to the top of the building. but when she had taken her place on the beam from which she was to make her plunge and looked down at the black mass in the distance, her strength seemed suddenly to leave her. her fingers tightened on the beam, as if she felt afraid of losing her balance. then she heard her husband's voice ring through the place, crying the familiar warning. she knew the moment had come for making the plunge; but she continued motionless. she felt as if her will had become suddenly paralyzed, and a moment later, as if her body were frozen. the black mass below seemed to dance before her, then to beckon to her, and in her ears she kept hearing the voice of little jeanne and the sound of her laughter. oh, she had known that this moment would come some time; she had known it ever since jeanne was born. but she could not sit there forever; the crowd below was waiting to see her fall. if she did not make an effort she should lose her self-control and go plunging into the blackness. she must lift her hands and gather herself together, and hurl herself out as she had always done. but she had no strength; she could only lift her arms weakly. then she tried to give her body the necessary impetus, and she plunged wildly into the air. there was a cry of horror from the crowd, and a moment later the white figure lay motionless in the net. the people rose from their seats and rushed toward the ring. the police tried to drive them back as jules leaped into the net and seized the prostrate body in his arms. "keep them back," he cried frantically, not realizing that he was speaking french. "she must have air." then, turning, he said: "blanche! blanche! can't you speak? open your eyes so i may know you aren't dead." he was terrified by the way her head fell back from her shoulders. "we must get her out of this," he said desperately, to two of the circus men who had followed him on the net, as he glanced down at the struggling mass beneath him. "bring her to her dressing-room. make those people get out of the way." with difficulty they bore her through the crowd. some one threw her cloak over her as she passed. she gave no sign of life, but the expression in jules' face showed that he still hoped. when they reached her room, they placed her on the floor, and jules closed the door to keep out the crowd. madeleine, who had been ringing her hands and moaning, quickly loosened the tight bodice. then the door was forced open again, and marshall entered with a physician, who quickly bent over the prostrate figure and listened for the heart-beat. "she's dead," he said quietly. jules threw himself on the body in a paroxysm of despair. the end. printed at the university press, in cambridge, massachusetts, for stone and kimball, publishers, new york, m dccc xcvi transcriber notes: passages in italics were indicated by _underscores_. small caps were replaced with all caps. throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. those words were retained as-is. errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless otherwise noted. on page , "were" was replaced with "was". on page , "champs Élyseés" was replaced with "champs Élysées". on page , "wool house" was replaced with "wool-house". on page , "aimably" was replaced with "amiably". on page , "is" was replaced with "it". on page , "palor" was replaced with "pallor". [illustration: "there they are!" cried ruth, clasping mr. howbridge's arm in her excitement. "the same two men!"] the corner house girls on a houseboat how they sailed away what happened on the voyage and what was discovered by grace brooks hill author of "the corner house girls," "the corner house girls snowbound," etc. _illustrated by_ _thelma gooch_ new york barse & hopkins publishers books for girls by grace brooks hill the corner house girls series mo. cloth. illustrated. the corner house girls the corner house girls at school the corner house girls under canvas the corner house girls in a play the corner house girls' odd find the corner house girls on a tour the corner house girls growing up the corner house girls snowbound the corner house girls on a houseboat barse & hopkins publishers, new york copyright, , by barse & hopkins _the corner house girls on a houseboat_ printed in u. s. a. contents i. "what's that?" ii. neale has news iii. the elevator iv. an auto ride v. the houseboat vi. more news vii. making plans viii. the robbery ix. all aboard x. a stowaway xi. overboard xii. neale wonders xiii. the trick mule xiv. at the circus xv. real news at last xvi. ruth's alarm xvii. up the river xviii. the night alarm xix. on the lake xx. drifting xxi. the storm xxii. on the island xxiii. suspicions xxiv. closing in xxv. the capture illustrations "there they are!" cried ruth, clasping mr. howbridge's arm in the excitement. "the same two men!" _frontispiece._ "get us down!" cried dot and tess in a chorus, while mrs. maccall stood beneath them holding out her apron while dot and tess clung to one another, hank managed to fish up the "alice-doll" "you shouldn't have come here, aggie!" he cried above the noise of the storm the corner house girls on a houseboat chapter i "what's that?" delicious and appetizing odors filled the kitchen of the old corner house. they were wafted even to the attic, were those whiffs and fragrant zephyrs. some of them even escaped through the open windows, causing uncle rufus to cease his slow and laborious task of picking up some papers from the newly cut lawn. "dat suah smells mighty good--mighty good!" murmured the old darkey to himself, as he straightened up by the process of putting one hand to the small of his back and pressing there, as though a spring needed adjusting. "dat suah smells mighty good! mrs. mac mus' suah be out-doin' of herse'f dish yeah mawnin'!" he turned his wrinkled face toward the corner house, again sniffing deeply. a pleased and satisfied look came over his countenance as the cooking odors emanating from the kitchen became more pronounced. "dey's suah to be some left--dey suah is, 'cause hit's miss ruth's party, an' she's always gen'rus wif de eatin's. she suah is. dey's suah to be some left." he removed his hand from the small of his back, thereby allowing himself to fall forward again in the proper position for picking up papers, and went on with his work. inside the kitchen, where the odors were even more pronounced, as one might naturally expect to find them, two girls and a pleasant-faced woman were busy; though not more so than a fresh-appearing finnish maid, who hummed an air full of minor strains as she opened the oven door now and then, thereby letting out more odors which were piled upon, mingled with, and otherwise added to those already bringing such a delicious sensation to uncle rufus. "aren't you planning too much, ruth?" asked her sister agnes, as the girl addressed carefully placed a wondrously white napkin over a plate of freshly baked macaroons. "i mean the girls will never eat all this," and she waved her hand to include a side table on which were many more plates, some empty, awaiting their burden from the oven, while others were covered with white linen like some mysterious receptacles under a stage magician's serviette. "oh, don't worry about that!" laughed ruth. "my only worry is that i shall not have enough." "well, for the land's sake! how many do you expect?" demanded agnes kenway. "six. but there will be you and me and--" "then mr. howbridge _is_ coming!" cried agnes, as if there had been some question about it, though this was the first time his name had been mentioned that morning. "he _may_ come," answered ruth quietly. "he _may_! oh my stars! as if you didn't _know_ he was coming!" retorted agnes. "is it in--er--his official capacity?" "i asked mr. howbridge to come to advise us about forming the society," ruth said. "i thought it best to start right. if we are going to be of any use as a civic betterment club in milton we must be on a firm foundation, and--" "hear! hear!" interrupted agnes, banging on the table with an agate mixing spoon, and thereby bringing from a deep pantry the form and face of mrs. maccall, the sturdy scotch housekeeper. "please don't do that!" begged ruth. "hoots! whut's meanin' wi' the rattlin' an' thumpin'?" demanded mrs. maccall. "oh, some nonsense of agnes'," answered ruth. "i was just telling her that i had asked the girls to luncheon, to talk over the new civic betterment club, and that mr. howbridge is coming to advise us how to get a charter, or incorporate, or whatever is proper and--" "i was only applauding after the fashion in the english parliament," interrupted agnes. "they always say 'hear! hear!' away down in their throats." "well, they don't bang on tables with granite spoons," retorted ruth, as she handed a pie to linda, the humming finnish maid, who popped it into the oven, quickly shutting the door, to allow none of the heat to escape. "hoot! i would not put it past 'em, i would not!" murmured mrs. maccall. "what those english law makers do--i wouldna' put it past them!" and, shaking her head, she retired into the deep pantry again. "well, you're going to have enough of sweets, i should say;" observed agnes, "even as fond as mr. howbridge is of them. for the land's sake, aren't you going to stop?" she demanded, as ruth poured into a dish the cake batter she had begun to stir as soon as the pie was completed. "this is the last. you don't need to stay and help me any longer if you don't want to, dear. run out and play," urged ruth sweetly. "run out and play! as if i were dot or tess! i like that! why, i was thinking of asking you to let me join the society!" "oh, of course you may, agnes! i didn't think you'd care for it. why, certainly you may join! we want to get as many into it as we can. do come to the meeting this afternoon. mr. howbridge is going to explain everything, and i thought we might as well make it a little social affair. it was very good of you to help me with the baking." "oh, i like that. and i believe i will come to the meeting. now shall we clean up?" "i do him," interposed linda. "i wash him all up," and a sweep of her muscular arm indicated the pots, pans, dishes and all the odds and ends left from the rather wholesale baking. "oh, i shall be so glad if you will!" exclaimed ruth. "i want to go over the parlor and library again. and i wonder what has become of dot and tess. i asked them to get me some wild flowers, but they have been gone over an hour and--" the voice of mrs. maccall from the deep pantry interrupted. "hi, tess! hi, dot!" she called. "where ha' ye been? come ye here the noo, and be for me waukrife minnie." "what in the world does she mean?" asked agnes, for sometimes, well versed as she was in the scotch of the housekeeper, there were new words and phrases that needed translating. especially as it seemed to the girls that more and more mrs. maccall was falling back into her childhood speech as she grew older--a speech she had dropped during her younger life except in moments of excitement. this time, however, it was beyond even the "ken" of ruth, who rather prided herself on her highland knowledge. but mrs. maccall herself had heard the question. out she came from the pantry, smiling broadly. "ye no ken 'waukrife minnie'?" she asked. "ah, 'tis a pretty little verse o' rabbie burns. i'll call it o'er the noo." then she gave them, with all the burring of which her tongue was capable: "whare are you gaun, my bonnie lass, whare are you gaun, my hinnie? she answered me right saucilie, an errand for my minnie." coming down to earth again, mrs. maccall shot back into the pantry and from an open window in the rear that looked out in the orchard she called: "hi, tess! hi, dot! come ye here, and be for me the lassies that'll gang to the store." "are tess and dot there?" asked ruth. "i've been wondering where they had disappeared to." "they be coming the noo," answered mrs. maccall. "laden in their arms wi' all sorts of the trash." and then she sang again: "o fare thee well, my bonnie lass, o fare thee well, my hinnie! thou art a gay an' a bonnie lass, but thou has a waukrife minnie." "what in the world is a 'waukrife minnie'?" asked agnes, but there was no chance to answer, for in the kitchen, making it more busy than ever, trooped the two younger members of the corner house girls quartette--tess and dot. their arms were filled with blossoms of the woods and fields, and without more ado they tossed them to a cleared place on the table, whence linda had removed some of the pans and dishes. "oh, what a lovely lot of flowers!" cried ruth. "it's just darling of you to get them for me. now do you want to help me put them into vases in the library?" dot shook her head. "why not?" asked ruth gently. "i promised my alice-doll to take her down by the brook, and i just have to do it," answered dot. "and tess is going to help me; aren't you, tess?" she added. "yes," was the answer. "i'm going to take almira." "then you must take her kittens, too!" insisted dot. "she'll feel bad if you don't." "i won't take 'em all--i'll take one kitten," compromised tess. "there she is, now!" and tess darted from the room to pounce on the cat, which did not seem to mind very much being mauled by the children. "will ye gang a'wa' to the store the noo?" asked mrs. maccall, with a warm smile as she came from the pantry. "there's muckle we need an'--" "i'll go if you give me a cookie," promised dot. "so'll i," chimed in tess, coming in on the tribute. "we can take almira and your alice-doll when we come back," she confided to her sister. "yes, i think they'll wait. i know alice-doll will, but i'm not so sure about almira," and dot seemed rather in doubt. "she may take a notion to carry her kittens up in the bedroom--" "don't dare suggest such a thing!" cried ruth. "i'm to have company this afternoon, and if that cat and her kittens appear on the scene--" "oh, i wasn't going to carry them in!" interrupted dot, with an air of injured innocence. "they're almira's kittens, and she can do what she likes with them, i suppose," she added as an afterthought. "only i know that every once in a while she takes a notion to plant them in a new place. once uncle rufus found them in his rubber boots, and they scratched him like anything when he put his foot inside." "well, if you have to go to the store for mrs. maccall you won't have any time to help me arrange the flowers," observed ruth, anxious to put an end to the discussion about the family cat and kittens, for she knew dot had a fund of stories concerning them. "yes, traipse along now, my bonnie bairns," advised the scotch housekeeper, and, bribed by two cookies each, a special good measure on saturday, dot and tess were soon on their way, or at least it was so supposed. linda was helping mrs. maccall clear away the baking utensils, and ruth and agnes were in the parlor and library, tastefully arranging the wild flowers that dot and tess had gathered. "isn't dot queer to cling still to her dolls?" remarked agnes, as she stepped back to get the effect of a bunch of red flowers against a dark brown background in one corner of the room. "yes, she is a strange child. and poor almira! really i don't see how that cat stands it here, the way tess and dot maul her." "they aren't as bad as sammy pinkney. actually i caught him yesterday tying the poor creature to the back of billy bumps!" "not on the goat's back!" cried ruth. "really, he was. i sent him flying, though!" "what was his idea?" "oh, he said he'd heard neale tell how, in a circus, a little dog rode on a pony's back and sammy didn't see why a cat couldn't ride on a goat." "well, if he put it that way i suppose she could," assented ruth. "but almira seems to take herself very seriously with all those kittens. we really must get rid of them. vacation will soon be here, and with tess and dot around the house all day, instead of just saturdays, i don't know what we shall do." "have you made any vacation plans at all?" "not yet, agnes. i thought i'd wait until i saw mr. howbridge at the club meeting this afternoon." "what has he to do with our vacation--unless he's going along?" "oh, no, i didn't mean that, at all! but the financial question does enter into it; and as he is our guardian and has charge of our money, i want to know just how much we can count on spending." "why, have we lost any money?" "not that i know of. i hope not! but i always have consulted him before we made any summer plans, and i don't see why we should not now." "well, i suppose it's all right," assented agnes, as she took up another bunch of flowers. "but i wonder--" she never finished that sentence. from somewhere, inside or outside the house, a resounding crash sounded. it shook the walls and floors. "oh, my! what's that?" cried ruth, dropping the blossoms from her hands and hastening to the hall. chapter ii neale has news deep, and perhaps portentous, silence had succeeded the crash. but both ruth and agnes knew enough of the goings and comings in the corner house not to take this silence for serenity. it meant something, as the crash had. "what was it?" murmured ruth again, and she fairly ran out into the hall, followed by her sister. then came a series of bumps, as if something of no small size was rolling down the porch steps. by this time it was evident that the racket came from without and not from within. then a voice cried: "hold it! hold it! don't let it roll down!" "that's dot!" declared ruth. and then a despairing voice cried: "i can't! i can't hold it! look out!" once again the rumbling, rolling, bumping sound came, and with it was mingled the warning of the scotch housekeeper and the wail of dot who cried: "oh, she's dead! she's smashed!" "something really has happened this time!" exclaimed ruth, and her face became a little pale. "if only it isn't serious," burst out agnes. "oh, dear, what those youngsters don't think of for trouble!" "they don't mean to get into trouble, agnes. it's only their thoughtlessness." "well then, they ought to think more. oh, listen to that, will you!" agnes added, as another loud bumping reached the two sisters' ears. "it's something that's sure," cried ruth, and grew paler than ever. the happening was not really as tragic as it seemed, yet it was sufficiently momentous to cause a fright to the two older girls. especially to ruth, who felt herself to be, as she literally was, a mother to the other three; though now that agnes was putting up her hair and putting down her dresses a new element had come into the household. while yet in tender years the responsibilities of life had fallen on the shoulders of ruth kenway. in their former home--a city more pretentious in many ways than picturesque milton, their present home--the kenways had lived in what, literally, was a tenement house. their father and mother were dead, and the small pension granted mr. kenway, who had been a soldier in the spanish war, was hardly sufficient for the needs of four growing girls. then, almost providentially, it seemed, the stower estate had come to ruth, agnes, dot and tess. uncle peter stower had passed away, and mr. howbridge, the administrator of the estate, had discovered the four sisters as the next of kin, to use his legal phrase. uncle peter stower had lived for years in the "corner house" as it was called. the mansion stood opposite the parade ground in milton, and there uncle rufus, the colored servant of his crabbed master, had spent so many years that he regarded himself as a fixture--as much so as the roof. at first no will could be found, though mr. howbridge recalled having drawn one; but eventually all legal tangles were straightened out, and the four sisters came to live in milton, as related in the first book of the series, entitled "the corner house girls." there was ruth, the oldest and the "little mother," though she was not so very little now. in fact she had blossomed into a young lady, a fact of which mr. howbridge became increasingly aware each day. so the four girls had come to live at the corner house, and that was only the beginning of their adventures. in successive volumes are related the happenings when they went to school, when they had a jolly time under canvas, and when they took part in a school play. the odd find made in the garret of the corner house furnished material for a book in itself and paved the way for a rather remarkable tour in an auto. in those days the corner house girls became acquainted with a brother and sister, luke and cecile shepard. luke was a college youth, and the friendship between him and ruth presently ripened into a deep regard for each other. but luke had to go back to college, so ruth saw very little of him, though the young folks corresponded freely. all this was while the corner house girls were "growing up." in fact, it became necessary to tell of that in detail, so that the reason for many things that happened in the book immediately preceding this, which is called "the corner house girls snowbound," could be understood. in that volume the corner house girls become involved in the mysterious disappearance of two small twins, and after many exciting days spent in the vicinity of a lumber camp a clue to the mystery was hit upon. but now the memory of the blizzard days spent in the old lodge were forgotten. for summer had come, bringing with it new problems, not the least of which was to find a place where vacation days might be spent. ruth proposed to speak of that when her guardian called this saturday afternoon. as she had hinted to agnes, ruth had invited a number of girl friends to luncheon. it was the plan to form a sort of young people's civic club, to take up several town matters, and ruth was the moving spirit in this, for she loved to work toward some definite end. this saturday was no exception in being a busy one at the corner house. in pursuance of her plans she had enlisted the whole household in preparing for the event, from mrs. maccall, who looked after matters in general, linda, who helped with the baking, uncle rufus, who was cleaning the lawn, down to dot and tess, who had been sent for flowers. and then had come the bribing of dot and tess to go to the store and, following that, the crash. "what can it be?" murmured ruth, as she and agnes hastened on. "some one surely must be hurt." "i hope not," half whispered agnes. from the side porch came the sound of childish anguish. "she's all flatted out, that's what she is! she's all flatted out, my alice-doll is, and it's all your fault, tess kenway! why didn't you hold the barrel?" "i couldn't, i told you! it just rolled and it rolled. it's a good thing it didn't roll on almira!" "gracious! did you hear that?" cried agnes. "what can they have been doing?" the two older sisters reached the porch together, there to find mrs. maccall holding to tess, whom she was brushing off and murmuring to in a low voice, filled with much scotch burring. dot stood at the foot of the steps holding a rather crushed doll out at arm's length, for all who would to view. and stalking off over the lawn was almira, the cat, carrying in her mouth a wee kitten. uncle rufus was hobbling toward the scene of the excitement as fast as his rheumatism would allow. scattered on the ground at the foot of the steps was a collection of odds and ends--"trash" uncle rufus called it. the trash had come from an overturned barrel, and it was this barrel rolling down the steps and off the porch that had caused the noise. "what happened?" demanded ruth, breathing more easily when she saw that the casualty list was confined to the doll. "it was tess," declared dot. "she tipped the barrel over and it rolled on my alice-doll and now look at her." dot referred to the doll, not to her sister, though tess was rather a sight, for she was covered with feathers from an old pillow that had been thrown into the barrel and had burst open during the progress of the accident. at first tess had been rather inclined to cry, but finding, to her great relief, that she was unhurt, she changed her threatened tears into laughter and said: "ain't i funny looking? just like a duck!" "what were you trying to do, children?" asked ruth, trying to speak rather severely in her capacity as "mother." "i was trying to put almira and one of her kittens into the barrel," explained tess, now that mrs. maccall had got off most of the feathers. "i leaned over to put almira in the barrel, soft and easy like, down on the other pillow, and it upset--i mean the barrel did. it began to roll, and i couldn't stop it and it rolled right off the porch and--" "right over my alice-doll it rolled, and she's all squashed!" voiced dot. "oh, be quiet! she isn't hurt a bit," cried tess. "her nose was flat, anyhow." "did the barrel roll over you?" asked agnes, smiling now. "almost," said tess. "but i got out of the way in time, and almira grabbed up her kitten and ran. where is she?" she asked. "never mind the cat," advised ruth. "she's caused enough excitement for one saturday morning. why were you putting her in the barrel, anyhow, tess?" "so i'd know where she was when i came back. i wanted her and one kitten to play with if dot is going to play with her alice-doll when we get back from the store. but i guess i leaned too far over." "i guess you did," assented ruth. "well, i'm glad it was no worse. is your doll much damaged, dot?" "maybe i can put a little more sawdust or some rags in her and stuff her out. but she's awful flat. and look at her nose!" "her nose was flat, anyhow, before the barrel rolled over her," said tess. "but i'm sorry it happened. i guess almira was scared." "we were all frightened," said ruth. "it was a terrible racket. now let the poor cat alone, and run along to the store. oh, what a mess this is," and she looked at the refuse scattered from the trash barrel. "and just when i want things to look nice for the girls. it always seems to happen that way!" uncle rufus shuffled along. "doan you-all worry now, honey," he said, speaking to all the girls as one. "i'll clean up dish yeah trash in no time. i done got de lawn like a billiard table, an' i'll pick up dish yeah trash. de ash man ought to have been along early dis mawnin' fo' to get it. i set it dar fo' him." that explained the presence on the side porch of the barrel of odds and ends collected for the ash man to remove. he had not called, and seeing the receptacle there, with an old feather pillow among the other refuse, tess thought she had her opportunity. "run along now, my bonny bairns! run along!" counseled the old scotch woman. "'tis late it's getting, and the lassies will be here to lunch before we know it." "yes, do run along," begged ruth. "and then come back to be washed and have your hair combed. i want you to look nice if, accidentally, you appear on the scene." thus bidden, and fortified with another cookie each, tess and dot hurried on to the store, dot tenderly trying to pinch into shape the flattened nose of her alice-doll. rufus got a broom and began to clean the scattered trash to put back into the barrel, and mrs. maccall hurried into her kitchen, where linda was humming a finnish song as she clattered amid the pots and pans. "oh, we must finish the parlor and library," declared ruth. "do come and help, agnes." "coming, ruth. oh, here's neale!" she added, pausing to look toward the gate through which at that moment appeared a sturdy lad of pleasant countenance. "he acts as though he had something on his mind," went on agnes, as the youth broke into a run on seeing her and her sister on the steps. "wait a moment, ruth. he may have something to tell us." "the fates forbid that it is anything more about tess and dot!" murmured ruth, for the children had some minutes before disappeared down the street. "news!" cried neale o'neil, as he swung up the steps. "i've got such news for you! oh, it's great!" and his face fairly shone. chapter iii the elevator "just a minute now, neale," said ruth, in the quiet voice she sometimes had to use when tess and dot, either or both, were engaged in one of their many startling feats. "quiet down a bit, please, before you tell us." the boy had reached the porch, panting from his run, and he had been about to burst out with the news, which he could hardly contain, when ruth addressed him. "what's the matter? don't you want to hear it?" he asked, fanning himself vigorously with his hat. "oh, yes, it isn't that," said agnes, with a smile, which caused neale's lips to part in an answering one, showing his white teeth that made a contrast to his tanned face. "but we have just passed through rather a strenuous time, neale, and if you have anything more startling to tell us about tess and dot--" "oh, it isn't about them!" laughed neale o'neil. "they're all right. i just saw them going down the street." "thank goodness!" murmured ruth. "i thought they had got into more mischief. well, go on, neale, and tell us the news. is it good?" "the best ever," he answered, sobering down a little. "the only trouble is that there isn't very much of it. only a sort of rumor, so to speak." "sit down," said agnes, and she herself suited her action to the words. "uncle rufus has the spilled trash cleaned up now." "yes'm, it's done all cleaned up now," murmured the old colored servant as he departed, having made the side porch presentable again. "but i suah does wish dat trash man'd come 'roun' yeah befo' dem two chilluns come back. dey's gwine to upsot dat barrel ag'in, if dey gets a chanst; dey suah is!" and he departed, shaking his head woefully enough. "what happened?" asked neale. "an accident?" "you might call it that," assented ruth, sitting down beside her sister. "it was a combination of tess, dot, alice-doll and almira all rolled into one." "that's enough!" laughed the boy, to whom readers of the previous volumes of the series need no introduction. neale o'neil had once been in a circus. he was known as "master jakeway" and was the son of james o'neil. neale's uncle, william sorber, was the ringmaster and lion tamer in the show billed as "twomley & sorber's herculean circus and menagerie." some time before the opening of the present story, neale had left the circus and had come to milton to live, making his home with con murphy, the town cobbler. "well, go on with your news, neale," said ruth gently, as she gazed solicitously at the boy. she was beginning to have more and more something of a feeling of responsibility toward him. this was due to the fact that ruth was growing older, as has been evidenced, and also to the fact that neale was also, and at times, she thought, he showed the lack of the care of a loving mother. "yes, i want to hear it," interposed agnes. "and then we simply must get the house in shape, if the girls aren't to find us with smudges of dust on our noses." "is there anything i can do?" asked neale eagerly. "are you going to have a party?" "some of ruth's young ladies are coming to lunch," explained agnes. "i don't suppose i may be classed with them," and she looked shyly at her sister. "i don't see why not," came the retort from the oldest kenway girl. "i'd like to have you come to the meeting, agnes." "no, thank you, civics are not much in my line. i hated 'em in school. though maybe i'll come to the eats. but let's hear neale's news. it may spoil from being kept." "not much danger of that," said the boy, with another bright smile. "but are you sure there isn't anything i can do to help?" "perfectly sure, neale," answered ruth. "the two irrepressibles brought me the flowers i wanted to decorate with, and it only remains to put them in vases. but now i'm sure we have chattered enough about ourselves. let us hear about you." "it isn't so much about me; it's about--father," and neale's voice sank when he said that. he spoke in almost a reverent tone. and then his face lighted up again as he exclaimed: "i have some news about him! that's why i ran to tell you. i knew you'd be glad." "oh, neale, that's fine!" cried agnes, clasping him by the arm. "after all these years, really to have news of him! i'm so glad!" "is he really found?" asked ruth, who was of a less excitable type than her sister, though she could get sufficiently worked up when there was need for it. "no, he isn't exactly found," went on neale. "i only wish he were. but i just heard, in a roundabout way, that he may not be so very far from here." "that is good news," declared ruth. "how did you hear it?" "well, you know my father was what is called a rover," went on the boy. "i presume i don't need to tell you that. he wouldn't have been in the circus business with uncle bill, and he wouldn't have had me in the circus--along with the trick mules--unless he had loved to travel about and see the country." "that's a safe conclusion," remarked agnes. to her sister and herself neale's circus experiences were an old story. he had often told them how, when a small boy, he had performed in the sawdust ring. "yes, father was a rover," went on neale. "at least that's the conclusion i've come to of late. i really didn't know him very well. he left the circus when i was still small and told uncle bill to look after me. well, uncle bill did, i'll say that for him. he was as kind as any boy's uncle could be." "anyhow, as you know, father left the circus, gave me in charge of uncle bill, and went off to seek his fortune. i suppose he realized that i would be better off out of a circus, but he knew he had to live, and money is needed for that. so that's why he quit the ring, i imagine. he's been seeking his fortune for quite a while now, and--" "neale, do you mean to say he has come back?" cried agnes. "not exactly," was the answer. "at least if he has come back i haven't seen him. but i just met a man--a sort of tramp he is, to tell you the truth--and he says he knew a man who saw my father in the alaskan klondike, where father had a mine. and this man--this tramp--says my father started back to the states some time ago." "with a lot of gold?" asked ruth, her eyes gleaming with hope for neale. "this the man didn't know. all he knew was that there was a rumor that my father had struck it fairly rich and had started back toward civilization. but even that news makes me feel good. i'm going to see if i can find him. i always had an idea, and so did uncle bill, that it was to alaska father had gone, and this proves it." "but who is this man who gave you the news, and why doesn't he know where your father can be found?" asked ruth. "also is there anything we can do to help you, neale?" "what a lot of questions!" exclaimed agnes. "i think i can answer them," neale said. he was calmer now, but his face still shone and his eyes sparkled under the stress of the happy excitement. "the man, as i said, is a tramp. he asked me for some money. he was driving a team of mules on the canal towpath, and i happened to look at one of the animals. it reminded me of one we had in the circus--a trick mule--but it took only a look to show me it wasn't the same sort of kicker. i got to talking to the man, and he said he was broke--only had just taken the job and the boss wouldn't advance him a cent until the end of the week. i gave him a quarter, and we got to talking. then he told me he knew men who had been in the klondike, and, naturally, i asked him if he had ever heard of a man named o'neil. he said he had, and then the story came out." "but how can you be sure it was your father?" asked ruth, wisely not wanting false hopes to be raised. "that was easily proved when i mentioned circus," said neale. "this tramp, hank dayton, he said his name was, remembered the men speaking of my father talking about circuses, and saying that he had left me in one." "that does seem to establish an identity," ruth conceded. "where is this man dayton now, neale?" "he had to go on with the canal boat. but i learned from him all i could. it seems sure that my father is either back here, after some years spent in alaska, or that he will come here soon. he must have been writing to uncle bill, and so have learned that i came here to live. uncle bill knows where i am, but i don't know where he is at this moment, though i could get in touch with him. but i'll be glad to see my father again. oh, if i could only find him!" neale seemed to gaze afar off, over the fields and woods, as if he visualized his long-lost father coming toward him. his eyes had a dreamy look. "can't we do something to help you?" asked ruth. "that's what i came over about as soon as i had learned all the mule driver could tell me," went on the boy. "i thought maybe we could ask mr. howbridge, your guardian, how to go about finding lost persons. there are ways of advertising for people who have disappeared." "there is," said agnes. "i've often seen in the paper advertisements for missing persons who are wanted to enable an estate to be cleared up, and the last time i was in mr. howbridge's office i heard him telling one of the clerks to have such an advertisement prepared." "then that's what i've got to have done!" declared neale. "i've got some money, and i can get more from uncle bill if i can get in touch with him. i'm going to see mr. howbridge and start something!" he was about to leave the porch, to hasten away, when ruth interposed. "mr. howbridge is coming here this afternoon," said the girl. "you might stay and see him, if you like, neale." "what, with a whole civic betterment club of girls coming to the corner house! no, thank you," he laughed. "i'll see him afterward. but i have more hope now than i ever had before." "i'm very glad," murmured ruth. "mr. howbridge will give you any help possible, i'm sure. shall i speak to him about it when he comes to advise us how to form our civic betterment club?" "oh, i think not, thank you," answered neale. "he'll have enough to do this afternoon without taking on my affair. i can tell him later. but i couldn't wait to tell you." "of course you couldn't!" said agnes. "that would have been a fine way to treat me!" neale, who was agnes' special chum, in a way seemed like one of the family--at least as much so as mrs. maccall, the housekeeper, uncle rufus, or sammy pinkney, the little fellow who lived across willow street, on the opposite side from the corner house. "well, i feel almost like another fellow now," went on neale, as he started down the walk. "not knowing whether your father is alive or not isn't much fun." "i should say not!" agreed agnes. "i wish i could ask you to stay to lunch, neale, but--" "oh, gee, aggie!" the boy laughed, and off down the street he hastened, his step light and his cheery whistle ringing out. "isn't it wonderful!" exclaimed agnes, as she followed her sister into the house. "yes, if only it proves true," returned the older girl, more soberly. from the kitchen came the clatter of pans and dishes as linda disposed of the clutter incidental to making cakes and dainties for a bevy of girls. mrs. maccall could be heard humming a scotch song, and as tess and dot returned from the store she raised her voice in the refrain: "thou art a gay an' bonnie lass, but thou hast a waukrife minnie." "what in the world is a waukrife minnie?" demanded agnes again, pausing in her task. "it's 'wakeful mother,'" answered ruth. "i remember now. it's in burns' poem of that name. but do hurry, please, aggie, or the girls will be here before we can change our dresses!" "the fates forbid!" cried her sister, and she hastened to good advantage. the lunch was over and the "civic betterment league" was in process of embryo formation, under the advice of mr. howbridge, and ruth was earnestly presiding over the session of her girl friends in the library of the corner house, when, from the ample yard in the rear of the old mansion, came a series of startled cries. there was but one meaning to attach to them. the cries came from dot and tess, and mingled with them were the unmistakable yells of sammy pinkney. at the same time mrs. maccall added her remonstrances to something that was going on, while uncle rufus, tottering his way along the hall, tapped at the door of the library and said: "'scuse me, miss ruth, but de chiluns done got cotched in de elevator!" "the _elevator_!" agnes screamed. "what in the world do you mean?" "yas'um, dat's whut it is," said the old colored man. "tess an' dot done got cotched in de elevator!" chapter iv an auto ride mr. howbridge had been making an address to ruth's assembled girl chums when the interruption came. he had been telling them just how to go about it to organize the kind of society ruth had in mind. in spite of her half refusal to attend the session, agnes had decided to be present, and she was sitting near the door when uncle rufus made his statement about the two smallest kenways being "cotched." "but how can they be in an elevator?" demanded agnes. "we haven't an elevator on the place--there hardly is one in milton." "i don't know no mo' 'bout it dan jest dat!" declared the old colored man. "sammy he done say dey is cotched in de elevator an'--" "oh, sammy!" cried agnes. "if sammy has anything to do with it you might know--" she was interrupted by a further series of cries, unmistakably coming from tess and dot, and, mingled with their shouts of alarm, was the voice of mrs. maccall saying: "come along, ruth! oh, agnes! oh, the poor bairns! oh, the wee ones!" and then she lapsed into her broadest scotch so that none who heard understood. "something must have happened!" declared ruth. "it is very evident," added agnes, and the two sisters hurried out, brushing past uncle rufus in the hall. "can't we do something?" asked lucy poole, one of the guests. "yes, we must help," added grace watson. "i think perhaps it will be best if you remain here," said mr. howbridge. "i don't imagine anything very much out of the ordinary has happened, from what i know of the family," he said with a smile. "i'll go and see, and if any more help is needed i shall let you young ladies know. unless it is, the fewer on the scene the better, perhaps." "especially if any one is hurt," murmured clo baker. "i never could stand the sight of a child hurt." "they don't seem to have lost their voices, at any rate," remarked lucy. "listen:" as mr. howbridge followed agnes and ruth from the room, there was borne to the ears of the assembled guests a cry of: "let me down! do you hear, sammy pinkney! let me down!" and a voice, undoubtedly that of the sammy in question, answered: "i'm not doing anything! i can't get you down! it's billy bumps. he did it!" "two boys in mischief," murmured lucy. "no, billy is a goat, so i understand," said clo. "i hope he hasn't butted one of the children down the cistern." and while the guests were vainly wondering what had happened, ruth, agnes and mr. howbridge saw suspended in a large clothes basket, which was attached to a rope that ran over the high limb of a great oak tree in the back yard, tess and dot. they were in the clothes basket, dot with her alice-doll clasped in her hands; and both girls were looking over the side of the hamper. attached to the ground end of the rope, where it was run through a pulley block, was a large goat, now contentedly chewing grass, and near the animal, with a startled look on his face, was a small boy, who, when he felt like it, answered to the name sammy pinkney. "get us down! get us down!" cried dot and tess in a chorus, while mrs. maccall stood beneath them holding out her apron as if the two little girls were ripe apples ready to fall. "how did you get up there?" demanded ruth, her face paling as she saw the danger of her little sisters, for tess and dot were too high up for safety. [illustration: "get us down!" cried dot and tess in a chorus, while mrs. maccall stood beneath them holding out her apron.] "sammy elevatored us up," explained dot. "well, you wanted to go!" replied the small boy in self justification. the goat kept on eating grass, of which there was an ample supply in the yard of the corner house. "what shall we do?" cried agnes. "run into the house and get a strong blanket or quilt," advised mr. howbridge quickly, but in a quiet, insistent voice which seemed to calm the excitement of every one. "bring the blanket here. we will hold it beneath the basket like a fire net, though i do not believe there is any immediate danger of the children falling. the rope seems to be firmly caught in the pulley block." his quick eye had taken in this detail of the "elevator." the rope really had jammed in the block, and, as long as it held, the basket could not descend suddenly. even if the rope should be unexpectedly loosened, there would still be the weight of the attached goat to act as a drag on the end of the cable, thus counterbalancing, in a measure, the weight of the girls in the clothes basket. "but i don't want to take any chances," explained the lawyer. "we'll take hold and extend the blanket under them, in case they should fall." "i have my apron ready now!" cried mrs. maccall. "oh, the puir bairns! what ever possit it ye twa gang an' reesk their lives this way, ye tapetless one?" she cried to sammy angrily, suddenly, in her excitement, using the broadest of scotch. "well, they wanted to ride in an elevator, an' i--i made one," he declared. and that is just what he had done. whether it was his idea or that of tess and dot did not then develop. what sammy had done was to take the largest clothes basket, getting it unobserved when mrs. maccall and linda were busy over ruth's party. he had fastened the basket to a long rope, which had been thrown over the high limb of the oak tree. then sammy had passed the rope through a pulley block, obtained no one knew where, and had hitched to the cable the goat, billy bumps. by walking away from the tree billy had pulled on the rope. the straightaway pull was transformed, by virtue of the pulley, into an upward motion, and the basket ascended. it had formed the "elevator" to which uncle rufus alluded. and, really, it did elevate dot and tess. they had been pulled up and had descended as sammy made the goat back, thus releasing the pull on the rope. all had gone well for several trips until the rope jammed in the pulley, thus leaving the two girls suspended in the basket at the highest point. their screams, the fright of sammy, the alarms of uncle rufus and mrs. maccall had followed in quick succession. "here's the blanket!" cried agnes speeding to the scene with a large woolen square under her arm. "have they fallen yet?" behind her came stringing the guests. it had been impossible for them to remain in the library with their minds on civic betterment ideas when they heard what had happened. "well, did you ever!" cried one of the number in astonishment. "what can it mean?" burst out a second. "looks to me like an amateur circus," giggled a third. she was a lighthearted girl and had not taken much of an interest in the rather dry meeting. "those children will be hurt," cried a nervous lady. "oh, dear, why did they let them do such an awful thing as that?" "i think they did it on their own account," said another lady. "our tommy is just like that--into mischief the minute your back is turned." "i'm glad they came!" said mr. howbridge. "they may all take hold of the edges of the blanket and extend it as firemen do the life net. you may stand aside now, mrs. maccall, if you will," he told the scotch housekeeper, and not until then did she lower her apron and move out from under the swaying basket, murmuring as she did so something about sammy being a "tapetless gowk" who needed a "crummock" or a good "flyte," by which the girls understood that the boy in question was a senseless dolt who needed a severe whipping or a good scolding. ruth, agnes and the guests took hold of the heavy blanket and held it under the basket as directed by mr. howbridge. then, seeing there would be little danger to the children in case the basket should suddenly fall, the lawyer directed sammy to loosen the goat from the rope. "he'll run if i do," objected sammy. "let him run, you ninnie!" cried mrs. maccall. "an' if ever ye fetchet him yon again i'll--i'll--" but she could not call up a sufficiently severe punishment, and had to subside. meanwhile the mischievous boy had led billy bumps off to one side, by the simple process of loosening the rope from the wagon harness to which it was fastened. mr. howbridge then took a firm hold of the cable and, after loosening it from where it had jammed in the pulley block, he braced his feet in the earth, against the downward pull of the basket, and so gently lowered tess and dot to the ground. "i'm never going to play with you again, sammy pinkney!" cried tess, climbing out of the basket and shaking her finger at the boy. "nor me, either!" added dot, smoothing out the rumpled dress of her alice-doll. "well, you asked me to make some fun and i did," sammy defended himself. "yes, and you made a lot of excitement, too," added ruth. "you had better come into the house now, children," she went on. "and, sammy, please take billy away." "yes'm," he murmured. "but they asked me to elevator 'em up, an' i did!" "to which i shall bear witness," said mr. howbridge, laughing. mrs. maccall "shooed" tess and dot into the house, murmuring her thanks to providence over the escape, and, after a while, the excitement died away and ruth went on with her meeting. the civic betterment league was formed that afternoon and eventually, perhaps, did some good. but what this story is to concern itself with is the adventure on a houseboat of the corner house girls. meanwhile about a week went by. there had been no more elevator episodes, though this does not mean that sammy did not make mischief, nor that tess and dot kept out of it. far from that. one bright afternoon, when school was out and the pre-supper appetites of dot and tess had been appeased, the two came running into the room where ruth and agnes sat. "he's here! he's come!" gasped tess. "and he's got, oh, such a dandy!" echoed dot. "who's here, and what has he?" asked agnes, flying out of her chair. "you shouldn't say anything is a 'dandy,'" corrected ruth to her youngest sister. "well it is, and you told me always to tell the truth," was the retort. "it's mr. howbridge and he's out in front with a--the--er the beautifulest automobile!" cried tess. "it's all shiny an' it's got wheels, an'--an' everything! it's newer than our car." ruth was sufficiently interested in this news to look from the window. "it _is_ mr. howbridge," she murmured, as though there had been doubts on that point. "and he must have a new auto," added agnes. "oh, he has!" she cried. a moment later they were welcoming their guardian at the door, while the smaller children formed an eager and anxious background. "what has happened?" asked agnes, while ruth, remembering her position as head of the family, asked: "won't you come in?" "i'd much rather you would come out, miss ruth," the man responded. "it is just the sort of day to be out--not in." "especially in such a car as that!" exclaimed agnes. "it's a--" "be careful," murmured ruth, with an admonishing glance from agnes to the smaller girls. "little pitchers, you know--" "it's a wonderful car!" went on agnes. "is it yours?" "well, i sometimes doubt a little, when i recall what it cost me," her guardian answered with a laugh. "but i am supposed to be the owner, and i have come to take you for a ride." "oh, can't we go?" came in a chorus from tess and dot. "yes, all of you!" laughed mr. howbridge. "that's why i waited until school was out. they may come, may they not, miss ruth?" he asked. always he was thus deferential to her when a question of family policy came up. "yes, i think so," was the low-voiced answer. "but we planned to have an early tea and--" "oh, i promise to get you back home in plenty of time," the lawyer said, with a laugh. "and after that, if you like, we might take another ride." "how wonderful!" murmured agnes. "won't you stay to tea?" asked ruth. "i was waiting for that!" exclaimed mr. howbridge. "i shall be delighted. now then, youngsters, run out and hop in, but don't touch anything, or you may be in a worse predicament than when you were in the clothes basket elevator." "we won't!" cried tess and dot, running down the walk. "you must come back and be washed!" cried ruth. it was a standing order--that, and the two little girls knew better than to disobey. but first they inspected the new car, walking all around it, and breathing in, with the odor of gasoline, the awed remarks of some neighboring children. "that's part our car," dot told these envious ones, as she and tess started back toward the house. "we're going for a ride in it, and don't you dare touch anything on it or mr. howbridge'll be awful mad!" "um, oh, whut a lubly auto," murmured alfredia blossom, who had come on an errand to her grandfather, uncle rufus. "dat's jest de beatenistest one i eber see!" "yes, it is nice," conceded tess, proudly, airily and condescendingly. a little later the two younger children and agnes sat in the rear seat, while ruth was beside mr. howbridge at the steering wheel. then the big car purred off down the street, like a contented cat after a saucer of warm milk. "it was very good of you to come and get us," said ruth, when they were bowling along. "almost the christening trip of the car, too, isn't it?" she asked. "the very first trip i have made in it," was the answer. "i wanted it properly christened, you see. there is a method in my madness, too. i have an object in view, martha." sometimes he called ruth this, fancifully, with the thought in mind that she was "cumbered with many cares." again he would apply to her the nickname of "minerva," with its suggestion of wisdom. and ruth rather liked these fanciful appellations. "you have an object?" she repeated. "yes," he answered. "as usual, i want your advice." "as if it was really worth anything to you!" she countered. "it will be in this case, i fancy," he went on with a smile. "i want your opinion about a canal boat." chapter v the houseboat ruth stole a quick glance at the face of her guardian. there was a silence between them for a moment, broken only by the purr of the powerful machine and the suction of the rubber tires on the street. agnes, dot and tess were having a gay time behind the two figures on the front seat. "a canal boat?" murmured ruth, as if she had not heard aright. "perhaps i had better qualify that statement," went on mr. howbridge in his courtroom voice, "by saying that it is, at present, minerva, on the canal. and a boat on the canal is a canal boat, is it not? i ask for a ruling," and he laughed as he slowed down to round a corner. "i don't know anything about your legal phraseology," answered ruth, entering into the bantering spirit of the occasion, "but i don't see why a boat on the canal becomes a canal boat any more than a cottage pudding becomes a house. the pudding has no cottage in it any more than a club sandwich has a club in it and--" "i am completely at your mercy," mr. howbridge broke in with. "but, speaking seriously, this boat is on the canal, though strictly it is not a canal boat. you know what they are, i dare say?" "i used to have to take tess and dot down to the towpath to let them watch them often enough when we first came here," said ruth, with a laugh. "they used to think canal boats were the most wonderful objects in the world." "are we going on a canal boat?" asked tess, overhearing some of the talk on the front seat. "oh, are we?" "oh, i hope we are!" added dot. "my alice-doll just loves canal boats. and wouldn't it be splendiferous, tess, if we could have a little one all to ourselves and scalawag or maybe billy bumps to pull it instead of a mule?" "that would be a sight on the towpath!" cried agnes. "but what is this about canal boats, mr. howbridge?" "has some one opened a soda water store on board one?" asked dot suddenly. "not exactly. you'll see, presently. but i do want your opinion," he went on, speaking directly to ruth now, "and it has to do with a boat on a canal." "i still think you are joking," she told him. "and except for the fact that we have a canal here in milton i should think you were trying to fool me." "impossible, minerva," he replied, soberly enough. as ruth had said, milton was located on both the canal and a river, the two streams, if a canal can be called a stream, joining at a certain point, so that boats could go from one to the other. gentory river, which acted as a feeder to one section of the canal, also connected with lake macopic, a large body of water. the lake contained many islands. the automobile skirted the canal by a street running parallel to it, and then mr. howbridge turned down a rather narrow street, on which were situated several stores that sold supplies to the canal boats, and brought his machine to a stop on the bank of the waterway beside the towpath, as it is called from the fact that the mules or horses towing the boats walk along that level stretch of highway bordering the canal and forming part of the canal property. at this part of the canal, the stream widened and formed a sort of harbor for boats of various kinds. it was also a refitting station; a place where a captain might secure new mules, hire helpers, buy grain for his animals and also victuals for himself and family; for the owners of the canal boats often lived aboard them. this place, known locally as "henderson's cove," was headquarters for all the canal boatmen of the vicinity. "here is where we disembark, to use a nautical term," said mr. howbridge, with a smile at the younger children. "is this where we take the boat?" asked dot eagerly. "you might call it that," said mr. howbridge, with another genial smile. "and now, martha, to show that i was in earnest, there is the craft in question," and he pointed to an old hulk of a canal boat, which had seen its best days. "that! you want my opinion on _that_?" cried the girl, turning to her guardian in some surprise. "oh, no, the one next to it. the _bluebird_." ruth changed her view, and saw a craft which brought to her lips exclamations of delight, no less than to the lips of her sisters. for it was not a "rusty canaler" they beheld, but a trim craft, a typical houseboat, with a deck covered with a green striped awning and set with willow chairs, and a cabin, the windows of which, through their draped curtains, gave hint of delights within. "oh, how lovely!" murmured agnes. "a dream!" whispered ruth. "but why do you bring us here to show us this?" she asked with much interest. "because," began mr. howbridge, "i want to know if you would like--" just then an excited voice behind the little party burst out with: "oh, mr. howbridge, i've been looking everywhere for you!" neale o'neil came hurrying along the towpath, seemingly much excited. "i hope that supreme court decision hasn't gone against me," ruth heard her guardian murmur. "if that case is lost--" and then neale began to talk excitedly. chapter vi more news "they told me at your office you had come here, mr. howbridge," said neale. "and i hurried on as fast as i could." "did they send you here to find me?" asked the lawyer. "yes, sir." "with any message?" as mr. howbridge asked this ruth noticed that her guardian seemed very anxious about something. "yes, i have a message," went on neale. "it's about--" "the jackson case?" interrupted the lawyer. "is there a decision from the court and--" "oh, no, this isn't anything about the jackson case or any other," neale hastened to say. "it's about my father. and--" ruth and agnes could not help gasping in surprise. as for the two smaller kenway children all they had eyes for was the houseboat. "oh, your father!" repeated mr. howbridge. "have you found him, neale?" there was very evident relief in the lawyer's tone. "no, sir, i haven't found him. but you know you told me to come to you as soon as i had found that tramp mule driver again, and he's back in town once more. he just arrived at the lower lock with a grain boat, and i hurried to tell you." "yes, that was right, neale," said mr. howbridge. "excuse me, miss ruth," he went on, turning to the girl, "but i happen to be this young man's legal adviser, and while i planned this for a pleasure trip, it seems that business can not be kept out of it." "oh, we don't mind!" exclaimed ruth, with a smile at neale. "of course we know about this, and we'd be so glad if you could help find mr. o'neil." "all right then, if the young ladies have no objection," said the lawyer, "we'll combine business with pleasure. suppose we go aboard the _bluebird_. i want miss ruth's opinion of her and--" "i don't see why in the world you want _my_ opinion about this boat," said the puzzled girl. "i'm almost sure there's a joke in it, somewhere." "no, martha, no joke at all, i do assure you," answered her guardian. "you'll understand presently. now, neale, you say this mule driver has come back?" "yes, sir. you know i went to you as soon as he gave me a hint that my father might have returned from alaska, and you said to keep my eyes open for this man." "i did, neale, yes. you of course know this story, don't you, miss ruth?" he asked. "yes, i believe we were the first neale told about it." "well," went on mr. howbridge, while tess and dot showed signs of impatience to get on board the boat, "i told neale we must find out more from this hank dayton, the mule driver, before we could do anything, or start to advertise for mr. o'neil. and now, it seems, he is here again. at first, neale, when i saw you hurrying along, excited, i was afraid i had lost a very important law case. i am glad you did not bring bad news." ruth stole a glance at her guardian's face. he was more than usually quiet and anxious, she thought, though he tried to be gay and jolly. "we'll have a look at this boat," said mr. howbridge, as they advanced toward it. "i'll get minerva's opinion, and then we'll try to find hank dayton." "i know where to find him," said neale. "he's going to bunk down at the lower lock for a while. i made him promise to stay there until he could have a talk with you." "very good," announced the lawyer. "now come on, youngsters!" he cried with a gayer manner, and he caught dot up in his arms and carried her aboard the boat, neale, ruth and the others following. it was a typical houseboat. that is, it was a sort of small house built on what would otherwise have been a scow. the body of the boat was broad beamed forward and aft, as a sailor would say. that is, it was very wide, whereas most boats are pointed at the bow, and only a little less narrow at the stern. "it's like a small-sized canal boat, isn't it?" remarked agnes, as they went down into the cabin. "but ever so much nicer," said ruth. "oh, look at the cute little cupboards!" cried dot. "i could keep my dolls there." "and here's a sweet place for the cats!" added tess, raising the cover of a sort of box in a corner. "it would be a crib." "that's a locker," explained mr. howbridge, with a smile. "oh, i wouldn't want to lock almira in there!" exclaimed the little girl. "she might smother, and how could she get out to play with her kittens?" "oh, i don't mean that it can be locked," explained the lawyer. "it is just called that on a boat. cupboards on the wall and the window seats on the floor are generally called lockers on board a ship." "is this a ship?" asked dot. "well, enough like one to use some of the same words," replied mr. howbridge. "now let's look through it." this they did, and each step brought forth new delights. they had gone down a flight of steps and first entered a small cabin which was evidently intended for a living room. back of that was very plainly the dining room, for it contained a table and some chairs and on the wall were two cupboards, or "lockers" as the lawyer said they must be called. "and they have real dishes in them!" cried tess, flattening her nose against one of the glass doors. "don't do that, dear," said ruth in a low voice. "but i want to see," insisted tess. "so do i!" chimed in dot, and soon the two little sisters, side by side, with noses pressed flat against the doors, were taking in the sights of the dishes. mr. howbridge silently motioned to ruth to let them do as they pleased. "oh, what a lovely dolls' party we could have here!" sighed dot, as she turned away from the dish locker. "and couldn't almira come?" asked tess, appealing to agnes. "and bring one of her kittens?" "yes, we'll even allow you two kittens, for fear one would get lonesome," laughed mr. howbridge. "but come on. you haven't seen it all yet." there was a small kitchen back of the dining room, and both ruth and agnes were interested to see how conveniently everything was arranged. "it would be ever so much easier to get meals here than in the corner house," was ruth's opinion. "do you think so?" asked the lawyer. "yes, everything is so handy. you hardly have to take a step to reach anything," added agnes. "you only have to turn from the stove to the sink, and another turn and you have everything you want, from a toasting fork to an egg beater," and she indicated the different kitchen utensils hanging in a rack over the stove. "i'm glad you like it," said mr. howbridge, and ruth found herself wondering why he said that. they passed into the sleeping quarters where small bunks, almost like those in pullman cars, were neatly arranged, even to a white counterpane and pillow shams on each one. "oh, how lovely." "and how clean and neat!" "it's just like a sleeping car on the railroad." "yes, or one of those staterooms on some steamers." "a person could sleep as soundly here as in a bed at home," was ruth's comment. "yes, unless the houseboat rocked like a ship," said agnes. "i don't think it could rock much on the canal." "no, but it might on a river, or a lake. i guess a houseboat like this can go almost anywhere." there were two sets of sleeping rooms, one on either side of a middle hall or passageway. then came a small bathroom. and back of that was something that made neale cry out in delight. "why, the boat has an engine!" exclaimed the boy. "it runs by motor!" "yes, the _bluebird_ is a motor houseboat," said mr. howbridge, with a smile. "it really belongs on lake macopic, but to get it there through the canal mules will have to be used, as this boat has such a big propeller that it would wash away the canal banks. it is not allowed to move it through the canal under its own power." "that's a dandy engine all right!" exclaimed neale, and he knew something about them for one summer he had operated a small motor craft on the gentory river, as well as running the corner house girls' automobile for them. "i wish i could run this," he went on with a sigh, "but i don't suppose there's any chance." "i don't know about that," said the lawyer, musingly. "that is what i brought minerva here to talk about. let's go back to the main cabin and sit down." "i'm going to sit on one of the lockers!" cried tess, darting off ahead of the others. "i want to sit on it, too!" exclaimed dot. "there are two lockers on the floor--one for each," laughed mr. howbridge. as the little party moved into the main cabin, ruth found herself wondering more and more what mr. howbridge wanted her opinion on. she was not long, however, in learning. "here is the situation," began the lawyer, when they were all seated facing him. his tone reminded ruth of the time he had come to talk to them about their inheritance of the corner house. "this boat, the _bluebird_, belongs to an estate. the estate is being settled up, and the boat is going to be sold. a man living at the upper end of lake macopic has offered to buy it at a fair price if it is delivered to him in good condition before the end of summer. as the legal adviser of the estate i have undertaken to get this boat to the purchaser. and what i brought you here for, to-day, minerva," he said, smiling at ruth, "is to ask your opinion about the best way of getting the boat there." "do you really mean that?" asked the girl. "i certainly do." "well, i should say the best plan would be to start it going, and steer it up the canal to the river, through the river into the lake and up the lake to the place where it is to be delivered," ruth answered, smiling. "but mr. howbridge said the boat couldn't be moved by the motor on the canal," objected agnes. "well, have mules tow it, then," advised ruth. "that is very simple." "i am glad you think so," replied the lawyer. "and the next matter on which i wish your advice is whether to start the boat off alone on her trip, or just in charge of, say, the mule driver." "oh, i wouldn't want to trust a lovely houseboat like this to only a mule driver!" exclaimed ruth. "that's what i thought," went on her guardian, with another smile. "it needs some one on board to look after it, doesn't it?" "well, yes, i should say so." "then how would you like to take charge?" came the unexpected question. "me?" cried ruth. "_me?_" "you, and all of you!" went on the lawyer. "listen. here is the situation. i have to send this houseboat to lake macopic. you dwellers of the corner house need a vacation. you always have one every summer, and i generally advise you where to go. at least you always ask me, and sometimes you take my advice. "this time i advise you to take a houseboat trip. and i make this offer. i will provide the boat and all the needful food and supplies, such as gasoline and oil when you reach the river and lake. everything else is on board, from beds to dishes. i will also hire a mule driver and engage some mules for the canal trip. now, how does that suit you?" "oh! oh!" exclaimed agnes, and it seemed to be all she could say for a moment. she just looked at mr. howbridge with parted lips and sparkling eyes. "how wonderful!" murmured ruth. "can we go?" cried tess. "the whole family, including neale," said mr. howbridge. "oo-ee!" gasped dot, wide-eyed. agnes and neale stared entranced at each other, agnes, for once, speechless. "well, now i have made the offer, think it over, and while you are doing that i'll give a little attention to neale's case," went on mr. howbridge. "now, young man, suppose we go and find this mule driver who seems to know something of your father." "oh, wait! don't go away just yet!" begged ruth. "let's talk about the trip some more! do you really think we can go?" "i want you to go. it would be doing me a favor," said the lawyer. "i must get this boat to lake macopic somehow, and i don't know a better way than to have martha and her family take it," and he bowed formally to his ward. "and did you really mean i may go, too?" asked neale. "if you can arrange it, and miss ruth agrees." "of course i will! but, oh, there will be such a lot to do to get ready. we'd have to take mrs. maccall along, too," she added. "of course," assented mr. howbridge. "by all means!" "and would you go too?" asked ruth. "would you like me to?" the lawyer countered. "of course. we'd all like it." "i might manage to make at least part of the trip," was the reply. "then you have decided to take my offer?" "oh, i think it's perfectly _wonderful_!" burst out agnes. as for tess and dot, it could be told what they thought by just looking at them. "very well then," said the guardian, "we'll consider it settled. i'll have to see about mules and a driver for the canal part of the trip and--" an exclamation from neale interrupted him. "what is it?" asked the lawyer. "why couldn't we hire hank dayton for a mule driver?" neale asked. "he's rough, but i think he's a decent man and honest, and he knows a lot about the canal and boats and mules." "it might not be a bad idea," assented mr. howbridge. "we'll find him and ask him, neale. and it would be killing two birds with one stone. he could help you in your search for your father. yes, i think that will be a good plan. girls, i'll leave you here to look over the _bluebird_ at your leisure while neale and i go to interview the mule driver." "and i hope he will be able to tell you how to find your father, neale," said agnes, in a low voice. "i hope so, too," added the boy. "you don't know, aggie, how much i've wanted to find father." "of course i do, neale. and you'll find him, too!" neale went on with mr. howbridge, somewhat cheered by agnes' sympathy. chapter vii making plans left to themselves on the _bluebird_, ruth, agnes, dot and tess went over every part of it again, from the engine room to the complete kitchen and living apartments. "neale will just love fussing around that motor," said agnes. "you speak as if we had already decided to make the trip," remarked ruth, with a bright glance at her sister. "why, yes, haven't you?" agnes countered. "i thought you and mr. howbridge had fixed it up between you when you were chatting up on the front seat of the auto." "he never said a word to me about it," declared ruth. "he must have said something," insisted her sister. "oh, of course we talked, but not about _this_," and ruth swept her hands about to indicate the _bluebird_. "i was as much surprised as you to have him ask us if we would take her up to the lake." "well, it will be delightful, don't you think?" "yes, i think it will. but of course it depends on mrs. maccall." "i don't see why!" exclaimed agnes quickly and reproachfully. "of course you do. she'll have to go along to act as chaperone and all that. we may have to tie up at night in lonely places along the canal or river and--" "we'll have neale and mr. howbridge! and how about asking luke shepard and his sister cecile?" went on agnes. ruth flushed a little. "i don't believe cecile and luke can go," she replied slowly. "cecile has got to go home to take care of her aunt lorena, who is sick, and luke wrote me that he had a position offered to him as a clerk in a summer hotel down on the coast, and it is to pay so well that he would not dream of letting the opportunity pass." "oh, that's too bad, ruth. you won't see much of him." "i am not sure i'll see anything of him." and ruth's face clouded a little. "well, anyway, as i said before, we'll have neale and mr. howbridge," continued agnes. "neale. but mr. howbridge is not sure he can go--at least all the way. however, we'll ask mrs. maccall." "i think she'll be just crazy to go!" declared agnes. "come on, let's go right away and find out." "but we must wait for mr. howbridge to come back. he told us to." "well, then we'll say we're already living on board," said agnes. "oh, won't it be fun to eat on a houseboat!" and she danced off to the dining room, took her seat at the table, and exclaimed: "i'll have a steak, rare, with french fried potatoes, plenty of gravy and a cup of tea and don't forget the pie _à la mode_." tess and dot laughed and ruth smiled. they then went all over the boat again, with the result that they grew more and more enthusiastic about the trip. and when mr. howbridge and neale came back in the automobile a little later, beaming faces met them. "well, what about it, minerva?" mr. howbridge asked ruth. "are you going to act as caretakers for the boat to help me settle the estate?" "since you put it that way, as a favor, i can not refuse," she answered, giving him a swift smile. "but, as i told the girls, it will depend on mrs. maccall." "you leave her to me," laughed the lawyer. "i'll recite one of bobby burns' poems, and if that doesn't win her over nothing will. neale, do you think you can manage that motor?" "i'm sure of it," said the boy. "it isn't the same kind i had to run before, but i can get the hang of it all right." "is there any news about your father?" asked ruth, glancing from her guardian to the boy. "nothing very definite," answered the lawyer. "we found hank dayton, and in spite of his rough and ragged clothes i discovered him to be a reliable fellow. he told us all he knew about the rumor of mr. o'neil having returned from the klondike, and i am going to start an inquiry, with newspaper advertising and all that. and i may as well tell you that i have engaged this same hank dayton to drive the mules that will draw the _bluebird_ on the canal part of the trip." "oh!" exclaimed agnes. "i thought neale said this man was a tramp!" "he is, in appearance," said mr. howbridge, with a smile. "a person can not wear an evening suit and drive canal mules. but hank seems to be a sterling chap at the bottom, and with neale and mrs. maccall to keep him straight, you will have no trouble. "it is really necessary," he went on, "to have some man who understands the canal, the mules, and the locks to look after the boat, and i think this dayton will answer. he has just finished a trip, and so neale and i hired him. it will be well for neale to keep in touch with him, too, for through hank we may get more news of mr. o'neil. and now, if you have sufficiently looked over the _bluebird_, we may as well go back." "it would be a good while before i could see enough of her!" exclaimed agnes. "i'm just in love with the craft, and i know we shall have a delightful summer on her. only the trip will be over too soon, i'm afraid." "there is no necessity for haste," the lawyer assured her. "the purchaser of the boat does not want her until fall, and you may linger as long as you like on the trip." "good!" exclaimed agnes. a family council was held the next day at which mr. howbridge laid all the facts before mrs. maccall. at first the scotch housekeeper would not listen to any proposal for the trip on the water. but when ruth and agnes had spoken of the delights of the boat, and when the housekeeper had personally inspected the _bluebird_, she changed her mind. "though i never thought, in my old age, i'd come to bein' a houseboat keeper," she chuckled. "but 'tis all in the day's work. i'll gang with ye ma lassies. a canal boat is certainly more staid than an ice-boat, and i went alang with ye on that." "hurray!" cried agnes, unable to restrain her joy. "all aboard for lake macopic!" the door opened and aunt sarah maltby came in. "i thought i heard some one calling," she said anxiously. "it was agnes," explained ruth. "she's so excited about the trip." "fish? what fish? it isn't friday, is it?" asked the old lady, who was getting rather deaf. "no, auntie dear, i didn't say _fish_--i said _trip_." and ruth spoke more loudly. "we are going to make a trip on a houseboat for our summer vacation. would you like to come along?" aunt sarah maltby shook her head, as tess pulled out a chair for her. "i'm getting too old, my dear, to go traipsing off over the country in one of those flying machines." "it's a houseboat--not a flying machine," agnes explained. "well, it's about the same, i reckon," returned the old lady. "no, i'll stay at home and look after things at the corner house. it'll need somebody." "yes, there's no doubt of that," ruth said. so it was arranged. aunt sarah maltby would stay at home with linda and uncle rufus, while mrs. maccall accompanied the corner house girls on the houseboat. there was much to be done before the trip could be undertaken, and many business details to arrange, for, as inheritors of the stower estate, ruth and her sisters received rents from a number of tenants, some of them in not very good circumstances. "and we must see that they will want nothing while we are gone," ruth had said. it was part of her self-imposed duties to play lady bountiful to some of the poorer persons who rented uncle peter stower's tenements. "well, as long as you don't go to buying 'dangly jet eawin's' for olga pederman it will be all right," said agnes, and they laughed at this remembrance of the girl who, when ill with diphtheria, had asked for these ornaments when ruth called to see what she most wanted. eventually all the many details were arranged and taken care of. a mechanic had gone over the motor of the _bluebird_ and pronounced it in perfect running order, a fact which neale verified for himself. he had made all his plans for going on the trip, and between that and eagerly waiting for any news of his missing father, his days were busy ones. mr. howbridge had closely questioned hank dayton and had learned all that rover could tell, which was not much. but it seemed certain that mr. o'neil had started from alaska for the states. that he had not, even on his arrival, written to neale, was probably due to the fact that the man did not know where his son was. his uncle bill sorber, of course, knew neale's address, but the trouble was that the circus, which was not a very large affair, traveled about so, on no well-kept scheduled route, that mr. sorber was difficult to find. letters had been addressed to him at several places where it was thought his show might be, but, so far, no answer had been received. he was asked to send a message to mr. howbridge as soon as any word came from mr. o'neil. to hank dayton was left the task of picking out some mules to tow the houseboat through the stretch of canal. about a week, or perhaps longer, would be consumed on this trip, as there was no hurry. where the voyage is kept up for any length of time, two sets of mules or horses are used in towing canal boats. when one team is wearied it is put in the stable, which is on board the canal boat, and the other team is led out over a bridge, or gangplank, specially made for the purpose, on to the towpath. but on the _bluebird_ there were no provisions for the animals, so it was planned to buy only one team of mules, drive the animals at a leisurely pace through the day and let them rest at night either in the open, along the canal towpath, or in some of the canal barns that would be come upon on the trip. at the end of the trip the animals would be sold. mr. howbridge had decided that this was the best plan to follow, though there was a towing company operating on the canal for such boat owners as did not possess their own animals. as mr. howbridge had shrewdly guessed, the rough clothes of hank dayton held a fairly good man. he had been in poor luck, but he was not dissipated, and even mrs. maccall approved of him when he had been shaved, a shave being something he had lacked when neale first saw him. then, indeed, he had looked like a veritable tramp. gradually all that was to be done was accomplished, and the day came when ruth and agnes could say: "to-morrow we start on our wonderful trip. oh, i'm so happy!" "what about your civic betterment club?" asked agnes of her sister. "that will have to keep until i come back. really no one wants to undertake any municipal reforms in the summer." "oh, my! the political airs we put on!" laughed agnes. "well, i'm glad you are going to have a good time. you need it." "yes, i think the change will be good for all of us," murmured ruth. "tess and dot seem delighted, and--" she stopped suddenly, for from the floor above came a cry of alarm followed by one of distress. "what's that?" gasped ruth. "dot or tess, i should say," was the opinion of agnes. "they must have started in to get some of their change already. oh, gee!" "agnes!" ruth took time to protest, for she very much objected to agnes' slang. a moment later dot came bursting into the room, crying: "oh, she's in! she's in! and it isn't holding her up at all! come on, quick. both of you! tess is in!" chapter viii the robbery dot kenway stood in the middle of the room, dancing up and down, fluttering her hands and crying over and over again: "she's in! she's in! and it isn't holding her up! oh, come quick!" with a bound ruth was at her sister's side. she grasped dot by the arm and held her still. "be quiet, honey, and tell me what the matter is," ruth demanded. "oh, she's in! she's in! and it isn't holding her up!" dot repeated. "we'd better go and see what it is," suggested agnes. "tess may merely have fallen out of bed." "fallen out of bed--this time of day?" cried ruth. "impossible!" but she let go of dot and sped up the stairs whence floated down a series of startled cries. agnes followed, while dot called after them: "look in the bathroom! she's in! it isn't holding her up!" to the bathroom rushed ruth and agnes, there to behold a sight which first made them gasp and then, instantly, started them into energetic action. for tess was floundering about in the tub, full of water, with part of her bathing suit on and something bulky tied around her waist. she was clinging to the edge of the tub with both hands and trying to get to her feet. the tub was filled with water, and much of it was splashing over the side. fortunately the floor of the bathroom was tiled. "oh, tess! what are you doing?" cried agnes, as she and ruth pulled the small girl to her feet. tess was gasping for breath, and had evidently swallowed some water. "i--i--er--gug--i--was--" that was all tess could say for a while. "you poor child!" exclaimed ruth, reaching for a towel, to dry the dripping face. "did you fall in? and what possessed you to put on your bathing suit?" "and what _have_ you got around your waist?" cried agnes. "that--that--that's my--my _life preserver_!" exploded tess. "if--if you'll take the towel out of my moo-oo-oo-uth i'll t-t-tell--you!" she stammered. "yes, do let's let her tell, for mercy's sake!" exclaimed ruth. "did your head go under, tessie, dear?" tess nodded. it was easier than speaking, especially as she had not yet quite got her breath back. the two older sisters dried her partly on the towel, the little girl raising her hands to keep her sisters from stuffing any more of the turkish towel into her mouth, and then dot came up the stairs. "is she--is she drowned?" was the awed whisper. "no, but she might have been," answered ruth. "what were you two doing? this is worse than the clothes basket elevator. what were you doing?" "i was making a life preserver," volunteered tess, when she had been helped out of the bathtub and was standing on a big mat that absorbed the little rivulets of water streaming from her. "a life preserver?" questioned agnes. "yes," tess nodded. "i thought maybe i might fall off the houseboat and i didn't see any life preservers on it, so i made one." "out of the hot water bag," put in dot. "she tied it around her waist and she wanted me to tie one on me and make believe we fell into the bathtub. but i wouldn't, and she got in, and it didn't hold her up." "i should say it didn't!" cried agnes. "how could you expect a rubber bag full of water to hold you up? it couldn't hold itself up." "it wasn't full of water. i blew it up full of air just as sammy pinkney blows up his football," said tess. "and that floats in water, 'cause i saw it." "a hot water bag is different," returned ruth. "yes, she has one on," she added, as she and agnes unwrapped from their sister some folds of cloth by which the partly inflated hot-water bag had been fastened around tess's waist. "don't you ever do anything like that again!" scolded dot, as tess was sent to her room to dress while linda came up to mop the floor. "well, what am i to do if i fall overboard off the _bluebird_, i'm asking you?" called tess, turning back, and holding her bath robe around her slim form. "there aren't any life preservers on it!" "we will provide some if they are needed," said ruth, laughing. just then aunt sarah maltby came in and heard the story from agnes. "just think, dot and tess, one of you might have been drowned," she said severely. "if that bag had got around your feet, and the winding strips had tangled, your feet might have been held up and your head down. you might easily have been drowned in the bathtub." "not me--i wouldn't!" declared dot. "why not?" agnes wanted to know. "'cause i wouldn't get in it! i told tess maybe it was dangerous." "well, it wouldn't have been if i'd had more air in the bag," called tess from the half-open door of her room. "that was the matter." mrs. maccall shook her head when she heard what had happened. "i ha me doots about them on the boat," she said. "if they cut up such didoes here, what'll they do then?" "oh, i think we shall manage somehow," said ruth with cheerful philosophy. "we're used to mishaps." by dint of hard work the final preparations for the houseboat trip were made. the _bluebird_ was got in shape for the first part of the trip through the canal. hank dayton had been "slicked up," and had his two sturdy mules in readiness. neale had tested the motor again. a supply of food had been put on board, together with gasoline to use as soon as the transition from the canal to the river should have taken place. mr. howbridge had arranged his plans so as to start with the girls, and mrs. maccall had her small trunk packed and in readiness. all that was possible had been done to get into communication with neale's father, and all that could be done was to await word from him, or from mr. sorber, who might be the first to hear, that the missing klondike explorer had returned. and at last the morning of the start arrived. "oh, it's going to rain!" cried tess as she arose early and ran to the window to look out. "i don't care. we can take umbrellas, and the boat has a roof on it," said dot. "my alice-doll has been wet before." "but almira doesn't like rain, and her kittens might get cold," objected tess. "we can't take almira!" said ruth in a voice that tess knew it was useless to appeal from. "the poor cat wouldn't have a good time, tessie, and she'd be in the way with her kittens." "she could catch mice," suggested tess, as a sort of last hope. "there are mice on canal boats. i heard hank dayton say so," put in dot, seeking to strengthen tess's position. "we'll get a cat later if we need it," compromised ruth. "don't think of bringing almira." "all right!" assented dot, and then tess called: "there's sammy, and he's got billy bumps. let's go down and tell them good-by!" "can't sammy come with us?" asked dot, turning to ruth. "no indeed, nor the goat either! so don't ask him and make him feel bad when i have to refuse him." "all right," sighed dot. then she and tess finished dressing and went out to greet sammy, who was paying one of his early morning calls. "want me to do any errands for you, ruth?" he politely asked when he had refused an invitation to breakfast, saying he had already eaten. "no, thank you, sammy," was the answer. "i could go quick--hitch billy to the wagon and get anything you wanted from the village," he went on. ruth shook her head, and then had to hurry away to see about one of the many last-minute details. "well, good-by, then," said sammy to the other sisters, as he prepared to depart. "i wish i was going! we could take billy bumps." "but if they wouldn't let me take a cat on the boat i don't suppose they'd want a goat," put in tess. "i don't guess so," said sammy, more meekly than he usually spoke. "well, good-by!" and down the street he went, taking billy bumps, who belonged to tess and dot, with him. "it does look like rain," said agnes, when it was almost time for mr. howbridge to call for them in his machine to take them and their baggage to the houseboat. "it may hold off until we get on board," said ruth. she gave a sudden start. "oh, agnes! our jewelry! we forgot to take it to the bank!" "that's so! i knew we'd forget something! well, haven't we time to run down with it now before mr. howbridge comes?" ruth looked at her wrist watch. "just about," was her decision. "come on. you and i can take the package down and then hurry back." "you'd best take an umbrella, ma dearies!" cautioned mrs. maccall. "'tis showery goin' to be this day!" "we'll take one," assented ruth. she and agnes had planned to leave their jewelry and some other articles of value in their safe deposit box, but had forgotten it until now. the two older girls sallied forth with a large umbrella, which agnes carried, while ruth had the package of jewelry. they were half way to the bank, no great distance from home, when suddenly a downpour began with the usual quickness of a summer shower. "hurry! raise the umbrella!" cried ruth. "i'm getting drenched!" "isn't it terrible!" gasped agnes. she and her sister stepped into the shelter of the nearest doorway for a moment. something was wrong with the catch of the umbrella. ruth was just going to help her sister raise it when suddenly two rough-looking men rushed from the hall back of the doorway in which the girls had taken shelter. one of the men rudely brushed past ruth, and, as he did so, he made a grab for the packet of jewelry, snatching it from her. "oh!" screamed the girl. "stop! oh! oh, agnes!" the other man turned and pushed agnes back as she leaned forward to help ruth. then, as the rain came down harder than ever, the men sped up the street, leaving the two horror-stricken girls breathless in the doorway. chapter ix all aboard for a moment after the robbery neither ruth nor agnes felt capable of saying anything or doing anything. ruth, it is true, had cried out as the burly ruffian had snatched the packet of jewelry from her, and then fear seemed to paralyze her. but this was only for a moment. in few seconds both she and agnes became their energetic selves, as befitted the characters of corner house girls. "oh, agnes! did you see? he has the jewelry!" cried ruth. "yes, i saw! he pushed me back or i'd have grabbed it away again! we must take after them!" the girls started to leave, having managed to get the umbrella up, but at that instant there came such a fierce blast of wind and such a blinding downpour of rain that they were fairly forced back into the doorway. and, more than this, their umbrella was turned inside out and sent flapping in their faces by the erratic wind, so that they could not see what they were doing. "this is awful!" exclaimed agnes, and she was near to crying. "we must call for help," said ruth, but they would have needed to shout very loud indeed to be heard above the racket made by the wind and rain. a momentary glimpse up and down the street, when a view of it could be had amid the sheets of rain, showed no one in sight. "what shall we do?" cried ruth, vainly trying to get the umbrella to its proper shape. at that moment the door behind them opened. the girls turned, fearing a further attack, but they saw myra stetson, whose father kept a grocery, and it was in the doorway adjoining the store that the corner house girls had taken refuge. "what is the matter?" asked myra, when she saw who it was. "i heard the door blow open and i came down to shut it." the stetson family lived up over the grocery, where there were two flats. "what has happened?" went on the grocer's daughter. she was rather more friendly with agnes than with ruth, but knew both sisters, and, indeed, ruth was planning to have myra on one of the civic betterment committees. there had been some little differences of opinion between myra and agnes, but these had been smoothed out and the girls were now good friends. "we've been robbed! at least ruth has!" exclaimed agnes. "a ruffian took our jewelry box!" "you don't mean it!" cried myra. "i only wish i didn't," said ruth brokenly. "oh, my lovely rings!" "and my pins!" added agnes. "tell me about it," begged myra, and, rather breathlessly, the corner house girls told the story of the assault of the two burly men in the doorway. "they ran off down the street with the box of jewelry we were taking to the bank," explained ruth. "then you'd better tell the police at once," advised myra. "come on up into our flat and you can telephone from there. mr. buckley is a special officer and he has a telephone. father will send for him. do come up!" "yes, i think we had better," agreed ruth. "and we must notify mr. howbridge. that is, if he hasn't left his office." "if he has we can get him at our house," said agnes. "we were just going to start on a houseboat trip when this terrible thing happened," she explained to myra. "isn't it too bad!" said the grocer's daughter. "but do come upstairs. did you say the man came out of our hallway?" "yes," answered ruth. "we stepped into the doorway to be out of the rain for a moment and to raise the umbrella, the catch of which had been caught in some way, when they both rushed past us, one of them grabbing the box from under my arm." "and one gave me a shove," added agnes. "that's the most amazing thing i ever heard of!" declared myra. "those men must have been hiding in there waiting for you." "but how did they know we were coming?" asked ruth. "we didn't think of going to the bank with the jewelry ourselves until a few minutes ago. those men couldn't have known about it." "then it's very strange," said myra. "i must tell father about it. there may be more of them hiding upstairs." "do you mean in your house?" asked agnes, for they were now ascending the stairs, the refractory umbrella having at last been subdued and turned right side out. "i mean in the vacant flat above ours," went on myra. "it's to let, you know, and two men were in to look at it yesterday. they said they were from the klondike." "from the klondike!" exclaimed ruth, and she and agnes exchanged significant glances. "yes. that's in alaska where they dig gold, you know," explained myra. "i didn't see the men. father said they came to look at the flat, and one of them remarked they had just come back from the gold regions. they didn't rent it though, as far as i know." "isn't that strange?" said agnes slowly. "very," agreed ruth, and, by a look, she warned her sister not to say any more just then. they were ushered into the stetson living apartment over the store and mr. and mrs. stetson were soon listening to the story. "the idea of any men daring to use our hallway to commit a robbery!" cried mrs. stetson. "father, you'd better see if any more of the villains are hiding. i'm sure i'll not sleep a wink this night." "i'll take a look," said the grocer. "that hall door often blows open, though. the lock needs fixing. it would be easy for any one to slip into the lower hall from the street and wait there." "that's what they probably did," said agnes. "and it was just by accident that we went up to the doorway to raise the umbrella. the men must have seen us, and, though they couldn't have known what was in the box, they took it anyhow. oh, it's too bad! our trip is spoiled now!" and she was on the verge of tears. "don't worry, my dear," advised mrs. stetson. "we'll get the police after them. father, you must telephone at once. and you must have a look in those vacant rooms upstairs." "i will," promised the grocer, and then began a period of activity. a clerk and a porter from the grocery downstairs made a careful examination of the upper premises, but, of course, discovered no more thieves. and, naturally, there were no traces of the men who had robbed ruth and agnes. the telephone soon put the police authorities of milton in possession of the facts, and special officer buckley, was soon "on the job," as he expressed it. he came, a burly figure in rubber boots and a glistening rubber coat, to the stetson apartment, there to hear the story first-hand from ruth and agnes. with him also came jimmy dale, a reporter from the milton _morning post_. jimmy had been at the police headquarters when word of the robbery was telephoned in, and he, too, "got on the job." all the description ruth and agnes could give of the men was that they were rough and burly and not very well dressed. but it had all taken place so quickly and in such obscurity amid the mist of the rain that it was difficult for either girl to be accurate. then as much as was possible was done. several other special officers were notified of the occurrence, and the regular police force of milton, no very large aggregation, was instructed to "pick up" any suspicious characters about town. mr. stetson confirmed the statement made by myra that two men who claimed to have recently returned from the klondike had been to look at the vacant flat the day before. in appearance they were rather rough, the grocer said, though he would not call them tramps by any means. there might be a possible connection between the two, it was agreed. mr. howbridge was notified by telephone, and called in his automobile for the two girls, who, after some tea, felt a little more composed. "but, oh my lovely jewelry!" exclaimed agnes. "it's gone!" "and mine," added ruth. "there were some things of dot's and tessie's in the box, too, and mother's wedding ring," and ruth sighed. "the police may recover it," said the lawyer. "i am glad neither of you was harmed," and his gaze rested anxiously on his wards. "no, they barely touched me," said the older girl. "one of them just grabbed the box and ran." "the other one gave me a shove," declared agnes. "if i had known what he was up to he wouldn't have got away so easily. i haven't been playing basket ball for nothing!" she boasted. "well, i think there is nothing more to be done," said their guardian. "while there is no great rush, i think the sooner we get started on our houseboat trip the better. so if you'll come with me, i'll take you home, we can gather up the last of the baggage and make a quick trip to the _bluebird_. i have the side curtains up and the rain is stopping, i think." "oh, are we going on the trip--_now_--after the robbery?" asked ruth doubtfully. "yes. why not?" inquired the lawyer, with a smile. "you can do nothing by staying here, and if the men should be arrested i can arrange to bring you back to identify them. i know how bad you feel, but the trip will be the best thing in the world for you, for it will take your mind from your loss." "yes, ruth, it will!" agreed agnes, for she saw that her sister was much affected. "well, we'll go back home, anyhow," assented ruth. and after they had thanked the stetson's for their hospitality the two sisters left in charge of mr. howbridge. as he had said, the rain was stopping, and when they reached the corner house the sun was out again, glistening on the green leaves of the trees. "it's a good omen," declared agnes. of course there was consternation at the corner house when the story of the robbery was told. but even aunt sarah maltby agreed with mr. howbridge that it would do ruth and agnes good to make the houseboat trip. accordingly, after the two robbed ones had calmed down a little more, the last belongings were gathered together, dot and tess, who had considerably mussed their clothes playing tag around the furniture, were straightened out, good-bys were said over and over again, and then, in mr. howbridge's automobile, the little party started for the _bluebird_. "where's neale?" asked agnes, as they neared the canal. "he'll meet us at the boat," said the lawyer. "i just received a letter from his uncle, the circus man, which contains a little information about the boy's father." "has he really returned from the klondike?" asked ruth. "i believe he has. but whether he has money or is as poor as when he started off to seek his fortune, i don't know. time will tell. but i am glad the sun is out. it would have been rather gloomy to start in the rain." "if it had not rained those men never would have gotten our jewel box!" declared agnes. "it was only because we were confused by the umbrella in the hard shower that they dared take it." "don't think about it!" advised mr. howbridge. they reached the _bluebird_, to find neale waiting for them with smiling face. "i only wish we could start under gasoline instead of mule power!" he cried gayly. "time enough for that!" said mr. howbridge, with a smile. "is hank on hand?" "he's bringing out the hee-haws now," said neale, pointing down the towpath, while dot and tess laughed at his descriptive name for the mules. the driver was leading them from the stable where they had taken shelter from the downpour, and they were soon hitched to the long towing rope. "it 'minds me of the time i came from scotland," murmured mrs. maccall as she went up the "bridge," as the gangplank of a canal boat is sometimes called. "all aboard!" cried neale, and they took their places on the _bluebird_. mr. howbridge had arranged for one of his men to come and drive back the automobile, and there was nothing further to be looked after. "shall i start?" called hank, from his station near the mules, after he had helped neale haul up the gangplank which had connected the houseboat with the towpath. "give 'em gas!" shouted the boy through his hands held in trumpet fashion. the animals leaned forward in their collars, the rope tauted, pulling with a swishing sound up from the water into which it had dropped. the _bluebird_ began slowly to move, and at last they were on their way. ruth, agnes and the others remained on deck for a while, and then the older folk, including neale, went below to get things "shipshape and bristol fashion." dot and tess remained on deck under the awning. "don't fall overboard!" cautioned mrs. maccall to the small sisters. "we won't!" they promised. it was about ten minutes later, during which time the _bluebird_ was progressing slowly through the quiet waters of the canal, that agnes heard shouts on deck. "hark!" she exclaimed, for they were all moving about, getting matters to rights in the cabins. "what is it?" asked ruth. "i thought i heard tess calling," went on agnes. there was no mistake about it. down the stairway that led from the upper deck to the cabin came the cry of: "oh, come here! come here quick! one of the mules is acting awful funny! i think he's trying to kick mr. hank into the canal!" chapter x a stowaway ruth dropped some of the garments she was unpacking from her trunk. agnes came from the dining room, where she was setting the table for the first meal on the craft. neale and mr. howbridge ran from the motor compartment in the lower hold of the boat. mrs. maccall raised her hands and began to murmur in her broadest scotch so that no one knew what she was saying. and from the upper deck of the boat, where they had been left sitting on camp stools under the green striped awning, came the chorused cries of tess and dot: "oh, come on up! come on up!" "something must have happened!" exclaimed ruth. "but the girls are all right, thank goodness!" added agnes. together all four of them, with mrs. maccall bringing up the rear, ascended to the upper deck. there they saw dot and tess pointing down the towpath. hank dayton was, indeed, having trouble with the mules. and tess had not exaggerated when she said that one of the animals was trying to kick the driver into the canal. "oh! oh!" screamed ruth and agnes, as the flying heels barely missed the man's head. "i'll go and give him a hand!" exclaimed neale, and before any one knew what his intention was he ran down the stairs, out to the lower forward deck of the craft, and leaped across the intervening water to the towpath, an easy feat for a lad as agile as neale o'neil. "what's the matter, hank?" those on the _bluebird_ could hear neale ask the driver. "oh, arabella is feeling rather frisky, i guess," was the answer. "she hasn't had much work to do lately, and she's showing off!" arabella was the name of one of the mules. neale, born in a circus, knew a good deal about animals, and it did not take him and hank dayton long to subdue the fractious arabella. after she had kicked up her heels a few more times, just to show her contempt for the authority of the whiffle-tree and the traces, she quieted down. the other mule, a more sedate animal, looked at his companion in what might have been disgust mingled with distrust. "are they all right now?" asked ruth, as neale leaped aboard the boat again. "oh, yes. hank can manage 'em all right. he just had to let arabella have her kick out. she's all right now. isn't this fun, though?" and neale breathed in deeply of the fresh air. "oh, neale, it's glorious!" and agnes' eyes sparkled. the day had turned out a lovely one after the hard shower, and everything was fresh and green. they had reached the outskirts of milton by this time, and were approaching the open country through which the canal meandered before joining the river. on either side of the towpath were farms and gardens, with a house set here and there amid the green fields or orchards. now and then other boats were passed. at such times one of the craft would have to slow up to let the tow-rope sink into the canal, so the other boat might pass over it. the mules hee-hawed to each other as they met, and hank exchanged salutations with the other drivers. "i think it's just the loveliest way to spend a vacation that ever could be thought of," said agnes to mr. howbridge. "i hope you all like it," he remarked. "oh, yes, it's going to be perfect," said the older kenway girl. "if only--" "you are thinking of your jewelry," interrupted her guardian. "please don't! it will be recovered by the police." "i don't believe so," said ruth. "i don't care so much about our things. we can buy more. but mother's wedding ring can never be replaced nor, i fear, found. i believe those klondikers will dispose of it in some way. they'll never be caught." "klondikers!" cried neale, coming into the main cabin just then. "did you say klondikers?" and it was plain to be seen that he was thinking of his father. "yes. there is a suspicion that the men who robbed ruth were two men who the day before looked at the stetson flat," explained agnes. "they said they were klondike miners." "klondike miners!" murmured neale. "i wonder if they knew my father or if he knew them. i don't mean the robbers," he added quickly. "i mean the men who came to rent the flat. i wish i had a chance to speak to them." "so do i," said mr. howbridge. "i have hardly yet had a chance to tell you, neale, but i have a letter from your uncle bill." "does he know about father?" asked the boy quickly. "no. this letter was written before he received mine asking for your father's last known address. but it may be possible for you to meet your uncle during this trip." "how?" asked neale. "he tells me in his letter the names of the places where the circus will show in the next month. and one place is not far from a town we pass on the canal." "then i'm going to see him!" cried neale joyfully. "i'll be glad to meet him again. he may know something of my father. i wonder if they have any new animals since last summer. they ought to have a pony to take scalawag's place. "he didn't say," remarked the lawyer. "but i thought you'd be glad to know that your uncle was in this vicinity." "i am," said the boy. "this trip is going to be better than i thought. now, if he only has word of my father!" "we'll find him, sooner or later," declared the guardian of the corner house girls. "but now, since the mules seem to be doing their duty, suppose we take account of stock and see if we need anything. if we do, we ought to stop and get it at one of the places through which we pass, because we may tie up at night near some small village where they don't keep hair pins and--er--whatever else you young ladies need," and he smiled quizzically at ruth. "thank you! we brought all the hairpins we need!" agnes informed him. "and i think we have enough to eat," added ruth. "at least mrs. mac is busy in the kitchen, and something smells mighty good." indeed appetizing odors were permeating the interior of the _bluebird_, and a little later the company were sitting down to a most delightful meal. dot and tess could hardly be induced to come down off the upper deck long enough to eat, so fascinated were they with the things they saw along the canal. "isn't hank going to eat, and the mules, too?" asked dot, as she finished and took her "alice-doll" up, ready to resume her station under the awning. "oh, yes. mrs. maccall will see that he gets what he needs, and hank, as you call him, will feed the mules," said mr. howbridge. "do you think we ought to call him hank?" asked tess. "it seems so familiar." "he's used to it," answered neale. "everybody along the canal calls him that. he's been a driver for years, before he went to traveling around, and met men who knew my father." "hum! that just reminds me," said the lawyer musingly, as dot and tess hurried from the table. "perhaps i ought to question hank about the two klondikers who inquired about the stetson flat. he may know of them. well, it will do to-night after we have tied up." "where is hank going to sleep?" asked ruth, who, filling the rôle of housekeeper, thought she must carry out her duties even on the _bluebird_. "he will sleep on the upper deck. i have a cot for him," said the lawyer. "the mules will be tethered on the towpath. it is warm now, and they won't need shelter. they are even used to being out in the rain." the afternoon was drawing to a close, matters aboard the houseboat had been arranged to satisfy even the critical taste of ruth, and mrs. maccall was beginning to put her mind on the preparation of supper when dot, who had come below to get a new dress for her "alice-doll," ran from the storeroom where the trunks and valises had been put. "oh! oh, ruth!" gasped the little girl. "somebody's in there!" "in where?" asked ruth, who was writing a letter at the living-room table. "in there!" and dot pointed toward the storeroom, which was at the stern of the boat under the stairs that led up on deck. "some one in there?" repeated ruth. "well, that's very possible. mrs. mac may be there, or neale or--" "no, it isn't any of them!" insisted dot. "i saw everybody that belongs to us. it's somebody else! he's in the storeroom, and he sneezed and made a noise like a goat." "you ridiculous child! what do you mean?" exclaimed agnes, who was just passing through the room and heard what dot said. "you probably heard one of hank's mules hee-hawing," said ruth, getting up from her chair. "mules don't sneeze!" declared dot with conviction. ruth had to admit the truth of this. "you come and see!" urged dot, and, clasping her sister's hand, she led her into the storeroom, agnes following. "what's up?" asked mr. howbridge, coming along just then. "oh, dot imagines she heard some unusual noise," explained ruth. "i did hear it!" insisted the younger girl. "it was a sneeze and a bleat like a goat and it smells like a goat, too. smell it!" she cried, vigorously sniffing the air as she paused on the threshold of the storeroom. "don't you smell it?" just then the silence was shattered by a vigorous sneeze, followed by the unmistakable bleating of a goat, and out of a closet came fairly tumbling--a stowaway! chapter xi overboard "there! what did i tell you!" cried dot, pointing a finger at the strange sight. "i heard a noise, and then it was a sneeze and then it was a bleat and then i _smelled_ a goat. i knew it was a goat, and it is, and it's sammy pinkney, too!" and, surely enough, it was. tousled and disheveled, dirty and with his clothes awry, there stood the urchin who was, it seemed, continually getting into mischief at or around the corner house. but if sammy was mussed up because of having been hidden in a small closet, the goat did not appear to be any the worse for his misadventure. billy bumps was as fresh as a daisy, and suddenly he lowered his head and made a dive for mr. howbridge. "oh!" cried ruth. "look out!" "hold him!" yelled agnes. neale, who had joined the wondering throng now gazing at the stowaway, caught the goat by the animal's collar just in time, and held him back from butting the lawyer. "he--he's just a little excited like," sammy explained. "well, i should think he would be!" declared ruth, taking command of the situation, as she often had to do where sammy was concerned. "and now what do you mean, hiding yourself and billy bumps on the boat?" she demanded. "why did you do it? and why, above all things, bring the goat?" "'cause i knew you wouldn't let me come any other way," sammy answered. "i wanted to go houseboating awful bad, but i didn't think you'd take me and billy. so this morning, when you was packing up, me and him came down here and we got on board. i hid us in a closet, and we was going to stay there until night and then maybe you'd be so far away you couldn't send us back. but something tickled my nose and i sneezed, and i guess billy thought i was sneezing at him, for he bleated and then he butted his head against the door and it came open and--and--" but sammy really had to stop--he was out of breath. "well, of all things!" cried agnes. "it is rather remarkable," agreed mr. howbridge. "i don't know that i ever before had to deal with a stowaway. the question that's puzzling me is, what shall we do with him?" "can't me and billy stay?" asked sammy, catching drift of an objection to his presence on board. "of course not!" voiced ruth. "what would your mother and father say?" "oh, they wouldn't care," sammy said, easily enough and brightening visibly at the question. "they let me stay when i went with you on our auto tour." "they surely did," remarked agnes dryly. "and billy's strong, too!" went on sammy eagerly. "if one of the mules got sick he could help pull the boat." "the idea!" exclaimed agnes. "oh, hello, sammy!" called tess, who had just heard of the discovery of the stowaway. "hello," sammy returned. "i'm here!" they all laughed. "well," said mr. howbridge at length, as the houseboat was slowly pulled along the canal by the mules driven by hank, "we must get sammy home somehow, though how is puzzling me." "oh, please can't i stay?" begged the boy. "you can send billy home, of course. i don't know why i brought him. but let me stay. i'm going to be a canal mule driver when i grow up, and i could begin now if you wanted me to." "aren't you going to be a pirate?" asked agnes, for such had been sammy's desire for years. "yes, of course. but i'm going to be a canal mule driver first." "it's out of the question," said ruth firmly. "it was very wrong of you to hide away on board, sammy. very wrong indeed! and it is going to be a great bother for us to send you and billy bumps back home, as we must do. twice for the same trick is too often." "aw, say, ruthie, you might turn billy bumps loose here on the bank and let me stay," pleaded sammy. "billy can take care of himself well enough." "sammy pinkney!" exclaimed tess, her eyes blazing. "turn our goat loose just because you brought him along when you know you had no business to do that! sammy pinkney, you are the very worst boy i ever heard of!" sammy looked rather frightened for the first time since being found on the boat, for, after all, he had an immense respect for the usually gentle tess, and cared more for her good opinion than he did for that of her elders. "i didn't mean to be bad," he whined. "i wanted to go along, that's all." "but you wasn't asked," tess insisted, pouting. "but i wasn't asked on that auto tour," went on sammy hopefully. "well, that was--was different," stammered tess. "anyway, you had no right to talk about turning our goat loose. why, somebody might steal him!" "what shall we do?" ruth appealed to mr. howbridge. "can a boat turn around in the canal?" "not wide enough here," volunteered neale, looking from a window. "but we can when we get to the big waters, about five miles farther along." "it will not be necessary to turn about and go back," said the lawyer. "i'll have to make arrangements for some one either to take charge of our stowaway at the next large town, and keep him there until his father can come for him, or else i may see some one going back to milton by whom we can return our interesting specimens," and he included boy and goat in his glances. "well, i was afraid you'd send us back," said sammy with a sigh. "but could i stay to supper?" he asked, as he sniffed the appetizing odors that now seemed more completely to fill the interior of the _bluebird_. "of course you may stay to supper, sammy," conceded ruth. "and then we'll see what's to be done. oh, what a boy you are!" and she had to laugh, though she did not want to. "i was hoping sammy could come," murmured dot, as she hugged her "alice-doll." "and billy bumps is fun," added tess. "we have no room here for goats, whether they are funny or not," declared agnes. "take him out in front, on the lower deck, sammy. tie him there, and then wash yourself for supper. i should think you would have smothered in that closet." "i did, almost," confessed the boy. "and billy didn't like it, either. but we wanted to come." "too bad--young ambition nipped in the bud," murmured mr. howbridge. "take billy outside, sammy." the goat was rather frisky, and it required neale and sammy to tie him to the forward rail on the lower deck. then mrs. maccall, in the kindness of her scotch heart, sent the "beastie," as she called him, some odds and ends of food, including beet tops from the kitchen, and billy, at least, was happy. "low bridge!" suddenly came the call from hank, up ahead with the two mules. "what's he saying?" asked ruth to mr. howbridge. "he's giving warning that we are approaching a low bridge, and that if we stay on deck and hold our heads too high we may get bumped. yes, there's the bridge just ahead. i wonder if we can pass beneath it. our houseboat is higher than a canal boat." the stream curved then, and gave a view of a white bridge spanning it. hank had had the first glimpse of it. it was necessary for the occupants of the upper deck either to desert it, or to crouch down below the railing, and they did the former. there was just room for the _bluebird_ to squeeze through under the bridge, and beyond it lay a good-sized town. "i think i can get some one there to take sammy home, together with billy bumps," said mr. howbridge. "we'll try after supper, and then we must see about tying up for the night." the houseboat attracted considerable attention as it was slowly drawn along the canal, which passed through the middle of the town. a stop was made while mr. howbridge instituted inquiries as to the possibility of sending sammy back to milton, and arrangements were made with a farmer who agreed to hitch up after supper and deliver the goat and the boy where they belonged. "well, anyhow, i'm glad i'm going to stay to supper," said sammy, extracting what joy he could from the situation that had turned against him. the _bluebird_ came to rest at a pleasant place in the canal just outside the town, and there supper was served by mrs. maccall. a bountiful one it was, too, and after hank had had his, apart from the others, he confided to neale, as he went back to the mules: "she's the beatenist cook i ever see!" "good, you mean?" asked neale, smiling. "the best ever! i haven't eaten victuals like 'em since i had a home and a mother, and that's years and years back. i'm glad i struck this job." in the early evening the farmer came for sammy and the goat, a small crate, that once had held a sheep, being put in the back of the wagon for billy's accommodation. "well, maybe you'll take me next time, when i've growed bigger," suggested the boy, as he waved rather a sad farewell to his friends. "maybe," said ruth, but under her breath she added: "not if i know it." "good-by, sammy!" called dot. but tess, still indignant over sammy's suggestion to turn the goat--her goat--loose to shift for himself, called merely: "good-by, billy bumps!" mr. howbridge went into the town and telephoned to milton to let sammy's father know the boy was safe and on his way back, and then matters became rather more quiet aboard the _bluebird_. the houseboat was towed to a good place in which to spend the night. lines were carried ashore and the craft moored to trees along the towpath. the mules were given their suppers and tethered, and hank announced that he was going to do some fishing before he "turned in." "oh, could i fish, too?" cried dot. "and me! i want to!" added tess. "i think they might be allowed to," said mr. howbridge. "there are really good fish in the canal, coming from lake macopic, and we could cook them for breakfast. they'd keep all right in the ice box--if any are caught." "oh, i'll catch some!" declared hank. "i've fished in the canal before." "oh, please let us!" begged the small girls. "but you have no poles, lines or anything," objected ruth. "i've got lines and hooks, and i can easy cut some poles," offered hank, and so it was arranged. a little later, while ruth, agnes and mrs. maccall were busy with such housework as was necessary aboard the _bluebird_, and while neale and mr. howbridge were getting hank's cot in readiness on the deck, the mule driver and dot and tess sat on the stern of the craft with their lines in the water. it was a still, quiet evening, restful and peaceful, and as hank had told the girls that fish liked quietness, no one of the trio was speaking above a whisper. "have you got a bite?" suddenly asked tess in a low voice of her sister. "no, not yet. i'm going to set my alice-doll up where she can watch me. she never saw anybody catch a fish--my alice-doll didn't." and dot propped her "child" up near her, on the deck of the craft. suddenly hank pulled his pole up sharply. "i got one!" he exclaimed. "oh, i wish i'd get one!" echoed tess. "let me see!" fairly shouted dot. "let me see the fish, hank!" she struggled to her feet, and the next moment a wild cry rang out. "she's fallen in! oh, she's fallen in! oh, get her out!" chapter xii neale wonders dot's startled cries roused all on board the _bluebird_. neale and mr. howbridge dropped the cot they were setting in place under the awning, and rushed to the railing of the deck. inside the boat ruth, agnes and mrs. maccall hurried to windows where they could look out toward the stern where the fishing party had seated themselves. "man overboard!" sang out neale, hardly thinking what he was doing. but, to the surprise of all the startled ones, they saw at the stern of the boat, hank, dot and tess, and from hank's line was dangling a wiggling fish. but dot was pointing to something in the water. "why!" exclaimed ruth, "no one has fallen in. what can the child mean?" "she said--" began agnes, but she was interrupted by dot who exclaimed: "it's my alice-doll! she fell in when i got up to look at hank's fish! oh, somebody please get my alice-doll!" "i will in jest a minute now, little lady!" cried the mule driver. "it's bad luck to let your first fish git away. jest a minute now, and i'll save your alice-doll!" neale and mr. howbridge hurried down to the lower deck from the top one in time to see hank take his fish from the hook and toss it into a pail of water the mule driver had placed near by for just this purpose. then as hank took off his coat and seemed about to plunge overboard into the canal, to rescue the doll, ruth said: "don't let him, mr. howbridge. dot's doll isn't worth having him risk his life for." "risking my life, miss kenway! it wouldn't be that," said hank, with a laugh. "i can swim, and i'd just like a bath." "here's a boat hook," said neale, offering one, and while dot and tess clung to one another hank managed to fish up the "alice-doll," dot's special prize, which was, fortunately, floating alongside the houseboat. [illustration: while dot and tess clung to one another, hank managed to fish up the "alice-doll."] "there you are, little lady!" exclaimed the driver, and he began to squeeze some of the water from alice. "oh, please don't!" begged dot. "don't what?" asked hank. "please don't choke her that way. all her sawdust might come out. it did once. i'll just hang her up to dry. poor alice-doll!" murmured the little girl, as she clasped her toy in her arms. "were you almost drowned?" and she cuddled her doll still closer in her arms. "don't hold her so close to you, dot," cautioned ruth. "she'll get you soaking wet." "i don't care!" muttered dot. "i've got to put dry clothes on her so she won't catch cold." "and that's just what i don't want to have to do for you--change your clothes again to-day," went on ruth. "you can love your doll even if you don't hold her so close." "well, anyhow i'm glad she didn't drown," said dot. "so'm i," remarked tess. "i'll go and help you change her. i'm glad we didn't bring almira and her kittens along, for they look so terrible when they're wet--cats do." "and i'm glad we didn't have sammy and billy bumps here to fall in!" laughed agnes. "goats are even worse in the water than cats." "well, aren't you going to help me fish any more?" asked hank, as the two little girls walked away, deserting their poles and lines. "i have to take care of my alice-doll," declared dot. "and i have to help her," said tess. "i'll take a hand at fishing, if you don't mind," said neale. "and i wouldn't mind trying myself," added the lawyer. and when hank's sleeping quarters had been arranged the three men, though perhaps neale could hardly be called that, sat together at the stern of the boat, their lines in the water. "mr. howbridge is almost like a boy himself on this trip, isn't he?" said agnes to ruth as the two sisters helped mrs. maccall make up the berths for the night. "yes, he is, and i'm glad of it. i wouldn't know what to do if some grave, tiresome old man had charge of our affairs." "well now, who is going to have first luck?" questioned mr. howbridge, jokingly, as the three sat down to try their hands at fishing. "i guess the luck will go to the first one who gets a catch," returned neale. "luck goes to the one who gits the biggest fish," put in the mule driver. after that there was silence for a few minutes. then the lawyer gave a cry of satisfaction. "got a bite?" questioned hank. "i have and he's a beauty," was the reply, and mr. howbridge drew up a fair-sized fish. a minute later neale found something on his hook. it was so large he had to play his catch. "you win!" cried the lawyer, when the fish was brought on board. and he was right, for it was the largest catch made by any of them. the fishing party had good luck, and a large enough supply was caught for a meal the next day. hank cleaned them and put them in the ice box, for a refrigerator was among the fittings on the _bluebird_. then, as night came on, dot and tess were put to bed, dot insisting on having her "alice-doll" placed near her bunk to dry. hank retired to his secluded cot on the upper deck, the mules had been tethered in a sheltered grove of trees just off the towpath, and everything was made snug for the night. "how do you like the trip so far?" asked mr. howbridge of ruth and agnes, as he sat in the main cabin, talking with them and neale. "it's just perfect!" exclaimed agnes. "and i know we're going to like it more and more each day." "yes, it is a most novel way of spending the summer vacation," agreed ruth, but there was little animation in her voice. "are you still mourning the loss of your jewelry?" asked the lawyer, noting her rather serious face. ruth nodded. "mother's wedding ring was in that box," she said softly. "you must not let it spoil your trip," her guardian continued. "i think there is a good chance of getting it back." "do you mean you think the police will catch those rough men who robbed us?" asked ruth. "yes," answered the lawyer. "i told them they must spare no effort to locate the ruffians, and they have sent an alarm to all the neighboring towns and cities. men of that type will not find it easy to dispose of the rings and pins, and they may have to carry them around with them for some time. i really believe you will get back your things." "oh, i hope so!" exclaimed ruth. "it has been an awful shock." "i would rather they had taken a much larger amount of jewelry than have harmed either you or agnes," went on the guardian. "they were ruffians of the worst type, and would not have stopped at injuring a person to get what they wanted. but don't worry, we shall hear good news from the police, i am sure." "i believe that, too," put in neale. "i wish i was as sure of hearing good news of my father." "that is going to be a little harder problem," said mr. howbridge. "however, we are doing all we can. i am hoping your uncle bill will have had definite news of your father and of where he has settled since he came back from the klondike. your father would be most likely to communicate with your uncle first." "i suppose so," agreed neale. "but when shall we see uncle bill?" "as i told you," went on the lawyer, "his circus will soon show at a town near which we shall pass in the boat. the younger children will probably want to go to the circus, and that will give me a good excuse for attending myself," the lawyer went on with a laugh, in which ruth joined. the night passed quietly, though about twelve o'clock another boat came along and had to pass the _bluebird_. as there is but one towpath along a canal, it is necessary when two boats meet, or when one passes the other, for the tow-line of one to go under or over the tow-line of the second boat. as the _bluebird_ was tied to the shore it was needful, in this case, for the tow-line of the passing boat to be lifted up over it, and when this was being done it awakened ruth and agnes. at first the girls were startled, but they settled back when the nature of the disturbance was known. dot half awakened and murmured something about some one trying to take her "alice-doll," but ruth soon quieted her. neale was awake early the next morning, and went on the upper deck for a breath of air before breakfast. he saw hank emerge from the curtained-off place that had been arranged for the sleeping quarters of the mule driver. "well, do we start soon?" asked hank, yawning and stretching. "i think so," neale answered, and then he saw hank make a sudden dart for something that had evidently slipped from a hole in his pocket. it was something that rolled across the deck, something round, and shining like gold. the mule driver made a dive for the object and caught it before it could roll off the deck, and neale had a chance to see that it was a gold ring. without a word hank picked it up and put it back in his pocket. then, without a glance at the boy, he turned aside, and, making his way to the towpath, he began carrying the mules their morning feed. neale stood staring after him, and at the memory of the ring he became possessed of strange thoughts and wonderings. chapter xiii the trick mule neale o'neil was wiser than most boys of his age. perhaps having once lived in a circus had something to do with it. at any rate, among the things he had learned was to think first and speak afterward. and he decided to put this into practice now. he was doing a deal of thinking about the ring he had seen roll over the deck to be so quickly, almost secretively, picked up by hank dayton. but of it neale said nothing to the mule driver nor to those aboard the _bluebird_. walking about on the upper deck and looking down the towpath toward hank, who was bringing the mules from their sylvan stable to feed them, neale heard ruth call: "how's the weather up there?" "glorious!" cried the boy. "it's going to be a dandy day." "that's great!" exclaimed ruth. "come on, children!" she called. "everybody up! the mules are up and we must be up too," she went on, paraphrasing a little verse in the school reader. "did any of the mules fall into the canal?" asked dot, as she made haste to look at her "alice-doll," who had dried satisfactorily during the night. "'course not! why should a mule fall into the canal?" asked tess. "well, they might. my doll did," went on the smallest corner house girl. "but, anyhow, i'm glad they didn't." "yes, so am i," remarked mr. howbridge, as they all gathered around the breakfast table, which mrs. maccall had set, singing the while some scotch song containing many new and strange words. "well, shall we travel on?" asked the lawyer, when the meal was over and hank was hitching the mules to the tow-rope, the animals and their driver having had a satisfying meal. "oh, yes, let's go on!" urged agnes. "i'm crazy to go through one of the locks." "will there be any trouble about getting the houseboat through?" asked ruth of her guardian. "she is a pretty big craft!" "but not as long as many of the canal boats, though a trifle wider, or 'of more beam,' as a sailor would say," he remarked. "no, the locks are large enough to let us through. but tell me, do you find this method of travel too slow?" he went on. "i know you young folks like rapid motion, and this may bore you," and he glanced quickly at ruth. "oh, not at all," she hastened to say. "i love it. the mules are so calm and peaceful." just then one of the animals let out a terrific hee-haw and agnes, covering her ears with her hands, laughed at her sister. "that's just as good as a honk-honk horn on an auto!" exclaimed tess. "calm and peaceful!" tittered agnes. "how do you like that, ruth?" "i don't mind it at all," was the calm answer. "it blends in well with the environment, and it's much better than the shriek of a locomotive whistle." "bravo, minerva!" cried mr. howbridge. "you should have been a lawyer. i shall call you portia for a change." "don't, please!" she begged. "you have enough nicknames for me now." "very well then, we'll stick to the old ones. and, meanwhile, if you are all ready i'll give the word to hank to start his mules. there is no hurry on this trip, as the man to whom i am to deliver this boat has no special need for it. but we may as well travel on." "i'll be glad when i can start the gasoline motor," remarked neale. "which will be as soon as we get off the canal and into the river," said the lawyer. "i'd use the motor now, only the canal company won't permit it on account of the wash of the propeller tearing away the banks." the tow-line tauted as the mules leaned forward in their collars, and once more the _bluebird_ was under way. life aboard the houseboat was simple and easy, as it was intended to be. there was little housework to do, and it was soon over, and all that remained was to sit on deck and watch the ever-changing scenery. the changes were not too rapid, either, for a boat towed on a canal does not progress very fast. "it's like a moving picture, isn't it?" remarked agnes. "it puts me in mind of some scenes in foreign countries--rural scenes, i mean." "only the moving pictures move so much faster," returned ruth, with a smile. "they show you hundreds of miles in a few minutes." "gracious, i wouldn't want to ride as fast as that," exclaimed tess. "we'd fall off or blow away sure!" it just suited the corner house girls, though, and neale extracted full enjoyment from it, though, truth to tell, he was rather worried in his mind. one matter was the finding of his father, and the other was a suspicion concerning hank and the ring. this was a suspicion which, as yet, neale hardly admitted to himself very plainly. he wanted to watch the mule driver for a time yet. "it may not have been one of ruth's rings, to begin with," reasoned neale. "and, if it is, i don't believe hank had anything to do with taking it, though he may know who did. i've got to keep on the watch!" his meditations were interrupted, as he sat on the deck of the boat, by hearing hank cry: "lock! lock!" that meant the boat was approaching one of the devices by which canal craft are taken over hills. a canal is, of course, a stream on a level. it does not run like a river. in fact, it is just like a big ditch. but as a canal winds over the country it comes to hills, and to get up or down these, two methods are employed. one is what is called an inclined plane. the canal comes to the foot of a hill and stops. there a sort of big cradle is let down into the water, the boat is floated into the cradle, and then boat, cradle and all are pulled up over the hill on a sort of railroad track, a turbine water wheel usually furnishing the power. once over the brow of the hill the cradle and boat slide down into the water again and the journey is resumed. the other means of getting a canal boat over a hill is by means of a lock. when the waterway is stopped in its level progress by reaching a hill, a square place is excavated and lined with rocks so as to form a water-tight basin, the open end being closed by big, wooden gates. the _bluebird_ was now approaching one of these locks, where it was to be raised from a low to a higher level. while hank managed the mules, neale steered the boat into the stone-lined basin. then the big gates were closed behind the craft, and the mules, being unhitched, were sent forward to begin towing again when the boat should have been lifted. "now we can watch!" said dot as she and tess took their places at the railing. going through canal locks was a novelty for them, as there were no locks near milton, though the canal ran through the town. once the _bluebird_ was locked within the small stone-lined basin, water was admitted to it through gates at the other and higher end. these gates kept the body of water on the higher level from pouring into the lower part of the canal. faster and faster the water rushed in as the lock keeper opened more valves in the big gates. the water foamed and hissed all around the boat. "oh, we're going up!" cried dot. "look, we're rising!" "just like in an elevator!" added tess. and, indeed, that is just what it was like. the water lifted the _bluebird_ up higher and higher. as soon as the water had raised it to the upper level, the other gates were opened, and the _bluebird_ moved slowly out of the lock, having been raised about fifteen feet, from a lower to a higher level. going from a higher to a lower is just the reverse of this. sometimes a hill is so high that three sets of locks are necessary to get a boat up or down. once more the mules were hitched to the tow-line, and started off. as the boat left the lock another one came in, which was to be lowered. the children watched this as long as they could, and then turned their attention to new scenes. it was toward the close of the afternoon, during which nothing exciting had happened, except that tess nearly fell overboard while leaning too far across the rail to see something in the water, that neale, looking forward toward the mules and their driver, saw a man leading a lone animal come out of a shanty along the towpath and begin to talk to hank. hank halted his team, and the _bluebird_ slowly came to a stop. mr. howbridge, who was talking to ruth and agnes, looked up from a book of accounts he was going over with them and inquired: "what's the matter?" "oh, hank has met a friend, i imagine," ventured neale. "it's a man with a lone mule." "well, he shouldn't stop just to have a friendly talk," objected the lawyer. "we aren't hiring him for that. give him a call, neale, and see what he means." but before this could be done hank turned, and, making a megaphone of his hands, called: "say, do you folks want to buy a good mule cheap?" "buy a mule," repeated the lawyer, somewhat puzzled. "yes. this man has one to sell, and it might be a good plan for us to have an extra one." "i never thought of that," said the lawyer. "it might be a good plan. let's go up and see about it, neale." "let's all go," proposed agnes. "it will rest us to walk along the towpath." the _bluebird_ was near shore and there was no difficulty in getting to the path. then all save mrs. maccall, who preferred to remain on board, walked up toward the two men and the three mules. the man who had stopped hank was a rough-looking character, but many towpath men were that, and little was thought of it at the time. "do you folks want to buy a good mule?" he asked. "i'll sell him cheap," he went on. "i had a team, but the other died on me." "i'm not much of an authority on mules," said mr. howbridge slowly. "what do you say, neale? would you advise purchasing this animal if he is a bargain?" neale did not answer. he was carefully looking at the mule, which stood near the other two. "where'd you get this mule?" asked neale quickly, looking at the stranger. "oh, i've had him a good while. he's one of a team, but i sold my boat and--" "this mule never towed a boat!" said the boy quickly. "what makes you say that?" demanded the man in an angry voice. "because i know," went on neale. "this is a trick mule, and, unless i'm greatly mistaken, he used to be in my uncle's circus!" chapter xiv at the circus all eyes were turned on neale o'neil as he said this, and it would be difficult to say who was the more astonished. as for the corner house girls, they simply stared at their friend. hank dayton looked surprised, and then he glanced from the mule in question to the man who had offered to dispose of the animal. mr. howbridge looked very much interested. as for the strange tramp--for that is what he was--he seemed very angry. "what do you mean?" he cried. "this mule isn't any trick mule!" "oh, isn't he?" asked neale quietly. "and i suppose he never was in a circus, either?" "of course not!" declared the man. "who are you, anyhow, and what do you mean by talking that way?" "i advise you to be a little more respectful in tone," said mr. howbridge in his suave, lawyer's voice. "if we do any business at all it will be on this boy's recommendation. he knows about mules. i do not. i shall hear what he and hank have to say." "well, it's all foolish saying this mule was in a circus," blustered the man. "i've had him over a year, and i want to sell him now because he hasn't any mate. i can't pull a canal boat with one mule." "especially not a trick mule that never hauled a boat in his life," put in neale. "here! you quit that! what do you mean?" demanded the man in sullen tones. "i mean just what i said," declared neale. "i believe this is a trick mule that used to be in my uncle bill's show--in twomley and sorber's herculean circus and menagerie, to be exact. of course i may be mistaken, but if not i can easily prove what i say." "huh! i'd like to see you do it!" sneered the man. "all right, i will," and neale's manner was confident. "i recognize this mule," he went on to mr. howbridge, "by that mark on his off hind hoof," and he pointed to a bulge on the mule's foot. "but of course that may be on another mule, as well as on the one that was in my uncle's circus. however, if i can make this mule do a trick i taught old josh in the show, that ought to prove what i say, oughtn't it?" "i should think so," agreed the lawyer. "you can't make this mule do any tricks," sneered the tramp. "he's a good mule for pulling canal boats, but he can't do tricks." "oh, can't he?" remarked neale. "well, we'll see. come here, josh!" he suddenly called. the mule moved his big ears forward, as though to make sure of the voice, and then, looking at neale, slowly approached him. "anybody could do that!" exclaimed the man disdainfully. "well, can anybody do this?" asked the boy. "josh--dead mule!" he suddenly cried. and, to the surprise of all, the mule dropped to the towpath, stretched out his legs stiffly and lay on his side with every appearance of having departed this life. "there!" exclaimed neale. "that's the trick i taught him in the show, before i left it." the other mules were sniffing at their prostrate companion. "oh, isn't he funny!" cried dot, as josh opened one eye and looked straight at her. "i'd rather have a mule than billy bumps for a pet!" declared tess. "did you really make him do it, neale?" asked ruth. "yes, and i can do it again!" declared the lad. "up, josh!" he commanded, and the mule scrambled to his feet. "dead mule--josh!" cried neale again, and down the animal went a second time. "well, what have you to say to that?" the boy turned to ask the tramp. but the man did not stay to answer. off he ran, down the towpath, at top speed. "shall i get him?" cried hank, throwing the reins on the back of one of his mules, while josh, in response to a command from neale, stood upright again. "no, let him go," advised mr. howbridge. "it is very evident that he had no legal claim to this mule, and he either took him away from the circus himself, or received him from some one who did. neale, i congratulate you." "thanks. i thought i recognized old uncle josh, but the trick proved it. he hasn't forgotten that or me; have you, old fellow?" he asked as he rubbed the mule's velvety nose. and the animal seemed glad to be near the boy. "pretty slick, i call that," said hank admiringly. "guess you'll have to teach my mules some trick, neale." "it takes too long!" laughed the lad. "is this our mule now?" asked dot, as she approached the new animal, which was quite gentle and allowed the children to pet him. "well, i don't know just who does own him," said mr. howbridge, not wanting to give a legal opinion which might be wrong. "but he certainly does not belong to that man," and he looked after the retreating figure, now far down the towpath. "'cause if he's our mule i'd like to give my alice-doll a ride on his back," went on dot. "i'd like a ride myself!" exclaimed tess. "oh, don't try that!" sighed ruth. "josh wouldn't mind," put in neale. "i used to ride him in the circus. look!" with a spring he reached the mule's back, and then, at the word of command, josh trotted up and down the towpath. "oh, do let me try!" begged tess. "shall i put her on?" neale asked, and, at a nod from ruth, he lifted the little girl up on the mule's back, and the delighted tess was given a ride. "oh, it's ever so much nicer'n scalawag!" she cried as she was lifted down. "try it, dot!" scalawag was the circus pony that neale's uncle had given to tess and dot. "i will if i can hold my alice-doll!" stipulated the youngest kenway. "sure!" assented neale, and the fun was continued. "i wish i dared to do it!" exclaimed agnes, with a look at ruth. but ruth shook her head, and agnes, after a moment's hesitation, yielded to ruth's sense of the fitness of things. "well, the question now arises," said mr. howbridge, "what shall we do with this mule, which seems to have been stolen?" "i say take him along with us," answered hank. "one of our critters might get hurt, and we'd have to lay up if we didn't have an extra one." "i don't believe uncle josh would pull in harness with another mule," said neale. "he has always been a trick mule, and has worked alone. he is quite valuable." "do you suppose your uncle sold him?" asked the lawyer. "i don't believe so," said the boy. "i believe he was stolen, and i know, in that case, that uncle bill would be glad to get him back." "well, then let's take him back," suggested hank. "i can drive him along with my mules for a spell until we come to the place where the circus is playing. he'll drive, i guess, if he won't pull a boat, and he'll be company for my mules." hank was fond of animals, and treated them kindly. "how does that plan appeal to you, minerva?" asked ruth's guardian. "this is your trip, as well as mine. do you want to be bothered with an extra mule?" "oh, i don't see that he would be any bother," she said. "if hank looks after him, we shan't have to. and if it's neale's uncle's mule he ought to be returned." "that settles it," said mr. howbridge. "we'll take the mule with us." "i'm sure uncle bill will be glad to get him back," declared neale. "and i'm pretty sure he never sold him." so it was arranged. once more the _bluebird_ was under way, the two harnessed mules towing her and uncle josh, the trick animal, wandering along at his own sweet will. for a time the corner house girls, with neale and mr. howbridge, walked along the towpath. then they went back to the boat as mrs. maccall, blowing on a horn, announced meal time. the trip along the canal continued in leisurely fashion. now the _bluebird_ would be lifted up at some water-foaming lock, or lowered in the same fashion. twice they were lifted over inclined planes, and the young folks, especially dot and tess, liked this very much. the weather had been all that could be desired ever since they started, except the rain storm in which the girls were robbed. but now, about four days after leaving milton, they awoke one morning to find a disagreeable drizzle. but hank and the mules did not seem to mind it. in fact they rather liked splashing through the rain and mud. of course getting out and strolling along the towpath was out of the question for the voyagers, and they found amusements enough on board the houseboat. it rained all day, but it needed more than this to take the joy out of life for the corner house girls. "fair day to-morrow!" cried neale, and so it proved. they approached a small town early the next day, and as they tied up at a tow-barn station to get some supplies dot cried: "oh, look at the elephant!" "where?" demanded tess. "i mean it's a picture of it on that barn," went on the mother of the "alice-doll," and she pointed. "oh, it's a circus!" exclaimed tess. "look, ruth--agnes!" and there, in many gay posters was the announcement that "twomley & sorber's herculean circus and menagerie" would show that day in pompey, the town they had then reached. "it's uncle bill's show!" cried neale. "maybe i'll hear some news of my father." "and shall we have to give back josh mule?" asked tess, who had taken quite a liking to the animal. "well, we'll see," said mr. howbridge. "but i think we may as well, all of us, go to the circus," he added. and, that afternoon, the trick mule having been left in the towpath barn with hank's animals, almost the whole party, including the driver, went to the circus. only mrs. maccall decided to stay on the houseboat. on the way to the circus the party passed the post-office. ruth remembered that this was a town she had mentioned in a letter to luke shepard and ran in to see if there was any mail. "ruth kenway," said the clerk, in answer to her question, and a moment later passed out a fine, fat letter, addressed in the hand she knew so well. "i'll read it to-night--i haven't time now," she told herself, and blushed happily. "dear luke--i hope everything is going well with him." chapter xv real news at last "oh, look at the toy balloons! look, alice-doll," and dot held her constant companion up in her arms. dot was in a state of great excitement, and kept repeating to tess stories of her experiences of the summer previous when dot, her older sisters and some friends, seated in a box of this very circus, scalawag, the pony, had been publicly presented to the smaller corner house girls--a scene, and a sensation, which is told of in a previous volume of this series and which, alas! tess had missed. "there's pink lemonade!" cried tess. "oh, i want some of that! please, ruth, may i have two glasses?" "not of that pink lemonade, tess," answered the older girl. "it may be colored with hat dye, for all we know. we'll see neale's uncle bill, who will take us to the best place to get something to drink." "just see the fat lady!" went on dot next. "fat lady! where? i don't see any!" exclaimed tess. "do you mean an elephant?" she asked. "no. i mean over there!" and dot pointed to a gayly painted canvas stretched along the front of the tent in which the side shows were showing. "oh, that! only a painting!" and tess showed in her voice the disappointment she felt. "well, the lady is real, and we can go inside and see her; can't we, ruth?" pursued dot. "oh, i just love a circus; don't you, alice?" and she hugged her doll in her arms. "yes, a circus is very nice," was the answer. "but now listen to me," went on ruth. "don't run away and get lost in the crowd." "you couldn't run very far in such a crowd," answered tess. "no, but you could get lost very easily." "oh, see the camels! they are going for a drink, i guess." "well, they have to have water the same as the other animals." "oh, what was that?" cried dot, as a gigantic roar rent the air. "that must have been a lion," answered ruth. "oh, do you think he'll get loose?" exclaimed tess, holding back a little. "i guess not." "it's the same old crowd," remarked neale, as he looked on the familiar scenes about the circus tent, while mr. howbridge walked along with ruth. agnes and neale were together, and dot and tess had hold of hands. hank, after the arrival at the grounds, said he would travel around by himself, as he saw some men he knew. he agreed to be back at the canal boat at five o'clock, after the show. "wait until i get you a ticket," neale said, as the mule driver was about to separate from them. going to the red and gold wagon, neale stepped to the window. the man inside was busy selling tickets and tossing the money taken in to an assistant, who sorted and counted it. "how many?" asked the man in the ticket wagon, hardly looking up. "seven--two of 'em halves," answered neale quickly. "well, where's the money--where's the cash?" asked the cashier rather snappily, and then, for the first time, he looked up. a queer change came over his face as he recognized neale. "well, for the love of alligators!" he exclaimed, thrusting forth his hand. "when'd you get on the lot?" "just arrived," answered neale with a smile. "got some friends of mine here who want to see the show." "surest thing you know!" cried the cashier. "how many'd you say? seven--two halves? here you are," and he flipped the tickets down on the wooden shelf in front of him. "are you coming back to join the outfit?" he went on. "we could bill 'master jakeway's' act very nicely now, i imagine. only," and he chuckled, "we'd have to drop the 'master.' you've got beyond that." "no, i'm not coming back," answered neale. "that isn't saying i wouldn't like to, perhaps. but i have other plans. i've heard that my father has returned from the klondike, and i want to see my uncle to find if he has any news. is he around--uncle bill, i mean?" "yes, he was talking to me a while ago. and i did hear him mention, some time back, that he had news of your father. well, well! i am glad to see you again, neale. stop in and see me after the show." "i'll try to," was the answer. hank, being given his ticket, went away by himself, and, after greeting some more of his circus friends, neale began a search for his uncle. it was not an easy matter to locate any of the circus men on the "lot" at an hour just before the performance was to begin. and tess and dot were eager to go in and see the animals, the side shows, the main performance and everything else. "i'd better take them in," ruth said finally. "you can join us later, neale, you and mr. howbridge." so this plan was agreed on, and then the two eager girls were led into the tents of childish mystery and delight, while neale and the lawyer sought the proprietor of the show. they found him talking to sully sorber, the clown, who was just going in to put on his makeup. at first uncle bill just stared at neale, as though hardly believing the evidence of his eyes. then a welcoming smile spread over his face, and he held out his hand. "well! well! this is a coincidence!" exclaimed the ringmaster. "i was just figuring with sully here if we would get any nearer milton than this, as i wanted to have a talk with you, and now here you are! how did it happen? glad to see you, sir," and he shook hands with mr. howbridge. "i've been going to answer your letters, but i've been so busy i haven't had time. one of the elephants got loose and wrecked a farmer's barn, and i've had a damage suit to settle. but i am glad to see you both." "tell me!" exclaimed neale eagerly. "have you any news from father? is he back from the klondike? where can i find him?" "my! you're as bad as ever for asking questions," chuckled mr. bill sorber. "but there! i know how it is! yes, neale, i have some real news, though there isn't much of it. i never see such a man as your father for not sending word direct. but maybe he did, and it miscarried. anyhow, i've been trying to get in touch with him ever since i got your letter, mr. howbridge," he went on speaking to the lawyer. "yes, your father has come back from the klondike," he resumed to neale. "he put in his time to good advantage there, i hear, and made some money. then he set out for the states, and, in an indirect way, i learned that he is located in trumbull." "trumbull? where's that?" asked neale eagerly. "it's a small town on lake macopic!" answered the circus man. neale and the lawyer looked at one another in surprise. "do you know the place?" went on the ringmaster. "i must confess i don't. i tried to look it up to see if it was worth moving there with the show, but i couldn't even find it on the map. so it must be pretty small." "i don't know exactly where it is," the lawyer said. "but the fact of the matter is that we are on our way to lake macopic in a houseboat, and it is quite a coincidence that neale's father should be there. can you give us any further particulars?" "well, not many," confessed mr. sorber. "mr. o'neil isn't much more on letter writing than i am, and that isn't saying much. but my information is to the effect that he had to go there to clear up some dispute he and his mining partner had. he was in with some men in the klondike, and when it came to a settlement of the gold they had dug out there was a dispute, i believe. one of the men lived in trumbull, and your father, neale, had to go there to settle the matter. but i am glad to see you!" he went on to the former circus lad. "and after the show, which is about to begin, we can have a long talk, and then--" at that moment a loud shouting arose from the neighborhood of the animal tent. mingled with the cries of the men was a peculiar sound, like that of some queer whistle, or trumpet. "there goes minnie again!" cried mr. bill sorber. "she's broken loose!" and he ran off at top speed while other circus employees followed, the shouting and trumpeting increasing in volume. chapter xvi ruth's alarm "minnie's loose!" cried neale to mr. howbridge after the flight of the circus men. "minnie is one of the worst elephants in captivity! she's always making trouble, and breaking loose. i imagine she's the one that wrecked the farmer's barn uncle bill was telling about. if she's on the rampage in the animal tent it means mischief!" "an elephant loose!" cried mr. howbridge. "and ruth and the children in the tent! come on, neale!" he cried. "hurry!" but there was no need to urge neale to action. he was off on the run, and mr. howbridge showed that he was not nearly so old and grave as he sometimes appeared, for he ran swiftly after his more youthful companion. the shouting continued, and the trumpet calls of the angry or frightened elephant mingled with them. then, as neale and mr. howbridge came within view of the animal tent, they saw bursting from it a huge elephant, followed by several men holding to ropes attached to the "ponderous pachyderm," as minnie was called on the show bills. she was pulling a score of circus hands after her, as though they were so many stuffed straw men. mr. bill sorber at this time reached the scene, and with him were several men who had hurried after him when they heard the alarm. the ringmaster seemed to know just what to do. he caught an ankus, or elephant hook, from one of his helpers, and, taking a stand directly in the path of the onrushing minnie, he raised the sharp instrument threateningly. on thundered the elephant, but mr. sorber stood his ground. men shouted a warning to him, and the screams and cries of women and children rose shrilly on the air. minnie, which was the rather peaceful name for a very wild elephant, raised her trunk in the air, and from it came the peculiar trumpet blasts. the men she was pulling along were dragged over the ground helplessly. "can he stop her, neale?" gasped mr. howbridge, as he ran beside the former circus boy. "well, i've seem him stop a wild lion that got out of its cage," was the answer. "but an elephant--" and then a strange thing happened. when within a few feet of the brave, resolute man who stood in her path, minnie began to go more slowly. her shrill cries were less insistent, and the men being dragged along after her began to hold back as they regained their feet. mr. sorber raised the ankus on high. its sharp, curved point gleamed in the sun. minnie saw it, and she knew it could cruelly hurt her sensitive trunk. more than once she had felt it before, when on one of her rampages. she did not want to suffer again. and so, when so close that she could have reached out and touched the ringmaster with her elongated nose, or, if so minded, she could have curled it around him and hurled him to death--when this close, the elephant stopped, and grew quiet. "minnie! minnie!" said the man in a soothing voice. "behave yourself, minnie! why are you acting in this way? aren't you ashamed of yourself?" and the elephant really seemed to be. she lowered her trunk, flapped her ears slowly to and fro, and then stood in her tracks and began swaying to and fro in the manner characteristic of the big beasts. mr. sorber went up to her, tossing the ankus to one of his men, and began to pat the trunk which curled up as if in anticipation of a treat. "minnie, you're a bad girl, and you oughtn't to have any; but since you stopped when i told you to i'll give you a few," said the ringmaster, and, reaching into his pocket, he took out some peanuts which the big animal munched with every appearance of satisfaction. "she's all right now," said neale's uncle, as the regular elephant men came up to take charge of the creature. "she was just a little excited, that's all. how did it happen?" "oh, the same as usual," replied minnie's keeper. "all at once she gave a trumpet, yanked her stakes loose, and set off out of the animal tent. i had some ropes on her ready to have her pull one of the wagons, and we grabbed these--as many of us as could--but we couldn't hold her." "i'm afraid we'll have to get rid of minnie, she's too uncertain. doesn't seem to know her own mind, like a lot of the women folks," and mr. sorber smiled at mr. howbridge. "you were very brave to stop her as you did," observed the lawyer. "oh, well, it's my business," said the animal man. "it wasn't such a risk as it seemed. i was all ready to jump to one side if she hadn't stopped." "i wonder if any one in the animal tent was hurt," went on the lawyer. "we must go and see, neale. ruth and the others--" "i hope none of your folks were injured," broke in mr. sorber. "minnie has done damage in the past, but i guess she only just ran away this time." with anxious hearts neale and mr. howbridge hastened to the animal tent, but their fears were groundless. minnie had carefully avoided every one in her rush, and, as a matter of fact, ruth, agnes, dot and tess were in the main tent when the elephant ran out. they heard the excitement, but ruth quieted her sisters. "well, now we'll go on with the show," said mr. sorber, when matters had settled to their normal level. "i'll see you afterward, neale, and you too, mr. howbridge, and those delightful little ladies from the old corner house." "oh, uncle bill, i almost forgot!" cried the boy. "have you that trick mule yet--uncle josh? the one i taught to play dead?" "uncle josh? no, i haven't got him, but i wish i had," said the circus owner. "one of the stablemen took him away--stole him in fact--and i'd give a hundred dollars to get him back!" neale held out his hand, smiling. "what do you mean?" asked his uncle. "pay me the hundred dollars," was the answer. "i have uncle josh!" "no! really, have you?" "i have! i thought you hadn't sold him!" exclaimed the boy, and he told the story of the man on the towpath. "well, that is good news!" exclaimed mr. sorber. "i'll send for uncle josh right away. i sure am glad to have him back. he was always good for a lot of laughs. he's almost as funny as sully, the clown." a few minutes later neale and mr. howbridge joined ruth and the others in the main tent. tess and dot especially enjoyed the performance very much. they took in everything from the "grand entry" to the races and concert at the end. they were guests of the show, in fact, neale having procured complimentary tickets. when the performance was over, they visited "uncle bill" in his own private tent, and the corner house girls had a glimpse of circus life "behind the scenes," as it were, tess's first experience of the sort. neale met many of his old friends and they all expressed the hope that he would soon find his father. uncle josh, the trick mule, was brought to the grounds by hank, and the animal seemed glad to be again among his companions. "will you be back again this evening?" asked neale's uncle, when the time came for the party to go back to the houseboat for supper. "i think not," was neale's answer. he said good-by to his uncle, arranging to write to him and hear from him as often as needful. and then they left the circus lot where the night performance would soon be given. "well, i have real news of father at last," said neale to agnes, as he went back toward the canal with his friends. "i would like to know, though, if he got rich out in the klondike." "if he wants any money he can have half mine!" offered dot. "i have eighty-seven cents in my bank, and i was going to save up to buy my alice-doll a new carriage. but you can have my money for your father, neale." "thank you," replied neale, without a smile at dot's offer. "maybe i shan't need it, but it's very kind of you." mrs. maccall had supper ready soon after they arrived at the boat, and then, as the smaller girls were tired from their day at the circus, they went to bed early, while ruth and mr. howbridge, agnes and neale sat out on the deck and talked. as they were not to go on again until morning, hank was allowed to go back to the circus again. he said seeing it twice in one day was not too much for him. "i do hope you will find your father, neale," said agnes softly, as, just before eleven o'clock, they all went to bed. but ruth, at least, did not go to sleep at once. in her bosom she carried the letter she had received from luke, and this she now read carefully, twice. luke was doing well at the summer hotel. the proprietor was sick, so he and the head clerk and a night man had their hands full. he was earning good money, and part of this he was going to spend on his education and the rest he intended to save. he was sorry he could not be with the houseboat party and hoped they would all have a good time. then he added a page or more intended only for ruth's eyes. the letter made the oldest corner house girl very happy. soon after breakfast the next morning they were under way again. the circus had left town in the night, and neale did not know when he would see his uncle again. but the lad's heart beat high with hope that he might soon find his father. the weather was propitious, and hours of sunshine were making the corner house girls as brown as indians. mr. howbridge, too, took on a coat of tan. as for neale, his light hair looked lighter than ever against his tanned skin. and hank, from walking along the towpath, became almost as dark as a negro. one morning, ruth, coming down to the kitchen to help mrs. maccall with the dinner, saw two fat, chubby legs sticking out of a barrel in one corner of the cabin. the legs were vigorously kicking, and from the depths of the barrel came muffled cries of: "let me out! help me out! pull me up!" ruth lost no time in doing the latter, and, after an effort, succeeded in pulling right side up her sister tess. "what in the world were you doing?" demanded ruth. "i was scraping down in the bottom of the barrel to get a little flour that was left," tess explained, very red in the face. "but i leaned over too far and i couldn't get up. and i couldn't call at first." "what did you want of flour?" asked ruth. "goodness, you have enough on your dress, anyhow." "i wanted some to rub on my face to make me look pale," went on tess. "to make you look pale! gracious, tess! what for?" "we're playing doctor and nurse, dot and i," tess explained. "i have to be sick, and sick people are always pale. but i'm so tanned dot said i didn't look sick at all, so i tried to scrape some flour off the bottom of the barrel to rub on my face." "well, you have enough now if you brush off what's on your clothes," laughed ruth. "and be careful about leaning over barrels," put in mrs. maccall. "you might have been hurt." "yes," agreed tess, "i might be but i wasn't. only my head felt funny and my legs felt queer, too, when i wiggled them." they were approaching the end of the stretch of the canal through which they must travel to reach gentory river. the boat would be "locked" from the canal to the larger stream, and then neale could have his wish of operating the motor come true. toward evening they arrived at the last lock of their trip. just beyond lay the river, and they would proceed up that to lake macopic. as the _bluebird_ emerged from the lock and slowly floated on the little basin into which just there the gentory broadened, the attention of ruth and agnes was directed to a small motor boat which was just leaving the vicinity. ruth, who stood nearest the rail, grasped her sister by the arm, and cried an alarm. "look! those men! in the boat!" exclaimed ruth. "what about them?" asked agnes, while mr. howbridge glanced at the two sisters. "they're the same men who robbed us!" exclaimed ruth. "the men who took our jewelry box in the rain! oh, stop them!" chapter xvii up the river neale o'neil, who had been steering the houseboat during the operation of locking it from the canal into the river, sprang away from the tiller toward the side of the craft at ruth's cries. there was no immediate need of guiding the _bluebird_ for the moment, as she was floating idly with the momentum gained when she was slowly pulled from the lock basin. "are those the men?" asked neale, pointing to two roughly dressed characters in a small motor boat. "i'm sure they are!" asserted ruth. "that one steering is the man who grabbed the box from me. look, agnes, don't you remember them?" mr. howbridge, who heard what was said, acted promptly. on the towpath, near the point where the river entered the canal through the lock, was hank dayton with the two mules, the services of which would no longer be needed. "hank! hank! stop those men!" cried the lawyer. the driver dropped his reins, and sprang to the edge of the bank. near him was a rowboat, empty at the time, and with the oars in the locks. it was the work of but a moment for hank to spring in and shove off, and then he began rowing hard. but of course he stood no chance against a motor boat. the two men in the gasoline craft turned on more power. the explosions came more rapidly and drowned the shouts of those on the houseboat. hank soon gave up his useless effort, and turned back to shore, while ruth and agnes, leaning over the side of the rail, gazed at the fast-disappearing men. "there must be some way of stopping them!" cried mr. howbridge, who was quite excited. "isn't there a motor boat around here--a police boat or something? neale, can't you get up steam and take after them?" "the _bluebird_ could never catch that small boat," answered the boy. "and there doesn't seem to be anything else around here now, except rowboats and canalers." this was true, and those on board the _bluebird_ had to suffer the disappointment of seeing the men fade away in the distance. "but something must be done!" insisted the lawyer. "an alarm must be given. the police must be notified. where's the keeper of the lock? he may know these ruffians, and where they are staying. we must do something!" "well, they're getting away for the time being," murmured neale, as he gazed up the river on which the motor boat was now hardly discernible as it was turning a bend. "but we're going the same way, and we may come across them. are you sure, ruth, that these are the same men who robbed you?" "positive!" declared the girl. "aren't you, agnes?" "no, i can't be sure," answered her sister with a shake of her head. "the men looked just as rough--and just as ugly--as the two who attacked us. but it was raining so hard, and we were in the doorway, and the umbrella was giving such trouble--no, ruth," she added, "i couldn't be _sure_." "but i am!" declared the oldest kenway girl. "i had a good look at the face of at least one of the men in the boat, and i know it was he who took my box! oh, if i could only get it back i wouldn't care what became of the men!" "it ought to be an easy matter to trace them," said the lawyer. "their motor boat must be registered and licensed, as ours must be. we can trace them through that, i think. neale, would you know the men if you saw them again?" "i might," answered the boy. "i didn't have a very good look at them, though. they both had their backs toward me, and their hats were pulled down over their faces. as ruth says, however, they looked rough and desperate." "we must take some action," declared the lawyer, with his characteristic energy. "the authorities must be notified and that motor boat traced. we shall have to stop here to register our own craft and get a license, and it will give us an opportunity to make some inquiries." "meanwhile those men will get away!" exclaimed ruth. "and we'll never get our jewelry back. if we could get mother's ring," she added, "it wouldn't be so bad." "they can't get very far away if they stick to the river," said mr. howbridge. "the river flows into lake macopic and there is no outlet from that. if we have to pursue the men all the way to the lake we'll do it." "well, then let's get busy," suggested neale. "the sooner we have our boat registered and licensed, the sooner we can start after those men. of course we can't catch them, for their boat goes so much faster than ours. but we can trace them." "i hope we can," murmured ruth, gazing up the river, on which there was now no trace of the boat containing the rough men. "we have two quests, now," she added. "looking for our jewelry box, and your father, neale. and i hope we find your father, whether i get back my things or not--anything but the ring." "let us hope we get both," said the boy. then followed a busy hour. certain formalities had to be gone through with, in order to enable the _bluebird_ to make the voyage on the river and lake. her motor was inspected and passed. neale had seen to it that the machinery was in good shape. mr. howbridge came back from the boat registry office with the necessary permit and license, and ruth asked him: "did you find out anything about the men?" "no one here knows them," he said. "they were never here before, and they came only to get some supplies. it appears they are camping on one of the islands in lake macopic." "was their boat registered?" asked neale. "yes. at least it is presumed so. but as we did not see the number on it we can give the authorities no clue. motor boats up here don't have to carry their number plates in such large size as autos do. that craft was not registered at this office, but it was, very likely, granted a permit at the office at the other end of the river or on the lake. so we can only keep on and hope either to overtake the men or to get a trace of them in some other way." "we can never overtake them if they keep going as fast as they did when they left here," said agnes. "they won't keep that speed up," declared neale. "but we had better get started. we'll be under our own power now, and can travel whenever we like, night or day." "are we going to take the mules with us--and mr. hank!" asked dot, hugging her "alice-doll." "hank is going to accompany us," said mr. howbridge. "but we'll leave the mules behind, having no place for them on the _bluebird_. i think i will dispose of them, for i probably shall not go on a vacation along the canal again." "but it was a delightful and novel one," said ruth. "i'm glad you enjoyed it," her guardian remarked. "it would have been little pleasure to me--this trip--if you young folks had not enjoyed it." "i just love it! and the best part is yet to come!" cried agnes, with sparkling eyes. "i want to see the islands in the lake." "and i want to get to trumbull and see if my father is there," added neale. "i think i'll send him a letter. i'll mail it here. it won't take but a moment." "you don't know his address," said agnes. "i'll send it just to trumbull," said the boy. "post-office people are sharks at finding people." he wrote the note while the final preparations were being made for leaving on the trip up the river. mrs. maccall had attended to the buying of food, which was all that was needed. and then, after neale had sent his letter to the post-office, he went down in the engine room of the _bluebird_. "are we all ready!" he called up to mr. howbridge, who was going to steer until neale could come up on deck after the motor had been started. "all ready!" answered ruth. neale turned the flywheel over, there was a cough and a splutter, and then a steady chug-chugging. "oh, we're going! we're going!" gayly cried tess and dot. almost anything satisfied them as long as they were in motion. "yes, we're on our way," said mr. howbridge, giving the wheel a turn and sending the houseboat out into the stream. the trip up the gentory river was no less delightful than the voyage on the canal had been, if one may call journeying on such a quiet stream a voyage. it was faster travel, of course, with the motor sending the _bluebird_ along. "the only thing is, though," said hank, who sat near the wheel with neale, "i haven't anything to do. i miss the mules." "oh, i guess there'll be enough to do. especially when we get up on the lake. you'll have to help manage the boat," remarked neale. "i hear they have pretty good storms on macopic." "they do," confirmed hank. they motored along until dusk that evening, and then, as their way led for a time through a part of the stream where many craft navigate, it was decided to tie up for the night. it passed without incident, and they were on their way again the next morning. it was calculated that the trip on the river would take three days, but an accident to the motor the second day delayed them, and they were more likely to be five than three days. however, they did not mind the wait. the break occurred on a lonely part of the stream, and after stopping the craft and tying up, neale announced, after an examination, that he and hank could make the needful repairs. "we'll start in the morning," said the boy. "then we'll just go ashore and walk about a little," suggested ruth, and soon she and her sisters and mr. howbridge were on the bank of the beautiful stream. the twilight lingered long that night, and it was light enough to see some distance ahead as ruth and the others strolled on. the river bank turned and, following it beneath the trees, the party suddenly heard voices seemingly coming from a secluded cove where the stream formed an eddy. "must be fishermen in there," said mr. howbridge. "we had better not disturb them." as they were turning away the voices became louder, and then on the still night air there came an exclamation. "i don't care what you think!" a man's voice shouted. "just because you've been in the klondike doesn't give you the right to boss me! you'll give me an even half of the swag or--" and then it sounded as though a hand had been clapped suddenly over the speaker's mouth. chapter xviii the night alarm mr. howbridge and ruth quickly looked at one another. the same thought and suspicion came in each of their minds at the same time. "who's that?" dot asked, she and tess having lingered behind the others to pick some flowers from the bank of the stream. "hush, children," cautioned ruth in a whisper. "we must not disturb the--fishermen." she added the last word after a look at her guardian. no further sound came from the cove where the voice had been uttering a protest and had been so suddenly hushed. "oh, look at those big red flowers! i'm going to get some of those!" cried dot, darting off to one side. "my alice-doll loves red flowers," she added. "i'll get some, too," said agnes. "mrs. maccall also loves red flowers, though she says there's nothing prettier than 'heeland hither' as she calls it." "oh, yes, we'll get her some, and she'll have a bouquet for the table," assented dot. "and then maybe she'll let us have a little play party for alice-doll to-morrow, and we can have things to eat." "oh, you're always thinking of your old alice-doll!" complained tess. "you'd think all the play parties and all this trip were just for her, and the things to eat, too." "we can eat the things mrs. maccall gives us--if she gives us any," corrected dot. "come on, help me get the flowers." "oh, all right, i will," said tess. "but you know, dot kenway, that ruthie will give us anything we want for a party." as the two little girls darted toward the clump of gay blossoms ruth called: "be careful. it may he swampy around here." "i'll look after them," offered agnes, "and you and mr. howbridge can go see if those men--" she did not finish her sentence, which she had begun in a whisper, but nodded in the direction of the clump of trees, around the eddy of the river. it was from there the stifled exclamation had come. "yes, i think it would be a good plan to take a look there," said mr. howbridge to ruth in a low voice. "especially if the children are out of the way. i don't suppose it could by any chance be the same men, but--" "look!" suddenly exclaimed ruth, pointing to something moving behind a screen of bushes that hung over the river near the eddy. as she spoke the bushes parted and a motor boat shoved her bow out into the stream. in another instant the boat came fully into view, and there was revealed as occupants two roughly dressed men. they gave one quick glance along the bank toward ruth and mr. howbridge, and then while one attended to the wheel the other sprang to the engine to increase the speed. there was a nervous spluttering from the motor, and the boat shot out into the river, the two men in her crouching down as though they feared being fired at. "there they are!" cried ruth, clasping mr. howbridge's arm in her excitement. "the same two men!" "are you sure?" he asked. "well, they're the same two we saw down near the canal lock, in the boat," ruth went on. "i'm sure it's the same boat, and i'm as positive as i ever was that they are the ones who robbed us." "it is the same boat we saw the other day," agreed the lawyer. "and i think the same men. whether they are the thieves is, of course, open to question. but i should very much like to question them," he added. "hold on there!" he called to the men. "i want to see you!" but the boat did not stop, rather she increased her speed, and it seemed that one of the men laughed. they did not look back. "i wish there was some way of taking after them!" exclaimed ruth's guardian. "but, as it is, it's out of the question." they were on a lonely part of the river. no houses were near and there was no other boat in sight, not even a leaky skiff, though some farmer boy might have one hidden along the shore under the bushes. but a rowing craft would not have been effective against the speedy motor boat, and finding another craft to match the one containing the two rough men was out of the question. farther and farther away the men were speeding now. agnes and the two younger girls, having heard the shouts of mr. howbridge, turned back from their flower-gathering trip. "is anything the matter?" asked agnes. "oh, no, nothing much. mr. howbridge saw two men in that boat," answered ruth, with a meaning look at her sister. "but they did not stop." and when she had a chance, after dot and tess had moved out of hearing distance, ruth added: "they're the same men, agnes!" "you mean the ones who robbed us?" "i'm pretty sure; yes!" "oh dear!" voiced agnes, and she looked around the now darkening woods. "i wish we hadn't stopped in such a lonely place," she murmured. "nonsense!" laughed mr. howbridge. "i shall begin to think you doubt my ability as guardian. my physical, not my mental," he added. "oh, no, it isn't that," agnes made haste to say. "only--" "and we have neale, and hank, too," broke in ruth. "while mrs. maccall is a tower of strength herself, even if she is getting old." "oh, yes, i know," murmured agnes. "but--well, don't let's talk about it," she finished. "and i think we'd better be going back. it will soon be quite dark." "yes," agreed the lawyer. "we had better go back." he looked up the river. the boat containing the two rough men was no longer in sight, but finally there drifted down on the night wind the soft put-put of the motor. "we thought you had deserted us," said neale when he saw, from the deck of the _bluebird_, the lawyer and the girls returning. "we went farther than we intended," answered ruth. "how's the motor?" asked the lawyer. "hank and i will have it fixed in the morning." "where is hank now?" agnes wanted to know, and it seemed as though she had begun to rely on the rugged and rough strength of the man who had driven the mules. "oh, he went off for a walk, and he said maybe he'd fish a while," neale said. "he's a bug on fishing." then, while mrs. maccall took charge of tess and dot, giving exclamations of delight at the flowers, even while comparing them with her highland heather, agnes and ruth told neale what had happened--the swift-departure of the motor boat and its two occupants. "they were evidently having a dispute when we came along," said ruth. "we heard one of them say something about the klondike." "the klondike!" exclaimed neale, and there was a queer note in his voice. "yes, they certainly said that," agreed agnes. "oh, i do wish we were away from here." and from the deck of the boat she looked at the wooded shores of the river extending on either side of the moored craft. the gentory was not very wide at this point, but the other shore was just as lonely and deserted as that where the voyagers had come to rest for the night. "don't be so nervous and fussy," said ruth to agnes. "mr. howbridge won't like it. he will think we don't care for the trip, and--" "oh, i like the trip all right," broke in agnes. "it's just the idea of staying all night in this lonely place." "we have plenty of protectors," asserted ruth. "there's neale and--" "what's that?" asked the boy, hearing his name spoken. "agnes was saying she was timid," went on ruth, for mr. howbridge had gone to the dining-room for a glass of milk mrs. maccall had suggested he take before going to bed. "i tell her with you and mr. howbridge and hank to protect us--" "aggie timid! oh, yes, we'll look after you!" he promised with a laugh. "at the same time--oh, well, i guess hank won't stay late," and he looked at his watch. "you seem worried," said agnes to her friend when they were alone for a moment. "do you think these men--those klondikers--are likely to make trouble?" "no, not exactly that," neale answered. "to tell you the truth i was thinking of hank. i may as well tell you," he went on. "i didn't see any connection between the two happenings before, but since you mentioned those men there may be." "what are you driving at?" asked agnes, in surprise. "just this--" answered neale. "but let's call ruth." ruth came and then neale continued: "hank suddenly dropped his tools when we were working over the motor and said he was going for a walk. he also mentioned fishing. i didn't think much of it at the time, for he may be odd that way when it comes to a steady job. but now i begin to think he may have gone off to meet those men." "but he didn't meet them," ruth said. "we saw them speed away in motor boat alone." "they may have met hank later," the boy said. "but what makes you suspicious of him?" ruth asked. "i'll tell you." and neale related the episode of the gold ring. "oh, do you think it could be one of ours that the men took? do you think hank is in with them, and wants his share of the 'swag' as one man called it?" questioned agnes eagerly. "i don't know, i'm sure," answered neale. "but he certainly had a ring. it rolled to the deck and he picked it up quickly enough." "say, ruthie!" exclaimed agnes impulsively, "now's a good chance while he's away. we could look through the place where he keeps what few things he has--in that curtained off corner by his cot." ruth shook her head. "i'd rather not," she remarked. "i couldn't bear to do that. i'd much rather accuse him openly. but we won't even do that now. we'll just watch and wait, and we won't even tell mr. howbridge until we are more sure of our ground." "all right," agreed neale and agnes after they had talked it over at some length. it was agreed that they should all three keep their eyes on hank, and note whether there were any further suspicious happenings. "of course you want to be careful of one thing," remarked neale, as the three talked it over. "what is that?" questioned agnes quickly. "you don't want that mule driver to suspect that you are watching him. if he did suspect it he'd be more careful to hide his doings than ever." "we won't let him suspect us, neale," declared ruth. "of course he may be as innocent as they make 'em, and on the other hand he may be as deep as----" "the deep blue sea," finished agnes. "exactly." "he certainly doesn't appear very deep," remarked ruth. "he looks rather simple minded." "but sometimes those simple looking customers are the deepest," declared the youth. "i know we had that sort join the circus sometimes. you had to watch 'em every minute." and there the talk came to an end. the mule driver came along some time later. he had a goodly string of fish. agnes was asleep, but ruth heard him putting them in the ice box. she heard neale speak to the man, and then, gradually, the _bluebird_ became quiet. "well, he got fish, at any rate," ruth reasoned as she turned over to go to sleep. "i hope he has no connection with those robbers. and yet, why should he hide a ring? oh, i wonder if we shall ever see our things and mother's wedding ring again." ruth was too much of a philosopher to let this keep her awake. there was a slight feeling of timidity, as was natural, but she made herself conquer this. finally ruth dozed off. how long she slept she did not know, but she was suddenly awakened by hearing a scream. it was the high-pitched voice of a child, and after her first start ruth knew it came from tess. "oh, don't let him get me! don't let him get me!" cried the little girl. chapter xix on the lake instantly ruth was out of bed, and while she slipped on her bath robe and while her bare feet sought her slippers under the edge of her bunk, she cried: "what is it, tessie? ruth is coming! sister is coming!" at once the interior of the _bluebird_ seemed to pulsate with life. in the corridor which ran the length of the craft, and on either side of which the sleeping apartments were laid off, a night light burned. opening her door ruth saw mrs. maccall peering forth, a flaring candle in her hand. "what is it, lass?" asked the sturdy scotch woman. "i thought i heard a wee cry in the night." "you did!" exclaimed ruth. "it was tess!" in quick succession, with kimonas or robes over their sleeping garments, neale, mr. howbridge and agnes came from their rooms. but from the apartments of tess and dot no one came, and ominous quiet reigned. "what was it?" asked mr. howbridge. "one of you girls screamed. who was it?" something gleamed in his hand, and ruth knew it to be a weapon. "it was tess who cried out!" ruth answered. "all i could hear was something about her being afraid some one would catch her." and then again from the room of tess came a low cry of: "ruthie! ruthie! come here!" "yes, dear, i am coming," was the soothing reply. "what is it? oh, my dear, what has happened?" when she opened the door she saw her sister sitting up in bed, a look of fear on her face but unharmed. and a quick look in the adjoining apartment showed dot to be peacefully slumbering, her "alice-doll" close clasped in her arms. "what was it, tessie?" asked ruth in a whisper, carefully closing dot's door so as not to awaken her. "what did you see?" "i--i don't just remember," was the answer. "i was dreaming that i was riding on that funny uncle josh mule that knows neale, and then a clown chased me and i fell off and the elephant came after me. i called to you, and--" "was it all only a dream, dear?" asked ruth with a smile. "no, it wasn't all a dream," said tess slowly. "a man looked in the window at me." "what window?" asked agnes. tess pointed to one of the two small casements in her small apartment. they opened on the bank of the river, and it would have been easy for any one passing along the bank of the stream to have looked into tess's windows, or, for that matter, into any of the openings on that side of the craft. but the windows, though open on account of the warm night, were protected by heavy screens to keep out mosquitoes and other insects. "do you really mean some one opened your window in the night, or did you just dream that, too?" asked ruth. "you have very vivid dreams sometimes." "i didn't dream about the _man_," insisted tess. "he really opened the screen and looked in. see, it's loose now!" the screens swung outward on hinges, and there, plainly enough, the screen of one of the casements in tess's room was partly open. "perhaps the wind blew it," suggested agnes, wishing she could believe this. neale stepped over and tested the screen. "it seems too stiff to have been blown open by the wind," was the comment. "but of course," mr. howbridge suggested, "the screen may not have been tightly closed when theresa went to bed." "oh, yes it was, sir!" exclaimed mrs. maccall positively. "i looked at them myself. i didn't want any of the mosquitoes to be eatin' ma pretties. the screens were tight closed!" "oh dear, i don't like it here!" said tess, on the verge of tears. "i don't want tramps looking in my room, and this man was just like a tramp." the noise of some one moving around on the upper deck of the craft attracted the attention of all. "that's hank!" exclaimed neale. "i'll go and see if he heard anything unusual or saw any one. it may be that some fellow was passing along the river road and was impudent enough to pull open a screen and look in, thinking he might pick up something off a shelf." but hank, who in his curtained-off place had been awakened by the confusion below him, declared he had seen or heard nothing. "i'm a sound sleeper," he said. "once i get to bed i don't do much else but sleep." so nothing was to be got out of him. and it was difficult to tell whether or not tess had dreamed about the man, as she had said she dreamed about the elephant and the mule. neale volunteered to look on the bank underneath the window for a sign of footprints. he did look, using his flashlight, but discovered nothing. "i guess it was all a dream," said ruth. "go to sleep, tess dear. you'll be all right now." "i'm not going to sleep alone," insisted the little girl, her lips beginning to quiver. "i'll stay with you," offered ruth, and so it was arranged. "it's an awful queer happening," remarked agnes. "lots of things seem queer on this trip," put in tess. "maybe we better give up the houseboat trip." "you won't say that in the morning," laughed neale. "how do you know that?" "oh, i know," the boy laughed. they all went back to their beds, but it was some time before several of them resumed their interrupted slumbers. tess, the innocent cause of it all, fell off to dreamland with ruth's arm around her in the rather cramped quarters, for the bunks were not intended to accommodate two. but once tess was breathing deeply and regularly, ruth slipped back to her own apartment, pausing to whisper to agnes that tess seemed all right now. ruth remained awake for some time, her mind busy with many things, and mingled with her confused thoughts were visions of the mule driver, hank dayton, signaling to some tramp confederates in the woods the fact that all on board the _bluebird_ were deep in slumber, so that robbery might be easily committed. "oh, but i'm foolish to think such things," the corner house girl told herself. "absolutely foolish!" and at last she convinced herself of that and went to sleep. the next morning neale and mr. howbridge, with hank to help, made a careful examination of the soft earth on the river bank under tess's window. they saw many footprints, and the stub of a cigarette. but the footprints might have been made by themselves when they had moored the boat the evening before. as for the cigarette stub, though hank smoked, he said he never used cigarettes. a pipe was his favorite, and neither mr. howbridge nor neale smoked. "some one passing in the daytime before we arrived may have flung the stub away," said the lawyer. "i think all we can do is to ascribe the alarm to a dream tess had." the little girl had forgotten much of the occurrence of the night when questioned about it next morning. she hardly recalled her dream, but she did insist that a man had looked in her window. "well, next time we tie up over night we'll do it in or near some city or village, and not in such a lonely place," decided mr. howbridge. neale and hank made good their promise to repair the motor, and shortly after breakfast the craft was in shape to travel on. the weather continued fine, and if it had not been for the alarm of the night before, and the shadow of the robbery hanging over ruth and agnes, and neale's anxiety about his father, the travelers would have been in a most happy mood. the trip was certainly affording them many new experiences. "it's almost as exciting as when we were snowbound," declared agnes. "but i'm glad we don't have to look for two little runaways or lost ones," put in ruth, with a glance at tess and dot as they went out to play on the upper deck. it was just before noon, when ruth was helping mrs. maccall prepare the dinner, that the oldest kenway girl heard a distressing cry from the upper deck where tess and dot had been playing all the morning. "tess, stop!" ruth heard dot exclaim. "i'm going to tell ruthie on you! you'll drown her! oh, tess!" "she can't drown! haven't i got a string on her?" demanded tess. "this is a new way of giving her a bath. she likes it." "give her to me! ruthie! ruthie! make tess stop!" pleaded dot. "i wonder what the matter is," said ruth, as she set down the dish she was holding and hastened to the upper deck. there she saw dot and tess both leaning over the rail, at rather a dangerous angle, and evidently struggling, one to get possession of and the other to retain, some object ruth could not see. "be careful! you'll fall in!" ruth cried. at the sound of her voice her sisters turned toward her, and ruth saw they each had hold of a cord. "what are you doing; fishing?" ruth asked. "don't you know hank said you couldn't catch fish when the boat was moving unless you trolled with what he called a spoon?" "we're not fishing!" said dot. "i'm just giving the alice-doll a bath," explained tess. "i tied her on the end of a string and i'm letting her swim in the water. she likes it!" "she does not! and you must stop! and you must give her to me! oh, ruthie!" cried dot, trying to pull the cord away from tess. in an instant there was a struggle between the two little girls. "children! children!" admonished ruth, in perfect amazement at such behavior on the part of the gentle and considerate tess. "i'm surprised at you! tess, dear, give dot her doll. you shouldn't have put her in water unless dot allowed you to." "well, but she needed a bath!" insisted tess. "she was dirty!" "i know it, and i was going to give her a bath; but she has a cold and i was waiting till she got over it!" explained dot. "tess, give me that string, and i'll pull my alice-doll up!" she demanded. the struggle was renewed, and ruth was hastening across the deck to stop it by the force of more authority than mere words, when neale, who was steering the craft, called out. "there's the big water! we're at lake macopic now!" hardly had the echo of his words died away than dot cried: "there! now look what you did! you let go the string and my alice-doll is gone!" chapter xx drifting dot burst into tears, and tess, startled by the sudden tragic outcome of her prank, leaned so far over the edge of the boat to see what happened to the doll that ruth cried: "be careful! you'll fall! don't you go into the lake, as well as the doll!" tess bounced back on deck. she looked ashamed when she saw dot crying. "you can have one of my dolls when we get back home," tess offered. "or you can have my half of almira the cat, and all her kittens. i'll give you my share." "i don't want 'em! i want my alice-doll!" wailed dot. "i'll have hank get her for you!" called neale, as he swung the boat around. "the string will float, even if your doll won't, and hank can fish it back aboard." neale signaled to hank by means of a bell running from the upper deck near the steering wheel to the motor room below, where the former mule driver looked after the gasoline engine. it was arranged with a clutch, so it could be thrown out of gear, thus stopping or reversing the power, if need be. "what's the matter?" called hank, coming out on the lower deck and looking up at neale. "going to make a landing?" "no. but dot lost her alice-doll overboard," neale explained. "tess had a string to it and--" "oh, is that what the string was?" exclaimed hank. "i saw a cord drop down at the stern past the motor-room window and i made a grab for it. i thought it was somebody's fish line. wait, i'll give it a haul and see what i can get on deck." leaving the wheel, which needed no attention since power was not now propelling the craft, neale hastened to the lower deck, followed by ruth, tess and agnes. they saw hank pulling in, hand over hand, the long, white cord. presently there came something slapping its way up the side of the _bluebird_, and a moment later there slumped down on the deck a very wet, and much bedraggled doll. "oh, it's my alice! it's alice!" cried dot. "i've got her back once more." "there won't be much left of her if she gets in the water again," prophesied neale. "this is the second time this trip." "she _is_ rather forlorn looking," agreed ruth, trying not to smile and hurt her little sister's feelings, for dot was very sensitive about her dolls, especially her "alice" one. "i shall have to get you a new one, dot." "i don't want anybody but my alice-doll! will you hang her up in the sun for me so she'll dry?" begged dot of neale, holding out to him the really wretched doll. "of course, dottie. and when we get back to milton we can take her to the hospital again and have her done over as we did after she was buried with the dried apples. poor alice-doll! she has had a hard life." tess had gone off by herself, thoroughly ashamed of her behavior. dot now went to her own little room, to grieve over the fate of the alice-doll. "aggie," said neale, "i think our tess must have surely gone insane. i never knew her to do a deliberately unkind thing before." "it certainly is curious. there, neale, mr. howbridge is beckoning to you." "yes," neale replied. "he wants us to start, and he's right. start her up again, hank," he added. "we're on lake macopic now, and we'll have to watch our step. there's more navigation here than there was on the river." "is this really the lake?" asked ruth, "are we really on macopic at last?" "this is where the river broadens out into the lake," said neale, indicating the sweep of waters about them. "it is really a part of the lake, though the larger and main part lies around that point," and he indicated the point of land he meant. lake macopic was a large body of water, and on its shores were many towns, villages and one or two places large enough to be dignified by the appellation "cities." quite a trade was done between some of the places, for the presence of so much water gave opportunity for power to be obtained from it, and around the lake were many mills and factories. there were a number of islands in the lake, some of them large enough for summer hotels, while others were merely clumps of trees. on some, campers spent their vacations, and on one or two, owned by fishermen, cabins were built. "yes, we are really here at last," said neale. "i must find out where we are to head for. where do you have to deliver this boat, mr. howbridge?" he asked the lawyer. "at the upper end of the lake," was the answer. "but there is no hurry about it. i intend that we shall all have a nice cruise on lake macopic before i let my client have possession of this boat. he is in no special need, and the summer is not nearly enough over to make me want to end our vacation yet. that is, unless you feel you must get back to the corner house, martha?" and he smiled at his oldest ward. "oh, no," ruth made haste to reply. "it is too lovely here to wish to leave. i'm sure we shall find it most delightful." "can we go in swimming?" asked tess, who liked the water. "yes, there are bathing beaches--several of them in fact," answered the lawyer. "we will stop at one and let you children paddle around." "i can swim!" boasted tess. "i can too," added dot, not to be outdone by her sister. lake macopic was beautiful, reflecting the sunlight, the blue sky, and the white, fleecy clouds. the houseboat once more began slowly navigating it as hank threw the clutch in and neale kept the wheel steady. they passed several other boats, and then, as their supplies were running low, it was decided to put in at the nearest town. "we'll get some cake and maybe a pie or two," said ruth, after consulting mrs. maccall. "and of course, some fresh vegetables." "can't we get some strawberries?" questioned dot. "too late i'm afraid, dot. but maybe we can get huckleberries." "oh, i know what i would like," cried tess. "i know too," declared agnes. "an ice-cream cone." "yep. strawberry." "i want chocolate," came promptly from dot. "and oh, can't we have some lollypops too?" went on tess. "sure--if the stores keep them," answered mr. howbridge promptly. "yes, i see a sign, 'ice cream and confectionery.' i guess we can get what we want over there--when we reach the place." "oh, goody," cried dot; and tess patted her stomach in satisfaction. it was early evening when they tied up at a wharf, which was operated in conjunction with a store, and while mrs. maccall and the girls were buying such things as were needed, neale and mr. howbridge made some inquiries regarding the rules for navigating the lake. they found there would be no trouble in getting the _bluebird_ from place to place. "have you seen a small motor boat run by two men around here lately?" asked the lawyer of the dock keeper, after some unimportant talk. "what sort of men?" "roughly dressed." "that isn't much of a description," was the retort. "a lot of the fishermen dress roughly, but they're all right. but we do have some fellows up here who aren't what i'd call first-class." "what do you mean?" asked mr. howbridge. "well, i mean there's a bunch camping on one of the islands here. somebody said they were returned miners from the klondike, but i don't know that i believe that." "why, those may be the very men we mean!" cried the lawyer. "one of them claims, or is said to have been, in the alaskan gold regions. in fact this young man's father is, or was, a klondike miner," went on mr. howbridge, indicating neale. "maybe these men could tell us something about him. did you ever hear any of them mention a mr. o'neil?" he asked. the dock tender shook his head. "can't say i did," he answered. "i don't have much to do with those men. they're too rough for me. they may be the ones you mean, and they may not." further questioning elicited no more information, and neale and mr. howbridge had to be content with this. "but we'll pay a visit to that island," decided the lawyer, when its location had been established. "we may get some news of your father in that way." "i hope so," sighed neale. rather than tie up at the dock that night, which would bring them too near the not very pleasant sights and sounds of a waterfront neighborhood, it was decided to anchor the _bluebird_ out some distance in the lake. accordingly, at dusk, when supper was over and a little stroll on shore had gotten the "kinks" out of their "sea legs," the _bluebird_ was headed into the lake again and moored, with riding lights to warn other craft away. in the middle of the night neale felt the need of a drink, as he had eaten some buttered popcorn the evening before and he was now thirsty. as he arose to get a glass of water from a shelf in his apartment he became aware of a strange movement. at the same time he could hear the sighing of the wind. "sounds as if a storm were coming up," mused the boy. and then, as he reached out his hand for the glass, he felt the _bluebird_ rise, fall and sway beneath him. "why, we're moving! we're drifting!" exclaimed neale. "the anchor must be dragging or the cables have been cut. we're drifting fast, and may be in danger!" chapter xxi the storm neale o'neil was a lad to whom, young as he was, emergencies came as a sort of second nature. his life in the circus had prepared him for quick and unusual action. many times, while traveling with the tented shows, accidents had happened. sometimes one of the animals would get loose, perhaps one of the "hay feeders," by which is meant the elephants, horses or camels. or, worse than this, one of the big "cats," or the meat eaters--including lions, tigers and leopards--would break from a cage. then consternation would reign. but neale had seen how the circus men had met these emergencies, always working for the safety of others. and now, as he seemed to be alone in the semi-darkness and silence of the houseboat at midnight, neale felt that the time had come for him to act. "we must have pulled our anchor, or else some one has cut us adrift," decided the lad. "and if any one has cut us loose it must be those men from the motor boat--the tramps--the thieves!" he visualized their evil countenances and thought of how they had behaved toward ruth and agnes--that is, if these were the two men in question. "and i wonder if hank stands in with them," mused neale. "i must find out. but first i've got to do something about the boat. if we're adrift, as we surely are, we may run into some other craft, or one may run into us, or--" neale paused as he felt a grating beneath the broad, flat bottom of the boat and the craft careened slightly. "we may go aground or be blown on an island," was his completed thought. "but we're safe so far," he mentally added, as he felt the _bluebird_ slip off some under-water rock or reef of mud over which she progressed. then neale galvanized himself into action. he forgot all about the drink he had been going to get, and, slipping on shoes and a rubber coat that hung in his room, he stepped out into the corridor which ran the length of the boat between the two rows of sleeping rooms. neale was going up on deck to look around and, if possible, find out what had caused the boat to break away from her moorings. as neale passed ruth's door it opened and she came out, wrapped in a heavy robe. "what is it, neale?" asked the oldest corner house girl. "has anything happened?" "nothing much yet. but it may," was the answer. "we're adrift, and it's coming on to blow. i'm going to see what the matter is." "i'll come with you," ruth offered. neale was like a brother to the kenway girls. "shall i call mr. howbridge and mrs. mac?" she asked. "not yet," he answered in a low voice. "it may be that the cable has only slipped, but i don't see how it could. in that case i'll only have to take a few turns around a cleat and we'll be all right. no use calling any one unless we have to." "i'll come and help," ruth offered, and neale knew she could be of excellent service. together they ascended the stairs in the half darkness, illuminated by the glow from a night oil lamp in the hall. but no sooner had they emerged on the open deck than they became aware of the gravity of the situation. they were almost blinded by an intense glare of lightning. this was followed by a menacing rumble of thunder, and then ruth gasped for breath as a strong wind smote her in the face, and neale, just ahead of her, turned to grasp her lest she be blown against a railing and hurt. "great guns!" exclaimed neale, "it's going to be a fierce storm." "are we really adrift?" exclaimed ruth, raising her voice to be heard above the howl of the wind. "i should say we are!" cried neale in answer. "but the boat is so big and solid she isn't going as fast as an ordinary craft would. but we're drifting all right, and it's going to be a whole lot worse before it's better. do you want to stay here?" he asked. "of course i do! i'm going to help!" declared ruth. but at that moment came another bright flash of lightning and a terrific peal of thunder. and then, as if this had split open the clouds, down came a deluge of rain. "go below and get on your waterproof and then tell the others to get up and dress," advised neale. "we may come out of it all right, and again we may not. it's best to be prepared." "are we--are we far from shore?" panted ruth, the wind almost taking the words from her mouth. "are we apt to be dashed against it, do you think?" "we can't be wrecked," neale answered her. "this is a well built boat. but we may have to go ashore in the rain, and it's best for the children to be dressed." "i'll tell them!" cried ruth, and she descended, glad to be in out of the storm that was increasing in violence every moment. that little time she was exposed to it almost drenched her. neale's rubber coat was a great protection to him. the boy gave one quick look around. the wind was blowing about over the deck a number of camp stools that had been left out, but he reasoned that they would be caught and held by the rope network about the deck. neale's chief anxiety was about the anchor. the cable to which this was bent was made fast to a cleat on the lower deck, and as the lad made his way there by an outside stairway he heard some one walking on the deck he had just quitted. "i guess that's hank," neale reasoned. the boy was pulling at the anchor rope when he heard hank's voice near him asking: "what's the matter, neale?" "we're either dragging our anchor or the cable's cut," answered the lad. and then, as the rope came dripping through his hands, offering no resistance to the pull, he realized what had happened. the anchor was gone! it had slipped the cable or been cut loose. just which did not so much matter now, as did the fact that there was nothing to hold the _bluebird_ against the fury of the gale. realizing this, neale did not pull the cable up to the end. he had found out what he wanted to know--that the anchor was off it and somewhere on the bottom of the lake. he next turned his attention to the boat. "we're drifting!" he cried to hank. "we've got to start the motor, and see if we can head up into the wind. you go to that and i'll take the wheel!" "all right," agreed the mule driver. "this is some storm!" he added, bending his head to the blast of the wind and the drive of the rain. it was growing worse every moment, neale realized. buttoned as his rubber coat was, the lower part blew open every now and then, drenching his bare legs. as the boy hurried to the upper deck again to take command of the steering wheel, he heard from within the _bluebird_ sounds which told him the corner house girls, their guardian, and mrs. maccall were getting up. the voices of tess and dot could be heard, excited and somewhat frightened. "the only real danger," thought neale to himself, "is that we may hit a rock or something, and stave a hole in us. in that case we'd sink, i guess, and this lake is deep." but he had not told ruth that danger. he grasped the spokes of the wheel firmly, and waited for the vibration that would tell him hank had started the motor. and as he waited he had to face the wind and rain, and listen to the vibrating thunder, the while he was almost blinded by the vivid lightning. it was one of those fierce summer storms, and the temperature took a sudden drop so that neale was chilled through. "why doesn't hank start that motor?" impatiently thought the lad. "we're drifting fast and that big island must be somewhere in this neighborhood. i wonder how close it is? if we hit that going like this--good-night!" a vivid flash of light split the darkness like a dagger of flame and revealed the heaving tumultuous lake all about, the waters whipped and lashed into foam by the sudden wind. storms came up quickly on lake macopic, due to the exposed situation of the body of water, and there were often fatalities caused by boats being caught unprepared. just as neale was going to take a chance and hurry below to see what was delaying hank, there came the vibration of the craft which told that the motor had been started. "now we'll get somewhere," cried neale aloud. "i think i'd better head into the wind and try to make shore. if i can get her under the shelter of that bluff we passed this afternoon, it will be the best for all of us." he swung the wheel around, noting that the _bluebird_ answered to the helm, and then he dashed the water from his face with a motion of his head, shaking back his hair. as the craft gathered speed a figure came up the stairs and emerged on deck. it fought its way across the deck to the wheel and a voice asked: "are we making progress, neale?" [illustration: "you shouldn't have come here, aggie!" he cried, above the noise of the storm.] "oh, yes! but you shouldn't have come up here, aggie!" he cried, above the noise of the storm. "you'll be drenched!" "no, i have on mr. howbridge's raincoat. i made him and ruthie let me come up here to help you. you certainly need help in this emergency." "it's an emergency all right!" declared neale. "but we may come out of it safely." "can't i help you steer?" asked agnes. "i know how." "yes, you may help. i'm trying to make--" neale never finished that sentence. a moment later there was a jar that made him and agnes stagger, and then the _bluebird_ ceased to progress under the power of her motor and was again being blown before the fury of the storm. chapter xxii on the island "what's the matter? what has happened?" cried agnes, clinging partly to neale and partly to the wheel to preserve her balance. "are we sinking?" "oh, no," he answered. "we either struck something, or the motor has gone bad and stopped. i think it's the last. i'd better go and see." "i'll take the wheel," agnes offered. "you don't need to," said her companion. "she had no steerageway on her; and you might as well keep out of the storm. the rain is fierce!" agnes decided to take this advice, since staying on deck now would do no good and neale was going below. neale raced to the motor room, where he found hank ruefully contemplating the silent engine. "what's the matter?" asked neale. "is she broken?" "busted, or something," was the answer. "if this was a mule, now, i could argue with it. but i don't know enough about motors to take any chances. all i know is she was going all right, and then she suddenly laid down on me--stopped dead." "yes, i felt it," returned neale. "well, we'll have to see what the trouble is." agnes had gone into the main cabin where she found her sisters and mr. howbridge. mrs. maccall, in a nightcap she had forgotten to remove, was sitting in one corner. "oh, the perils o' the deep! the perils o' the deep!" she murmured. "the salty seas will snatch us fra the land o' the livin'!" "nonsense!" exclaimed mr. howbridge, for he saw that dot and tess were getting frightened by the fear of the scotch housekeeper's words. "lake macopic isn't salty, and it isn't deep. we'll be all right in a little while. here's agnes back to tell us so," he added with a smile at his ward. "what of the night, watchman?" he asked in a bantering tone. "well, it isn't a very pleasant night," agnes was forced to admit. "why aren't we moving?" asked tess. "we were moving and now we have stopped." "neale has gone to see, tess. he will have things in shape before long," was agnes' not very confident reply. "well, we're nice and snug here," said ruth, guessing that something was wrong, and joining forces with agnes in keeping it from mrs. maccall and the younger children. "we are snug and dry here." "i think i'll go and give the sailors a hand," mr. howbridge said. "ruth, you tell these little teases a story," he said as he shifted dot out of his lap and to a couch where he covered her with a blanket. "i'll get this wet coat off," remarked agnes. "my, but it does rain!" she passed mr. howbridge his coat. ruth took her place as mistress of the little household of corner house girls--mother to the three parentless sisters who depended so much on her. "and now, children, for the story!" she said. "what shall it be about?" this took the attention of tess and dot off their worries, and though the wind still howled and the rain dashed against the windows of the _bluebird_, they heeded it not. meanwhile mr. howbridge had made his way to the motor room where a sound of hammering on iron told him that efforts to make repairs were under way. "what is it, boys?" he asked as he saw neale and hank busy over the motor. "a wrench was jarred loose and fell into the flywheel pit," explained neale. "it stopped the motor suddenly, and until we get it loose we can't move the machinery. we're trying to knock it out." "need any help?" asked the lawyer, who had donned an old suit of clothing. "i think we can manage," said neale. "but you might take a look outside and see what's happening. that is, besides the storm. we can hear that." "yes, it seems to insist on being heard," agreed the guardian of the girls. "you say the anchor is dragging, neale?" "no, it's gone completely. at the bottom of the lake somewhere. i didn't have a chance to examine the end of the cable to see if it was cut or not." "cut!" exclaimed the lawyer in surprise. "well, it may have been cut by--accident," went on neale, with a meaning look which mr. howbridge understood. "i'll find out," was the comment, and then the lawyer went out into the rain while neale and the mule driver resumed their labors to loosen the monkey wrench which was jammed under the flywheel, thus effectually preventing the motor from operating. mr. howbridge made his way along the lower deck until he came to where the anchor cable was made fast to the holding cleat. he pulled up the dripping rope, hand over hand, until he had the end on deck. a lightning flash served to show him that the end was partly cut and partly frayed through. "it may have chafed on a sunken rock or been partly cut on the edge of something under water," thought the lawyer. "at any rate the anchor is gone, and unless i can bend on a spare one we've got to drift until they can get the motor going. i wonder if i can find a spare anchor. captain leed said nothing about one when he turned the boat over to me." stumbling about the deck in the rain, storm and darkness, the lawyer sought for a possible spare anchor. meanwhile ruth kept up the spirits of her two smallest sisters and mrs. maccall by gayly telling stories. she was a true "little mother," and in this instance she well deserved the appellations of both "martha" and "minerva." fortunate it was for the corner house girls that the _bluebird_ was a staunch craft, broad of beam and stout in her bottom planks. otherwise she never would have weathered the storm that had her in its grip. lake macopic was subject to these sudden outbursts of the furious elements. it was surrounded by hills, and through the intervening valleys currents of air swept down, lashing the waters into big waves. sailing craft are more at the mercy of the wind and water than are power boats, but when these last have lost their ability to progress they are in worse plight than the other craft, being less substantial in build. but the _bluebird_ was not exactly of either of these types. in fact the craft on which the corner house girls were voyaging was merely a big scow with a broad, flat bottom and a superstructure made into the semblance of a house on shore--with limitations, of course. it would be practically impossible to tip over the craft. the worst that could happen, and it would be a sufficient disaster, would be that a hole might be stove in the barge-like hull which would fill, and thus sink the boat. and the lake was deep enough in many places to engulf the _bluebird_. mr. howbridge realized this as he stumbled about the lower deck, looking for something that would serve as an anchor. he soon came to the conclusion that there was not a spare one on board, for had there been it naturally would have been in plain view to be ready for use in emergencies. having made a circuit of the deck, not finding anything that could be used, mr. howbridge debated with himself what he had better do next. he stepped into a small storeroom in the stern of the craft above the motor compartment where neale and hank were working, and there the lawyer flashed the pocket electric torch he carried. it gave him a view of a heterogeneous collection of articles, and when he saw a heavy piece of iron his eyes lightened. "this may do for an anchor," he said. "i'll fasten it on the rope and heave it overboard." but when he tried to move it alone he found it was beyond his strength. he could almost manage it, but a little more strength was needed. "i'll have to get neale or hank," mused mr. howbridge. "but i hate to ask them to stop. the safety of the _bluebird_ may depend on how quickly they get the motor started. and yet--" he heard some one approaching along the lower deck and a moment later a flash of lightning revealed to him ruth. "i heard some one in here," said the corner house girl, "and i came to see who it was. i thought maybe the door had blown open and was banging." "i was looking for an anchor, and i have found one, though i can't move it alone," the lawyer said. "but why have you left your sisters?" "because mrs. mac is telling them a scotch story. she has managed to interest them, and, at the same time, she is forgetting her own troubles. so i came out. let me help move the anchor, or whatever it is." "spoken like martha!" said mr. howbridge. "well, perhaps your added strength will be just what is needed. but you must be careful not to strain yourself," he added, anxiously. "i am no baby!" exclaimed ruth. "i want to help! where is it?" flashing his light again, her guardian showed her, and then, while the wind seemed to howl in fiercer fury, if that were possible, and while the rain beat down like hail-pellets, they managed to drag out on deck the heavy piece of iron, which seemed to be some part of a machine. the storeroom opened on that side of the deck where the superstructure of the houseboat gave some shelter, and, working in this, ruth and mr. howbridge managed to get the frayed end of the anchor rope attached to the heavy iron. "now if we can heave this overboard it may save us from drifting on the rocks until neale and hank can get the engine to working again," said the lawyer. "we'll try!" exclaimed ruth. her guardian caught a glimpse of her face as the skies flashed forth into flame again. her lips were parted from her rapid breathing, revealing her white teeth, and even in the stress and fury of the storm mr. howbridge could not but admire her. though no one ever called ruth kenway pretty, there was an undeniable charm about her, and that had been greater, her guardian thought, ever since the day of luke shepard's entrance into her life. "it's our last hope, and a forlorn one," mr. howbridge said dubiously, looking at their anchor. together they managed to drag the heavy piece of iron to the edge of the deck. then, making sure the rope was fast about the cleat, they heaved the improvised anchor over the side. it fell into lake macopic with a great splash. "what was that?" cried neale, coming out on deck, followed by agnes, who had been down watching him work at the engine. "our new anchor," replied the lawyer. "it may serve to hold us if you can't get the engine to working," and he explained what he and ruth had done. "good!" exclaimed neale. "i hope it does hold, for it doesn't seem as if we were going to get that monkey wrench out in a hurry. i'm looking for a long bar of iron to see if we can use it as a lever." "there may be one in the storeroom where we found the anchor," remarked ruth. "i'll have a look." the _bluebird_ was not living up to her name. instead of skimming more or less lightly over the surface of the lake she was rolling to and fro in the trough of the waves, which were really high. now and then the crest of some comber broke over the snub bow of the craft, sending back the spray in a shower that rattled on the front windows of the cabin. anxiously the four on deck waited to see the effect of the anchor. if it held, catching on the bottom of the lake, it would mean a partial solution of their troubles. if it dragged-- neale hastened to the side and looked down at the anchor cable. it was taut, showing that the weight had not slipped off. but the drift of the boat was not checked. "why doesn't it hold?" asked ruth. "is it dragging?" came from the lawyer. "i don't believe it is touching bottom," replied neale. "i'm afraid the rope is too short. we are moving faster than before." just as he spoke there came a vivid flash of lightning. involuntarily they all shrank. it seemed as though they were about to be blasted where they stood. and then, as a great crash followed, they trembled with the vibration of its rumble. the next instant ruth and agnes cried simultaneously: "look! we're being blown ashore!" neale and mr. howbridge peered through the darkness. another lightning flash showed their peril. "we're going to hit the island!" shouted neale. a few seconds later the wind blew the _bluebird_, beams-on, upon a rocky shore. chapter xxiii suspicions the shock of the sudden stop, the tilting of the craft, which was sharply careened to one side, the howl of the wind, the rumble of the thunder, the flash of the lightning, and the dash of the rain--all these combined to make the position of those aboard the _bluebird_ anything but enviable. "are we lost! oh, are we lost?" cried mrs. maccall, rushing out of the cabin. "ha the seas engulfed us?" "no, nothing of the sort!" answered mr. howbridge. "please don't get excited, and go back to the children. we are all right!" "yes, i believe we are," added neale, as another flash showed what had happened. "at least we are in no danger of sinking now." for they had been sent before the fury of the storm straight upon the rocky shore of one of the large islands of lake macopic. and there the houseboat came to rest. as neale had said, all danger of foundering was passed, and in case of need they could easily escape to substantial land, though it was but an island. but tilted as the _bluebird_ was, forming a less comfortable abode than formerly, she offered a better place to stay than did the woods of the island, bending as they were now to the fierce wind, and drenched as they were in the pelting rain. "we're here for the night, at least," said neale, as the continued lightning revealed more fully what had happened. "we shall not drift any more, and though there's a lot of excitement going on, i guess we can keep dry." he and mr. howbridge, with ruth and agnes, stood out on the open, lower deck, but there was a shelter over their heads and the sides of the house part of the boat kept the rain from them. the storm was coming from the west, and they had been blown on the weather side of the island. the lee shore was on the other side. there they would have been sheltered, but they could not choose their situation. "we'd better take a turn with a rope around a tree or two," suggested hank, as he came up to join the little party. "no use drifting off again." "you're right," agreed neale. "and then we can turn in and wait for morning. i only hope--" "what?" asked agnes, as he hesitated. "i hope it clears," neale finished. but what he had been going to say was that he hoped no holes would be stove in the hull of the boat. it was no easy task for him and hank to get two lines ashore--from bow and stern--and fasten them to trees. but eventually it was accomplished. then, as if it had worked its worst, the storm appeared to decrease in violence and it was possible to get a little rest. however, before turning in again, mrs. maccall insisted on making a pot of tea for the older folk, while the small children were given some bread and milk. as the berths where dot and tess had been sleeping were uncomfortably tilted by the listing of the boat, the little girls were given the places occupied by ruth and agnes, who managed to make shift to get some rest in the slanting beds. "whew!" exclaimed neale as he went to his room when all that was possible had been done, "this has been some night!" as might have been expected, the morning broke clear, warm and sunny, and the only trace of the storm was in the rather high waves of the lake. before mrs. maccall served breakfast neale, mr. howbridge, agnes and ruth went ashore, an easy matter, since the _bluebird_ was stranded, and made an examination. they found their craft so firmly fixed on the rocky shore that help would be needed before she could be floated. "but how are we going to get help?" asked ruth. "oh, there may be fishermen living on this island," said mr. howbridge. "we'll make a tour and see." "and if there is none," added neale, "hank or i can row over to the next nearest island or to the mainland and bring back some men." the _bluebird_ carried on her afterdeck a small skiff to be used in making trips to and from the craft when she was at anchor out in some stream or lake. this boat would be available for the journey to the mainland or to another island. an examination showed that the houseboat was not damaged more than superficially, and after a hearty breakfast, neale and mr. howbridge held a consultation with ruth and agnes. "what we had better do is this," said the lawyer. "we had better turn our energies in two ways. one toward getting the disabled motor in shape, and the other toward seeking help to put us afloat once more." "hank can work on the motor," decided neale. "all it needs is to have the monkey wrench taken out of the pit. in fact the space is so cramped that only one can work to advantage at a time. that will leave me free to go ashore in the boat." "why not try this island first?" asked ruth. "if there are any fishermen here they could help us get afloat, and it would save time. it is quite a distance to the main shore or even to the next island." "yes, it is," agreed neale. "but i don't mind the row." "it is still rough," put in agnes, looking over the heaving lake. "then i think the best thing to do," said mr. howbridge, "is for some of us to go ashore and see if we can find any men to help us. three or four of them, with long poles, could pry the _bluebird_ off the rocks and into the water again." "oh, do let's go ashore!" cried agnes, and tess and dot, coming up just then, echoed this. mrs. maccall did not care to go, saying she would prepare dinner for them. hank took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and started to work on the motor, while the others began their island explorations. the houseboat had been blown on one of the largest bits of wooded land that studded lake macopic. in fact it was so large and wild that after half an hour's walk no sign of habitation or inhabitants had been seen. "looks to be deserted," said neale. "i guess i'll have to make the trip to the mainland after all." "perhaps," agreed the lawyer, while ruth called to tess and dot not to stray too far off in their eagerness to see all there was to be seen in the strange woods. "well, we are in no special rush, and while our position is not altogether comfortable on board the _bluebird_, the relief from the storm is grateful. i wonder--" "hark!" suddenly whispered ruth, holding up a hand to enjoin silence. "i hear voices!" they all heard them a moment later. "i guess some one lives here after all," remarked mr. howbridge. "the talk seems to come from just beyond us." "let's follow this path," suggested neale, pointing to a fairly well defined one amid the trees. it skirted the shore, swung down into a little hollow, and then emerged on the bank of a small cove which formed a natural harbor for a small motor boat. and a motor boat was at that moment in the sheltered cove. all in the party saw it, and they also saw something else. this was a view of two roughly dressed men, who, at the sound of crackling branches and rustling leaves beneath the feet of the explorers, looked up quickly. "it's them again! come on!" quickly cried one of the men, and in an instant they had jumped into the motor boat which was tied to a tree near shore. it was the work of but a moment for one of them to turn over the flywheel and start the motor. the other cast off, and in less than a minute from the time the corner house girls and their friends had glimpsed them the two ragged men were on their way in their boat out of the cove. "look! look!" cried ruth, pointing at them. "they're the same ones!" "the men we saw at the lock?" asked neale. "yes, and the men who robbed us--i am almost positive of that!" cried the oldest corner house girl. "the rascals!" exclaimed the lawyer. "they're going to escape us again! fate seems to be with them! every time we come upon them they manage to distance us!" this was what was happening now. the tramps--such they seemed to be, though the possession of a motor boat took them out of the ordinary class--with never a look behind, speeded away. "how provoking!" cried agnes. "to think they have our jewelry and we can't make them give it up." "you are not sure they have it," said mr. howbridge, as the motor craft passed out of sight beyond a tree-fringed point. "i think i am," said ruth. "if they are not guilty why do they always hurry away when they see us?" "well, minerva, that is a question i can not answer," said her guardian, with a smile. "you are a better lawyer than i when it comes to that. certainly it does look suspicious." "oh, for a motor boat!" sighed neale. "i'd like to chase those rascals!" "yes, it would be interesting to find out why they seem to fear us," agreed mr. howbridge. "but it's too late, now." "i wonder why they came to this island," mused ruth. "do you think they were fishermen?" "they didn't have any implements of the trade," said mr. howbridge. "but their presence proves that the island is not altogether uninhabited. let's go along, and we may find some one to help get the boat back into the water." they resumed their journey, new beauties of nature being revealed at every step. the trees and grass were particularly green after the effective washing of the night before, and there were many wild flowers which the two little girls gathered, with many exclamations of delight. turning with the path, the trampers suddenly came to a small clearing amid the trees. it was a little grassy glade, through which flowed a stream of water, doubtless from some hidden spring higher up among the rocks. but what most interested neale, agnes, ruth and the lawyer was a small cabin that stood in the middle of the beautiful green grass. "there's a house!" cried dot. "look!" "it's the start of one, anyhow," agreed mr. howbridge. "and somebody lives in it," went on ruth, as the door of the cabin opened and a heavily bearded man came out, followed by a dog. the dog ran, barking, toward the explorers, but a command from the man brought him back. "i hope we aren't trespassing," said mr. howbridge. "we were blown on the island last night, and we're looking for help to get our houseboat back into the lake." "oh, no, you aren't trespassing," the man replied with a smile, showing two rows of white teeth that contrasted strangely with his black beard. "i own part of the island, but not all of it. what sort of boat did you say?" "houseboat," and the lawyer explained the trouble. "are there men here we can get to help us pole her off the shore?" he asked. "well, i guess i and my two boys could give you a hand," was the slow answer. "they've gone over to the mainland with some fish to sell, but they'll be back around noon." "we'll be glad of their help," went on the lawyer. "do you live here all the while?" "mostly. i and my boys fish and guide. lots of men come here in the summer that don't know where to fish, and we take 'em out." "were those your two sons we saw in a motor boat back there in the cove?" asked neale, indicating the place where the tramps had been observed. rather anxiously the bearded man's answer was awaited. "what sort of boat was it?" he countered. neale described it sufficiently well. "no, those weren't my boys," returned the man, while the dog made friends with the visitors, much to the delight of dot and tess. "we haven't any such boat as that. i don't know who those fellows could be, though of course many people come to this island." "i wish we could find out who those men are," said mr. howbridge. "i have peculiar reasons for wanting to know," he went on. "i think they call themselves klondikers, because they have been, or claim to have been, to the alaskan klondike," said neale. "do you happen to know any klondikers around here?" somewhat to the surprise of the boy the answer came promptly: "yes, i do. a man named o'neil." "what!" exclaimed neale, starting forward. "do you know my father? where is he? tell me about him!" "well, i don't know that he's your father," went on the black-bearded man. "though, now i recollect, he did say he had a son and he hoped to see him soon. but this o'neil lives on one of the islands here in the lake. or at least he's been staying there the last week. he bought some fish of me, and he said then he'd been to the klondike after gold." "did he say he got any?" asked neale. the man of the cabin shook his head. "i wouldn't say so," he remarked. "mr. o'neil had to borrow money of one of my boys to hire a boat. i guess he's poorer than the general run. he couldn't have got any gold in the klondike." at this answer neale's heart sank, and a worried suspicion crept into his mind. if his father were poor it might explain something that had been troubling the boy of late. somehow, all the brightness seemed to go out of the day. neale's happy prospects appeared very dim now. "poor father!" he murmured to himself. suddenly, from the lake behind them came some loud shouts, at which the dog began to bark. then followed a shot, and the animal raced down the slope toward the water. chapter xxiv closing in "perhaps these are the men!" exclaimed ruth to the lawyer. "what men?" he asked. "those tramps--the ones who robbed us in the rain storm that day. if they come here--" "what's the matter?" asked the man of the cabin--aleck martin he had said his name was. "what seems to be the trouble with the young lady?" and, as he spoke, gazing at ruth, the barking of the dog and the shouting grew apace. "she is excited, thinking the rascals about whom we have been inquiring might now make their appearance," mr. howbridge answered. "mr. martin laughed so heartily that his black beard waved up and down like a bush in the wind, and dot and tess watched it in fascination. "excuse me, friend," the dweller in the cabin went on, "but i couldn't help it. those are my two boys coming back. they always cut up like that. seems like the quietness of the lake and this island gets on their nerves sometimes, and they have to raise a ruction. no harm in it, not a bit. jack, the dog, enjoys it as much as they do." this was evident a few moments later, for up the slope came two sturdy young men, one carrying a gun, and the dog was frisking about between the two, having the jolliest time imaginable. "there are my boys!" said mr. martin, and he spoke with pride. "oh, will you excuse me?" asked ruth, in some confusion. "that's all right--they do look like tramps," said their father. "but you can't wear your best clothes fussing around boats and fish and taking parties out. well, tom and henry, any luck?" he asked the newcomers. "extra fine, dad," answered one, while both of them stared curiously at the visitors. "that's good," went on mr. martin. "these folks," he added, "were blown ashore last night in their houseboat. they want help to get it off." "will you go and look at her, and then we can make a bargain?" interposed mr. howbridge. "oh, shucks now, friend, we aren't always out for money, though we make a living by working for summer folks like you," said mr. martin, smiling. "is that your boat over there?" asked one of the young men whose name, they learned later, was tom. "yes," assented neale, for the fisherman pointed in the direction of the stranded _bluebird_, which, however, could not be seen from the cabin. "we saw her as we came around," went on henry. "i wondered what she was doing up on shore, and we intended to have a look after we tied up our craft." "will you be able to help us get her afloat?" asked ruth, for she rather liked the healthful, manly appearance of the two young men. "sure!" assented their father. "this is that o'neil man's son," he went on, speaking to his boys. "what, o'neil; the klondiker?" asked tom quickly. "yes," assented neale. "can you tell me about him? where is he? how did he make out in alaska?" "well, he's on an island about ten miles from here," was the answer of henry. "as for making out, i don't believe he did very well in the gold business, to tell you the truth. he doesn't say much about it, but i guess the other men got most of it." "what other men?" asked neale, and again his heart sank and that terrible suspicion came back to him. "oh, a bunch he is in with," answered henry martin. "they all live together in a shack on cedar island. your father hired a boat of us. i trusted him for it, as he said he had no ready cash. but i reckon it's all right." this only served to make neale more uneasy. he had been hoping against hope that his father would have found at least a competence in the klondike. now it seemed he had not, and, driven by poverty, he might have adopted desperate measures. nor did neale like the remarks about his father being in with a "bunch" of men. true, mr. o'neil had been in the circus at one time, and they, of necessity, are a class of rough and ready men. but they are honest, neale reflected. these other men--if the two who had escaped in the motor boat were any samples--were not to be trusted. so it was with falling spirits that the boy waited for what was to happen next. agnes' quick mind and ready sympathy guessed neale's thoughts. "it will be all right, neale o'neil. you know it will. your father couldn't go wrong." "you're a pal worth having, aggie," he whispered to the girl. "i would like to see my father," he said to the lawyer. "do you think we could go to cedar island in the houseboat?" "of course we can!" exclaimed mr. howbridge. "we'll go as soon as we can get her afloat." "and that won't take long; she didn't seem to be in a bad position," said tom. "come on, we'll go over now," he went on, nodding to his father and his brother. "i have an alice-doll on the boat," said dot, taking a sudden liking to henry. "you have?" he exclaimed, taking hold of her hand which she thrust confidingly into his. "well, that's fine! i wish i had a doll!" "do you?" asked dot, all smiles now. "well, i have a lot of 'em at home. there's muriel and bonnie betty and a sailor boy doll, and nosmo king kenway, and then i have twins--ann eliza and eliza ann, and--" "eliza ann isn't a twin any more--anyway not a good twin," put in tess. "both her legs are off!" "oh, that's too bad!" exclaimed henry sympathetically. "and if you want a doll, i can give you one of mine," proceeded dot. "only i don't want to give you alice-doll 'cause she's all i have with me. but if you want muriel--" "muriel has only one eye," said tess quickly. "i think i should love a one-eyed doll!" said the young man, who seemed to know just how to talk to children. "then i'll send her to you!" delightedly offered dot. "and i'll send you one of almira's kittens!" said tess, who did not seem to want her sister to do all the giving. "hold on there! don't i get anything?" asked tom, in mock distress. "almira's got a lot of kittens," said dot. "would you like one of them?" "well i should say so! if henry's going to have a kitten and a doll, i think i ought at least to have a kitten," he said. "well, i'll send you one," promised tess. and then, with the two children, one in charge of henry and the other holding tom's hand, the trip was made back to where the _bluebird_ was stranded. "it won't be much of a job to get her off," declared mr. martin, when he and his sons had made an expert examination. "get some long poles, boys, and some blocks, and i think half an hour's work will do the trick." "oh, shall we be able to move soon?" asked mrs. maccall, coming out on deck. "we hope so," answered ruth, as she went on board and told of the visit to the cabin, while neale hurried to the engine room to see what success hank had met with. the mule driver had succeeded in getting the monkey wrench out from under the flywheel, and the craft could move under her own power once she was afloat. "what's the matter with neale?" asked mrs. maccall, while the men were in the woods getting the poles. "he looks as if all the joy had departed from life." "i'm afraid it has, for him," said ruth soberly. "it seems that his father is located near here--on cedar island--and is poor." "nothing in that to take the joy out of life!" and mrs. maccall strode away. "well, being poor isn't anything," declared agnes. "lots of people are poor. we were, before uncle peter stower left us the corner house." "i think neale fears his father may have had something to do with-- oh, agnes, i hate to say it, but i think neale believes his father either robbed us, or knows something about the men who took the jewelry box!" "but we know it isn't true!" exclaimed agnes. "anyway, the klondike trip was a failure." "yes, and i'm so sorry!" exclaimed agnes. "couldn't we help--" "i think we shall just have to wait," advised her sister. "we can talk to mr. howbridge about it after we find out more. i think they are going to move the boat now." this task was undertaken, and to such good advantage did mr. martin and his sons work, aided, of course, by neale, mr. howbridge and hank, that the _bluebird_ was soon afloat again. "now we can go on, and when i get back home i'll send you a doll and a pussy cat!" offered dot to henry. "and i'll send you two pussy cats!" tess said to tom. the young men laughed, their father joining in. "how much do i owe you?" asked the lawyer, when it was certain that the houseboat was afloat, undamaged, and could proceed on her way. "not a cent!" was the hearty answer of mr. martin. "we always help our neighbors up here, and you were neighbors for a while," he added with a laugh. "well, i'm a thousand times obliged to you," said the guardian of the corner house girls. "our trip might have been spoiled if we couldn't have gone on, though i must say you have a delightful resting spot in this island." "we like it here," admitted the fisherman, while his sons were looking over the houseboat, which they pronounced "slick." neale seemed to have lost heart and spirit. dot and tess, of course, did not notice it so much, as there was plenty to occupy them. but to ruth and agnes, as well as to mr. howbridge, neale's dejection was very evident. "is the motor all right?" asked the lawyer of neale, when the martins had departed with their dog. "yes, she runs all right now." "then we might as well head for cedar island," suggested the lawyer. "the sooner you find your father the better." "yes--i suppose so," and neale turned away to hide his sudden emotion. once more the _bluebird_ was under way, moving slowly over the sparkling waters of lake macopic. all traces of the storm had vanished. "mrs. mac wants to know if we are going to pass any stores," said agnes, coming up on deck when the island on which they had been stranded had been left behind. "we can run over to the mainland if she wants us to," the lawyer said. "is it anything important, agnes?" "only some things to eat." "well, that's important enough!" he laughed. "we'll stop at that point over there," and he indicated one. "from there we can make a straight run to cedar island. you won't mind the delay, will you?" he asked neale, who was steering. "oh, no," was the indifferent answer. "i guess there's no hurry." they all felt sorry for the lad, but decided nothing could be done. mr. howbridge admitted, after ruth had spoken to him, that matters looked black for mr. o'neil, but with his legal wisdom the lawyer said: "don't bring in a verdict of guilty until you have heard all the evidence. it is only fair to suspend judgment. it would be cruel to raise neale's hopes, only to dash them again, but i am hoping for the best." this comforted ruth and agnes a little; though of course agnes, in her loyalty to neale, did not allow doubt to enter her mind. the point for which the boat was headed was a little settlement on the lake shore. it was also the center of a summer colony, and was a lively place just at present, this being the height of the season. at the point were a number of stores, and it was there the supplies for the scotch housekeeper could be purchased. ruth and agnes had made their selections and the things were being put on board when a number of men were observed coming down the long dock. one of them wore a nickel badge on the outside of his coat, and seemed to have an air of authority. neale, who had been below helping hank store away some supplies of oil and gasoline that had been purchased, came out on deck, and, with the girls and mr. howbridge, watched the approach of the men. "looks like a constable or sheriff's officer with a posse," commented ruth. "it reminds me of a scene i saw in the movies." "it is an officer--i know him," said mr. howbridge in a low voice. "he once worked on a case for me several years ago. that's bob newcomb--quite a character in his way. i wonder if he remembers me." this point was settled a moment later, for the officer--he with the nickel badge of authority--looked up and his face lightened when he saw the lawyer. "well, if it ain't mr. howbridge!" exclaimed mr. newcomb. "well now, sufferin' caterpillers, this is providential! is that your boat?" he asked, halting his force by a wave of his hand. "i may say i control it," was the answer. "why do you ask?" "'cause then there won't be no unfriendly feelin' if i act in the performance of my duty," went on the constable, for such he was. "i'll have to take possession of your craft in the name of the law." "what do you mean?" asked mr. howbridge, rather sharply. "is this craft libeled? all bills are paid, and i am in legal possession. i have a bill of sale and this boat is to be delivered to a client of mine--" "there you go! there you go! ready to fight at the drop of the hat!" chuckled the constable. "just like you did before when i worked on that timber land case with you. but there's no occasion to get roiled up, mr. howbridge. i only want to take temporary possession of your boat in the name of the law. all i want to have is a ride for me and my posse. we're on the business of the law, and you, being a lawyer, know what that means. i call on you, as a good citizen, to aid, as i've got a right to do." "i recognize that," said the lawyer, now smiling, and glancing at ruth and the others to show everything was all right. "but what's the game?" "robbery's the game!" came the stern answer. "we're going to round up and close in on a band of tramps, robbers and other criminals! they have a camp on an island, and they've been robbin' hen roosts and doin' other things in this community until this community has got good and sick of it. then they called in the law--that's me and my posse," he added, waving his hand toward the men back of him. "the citizens called in the law, represented by me, and i am going to chase the rascals out!" "very good," assented mr. howbridge. "i'm willing to help, as all good citizens should. but what am i to do? where do i come in?" "you're going to lend us that boat," said constable newcomb. "it's the only large one handy just now, and we don't want to lose any time. as soon as i saw you put into the dock i made up my mind i'd commandeer the craft. that's the proper term, ain't it?" he asked. "yes," assented the lawyer, smiling, "i believe it is. so you want to commandeer the _bluebird_." "to take me and my posse over to cedar island, and there to close in on a bunch of klondikers!" went on the constable, and neale, hearing it, gave a startled cry. "anybody on board that's afraid to come may stay at home," said the constable quickly. "i mean they can get off the boat. but we've got to have the craft to get to the island. now then, mr. howbridge, will you help?" "certainly. as a matter of law i have to," answered the lawyer slowly. "and will you help, and you?" went on the constable, looking in turn at neale and hank, who were on deck. "i call upon you in the name of the law." "yes, they'll help," said mr. howbridge quickly. "don't object or say anything," he added to neale in a low voice. "leave everything to me!" "fall in! get on board! we'll close in on the rascals!" cried the constable, very well pleased that he could issue orders. neale's heart was torn with doubts. chapter xxv the capture constable newcomb and his posse disposed themselves comfortably aboard the _bluebird_, and, at a nod from mr. howbridge, neale rang the bell to tell hank to throw in the gear clutch and start the boat. the girls, much to agnes' dissatisfaction, had been left ashore, since there was likely to be rough work arresting the "klondikers," as the constable called the tramps on cedar island. mrs. maccall stayed with them. they had disembarked at the point dock and when the boat pulled off went to the hotel there to await the return of their friends. "now, mr. newcomb, perhaps you can explain what it's all about," suggested the lawyer to the constable, when they sat on deck together, near neale at the steering wheel. the lawyer made the boy a signal to say nothing, but to listen. "well, this is what it's about," was the answer. "as i told you, a parcel of tramps--klondikers they call themselves because, i understand, some of 'em have been in alaska. anyhow a parcel of tramps are living on cedar island. they've been robbing right and left, and the folks around here are tired of it. so a complaint was made and i've got a lot of warrants to arrest the men." "do you know any of their names?" asked the lawyer. "no, all the warrants are made out in the name of john doe. that's legal, you know." "yes, i know," assented mr. howbridge. "and how many do you expect to arrest?" "oh, about half a dozen. two of 'em have a motor boat, i understand, but they had an accident in the storm last night and can't navigate. that's the reason we're going over there now--they can't get away!" "good!" exclaimed mr. howbridge. "i fancy, mr. newcomb, i may be able to add another complaint to the ones you already have, if two of the men turn out to be the characters we suspect." "why, have they been robbing your hen roost, too?" asked the constable. "no, but two of my wards, ruth and agnes kenway, were robbed of a box of jewelry just before we started on this trip," said the lawyer. "two rough men held them up in a hallway on a rainy morning and snatched a jewel box. the men were tramps--and the day before that two men who called themselves klondikers had looked at vacant rooms in the house where the robbery occurred. since then the girls think they have seen the same tramps several times. i hope you can round them up." "we'll get 'em if they're on cedar island!" the constable declared. "got your guns, boys?" he asked the members of his posse. each one had, it seemed, and the nervous tension grew as the island was neared. hank drove the _bluebird_ at her best speed, which, of course, was not saying much, for she was not a fast craft. but gradually the objective point came into view. "it's just as well not to have too fast a boat," the constable said. "if the klondikers saw it coming they might jump in the lake and swim away. they won't be so suspicious of this." "perhaps not," the lawyer assented. but he could not help thinking how tragic it would be if it should happen that neale's father was among those captured. neale himself guided the houseboat on her way. "put her around into that cove," constable newcomb directed the youth at the wheel, when the island was reached. silently the _bluebird_ floated into a little natural harbor and was made fast to the bank. "all ashore now, and don't make any noise," ordered the officer. "they haven't spotted us yet, i guess. we may surround 'em and capture 'em without any trouble." "let us hope so," said mr. howbridge. "have they some sort of house or headquarters?" "they live in a shack or two," the constable replied. "it's in the middle of the island. i'd better lead the way," he went on, and he placed himself at the head of his men. "don't make any outcry or any explanation if your father is among these men," said mr. howbridge to neale, as the two walked on behind the posse. this was the first direct reference to the matter the lawyer had made. "i'll do whatever you say," assented neale listlessly. "it may all be a mistake," went on the lawyer sympathetically. "we will not jump at conclusions." hank had been sworn in as a special deputy, and was with the other men who pressed on through the woods after constable newcomb. suddenly the leader halted, and his men did likewise. "something's up!" called mr. howbridge to neale. they went on a little farther and saw, in a clearing, a small cabin. there was no sign of life about it. "i guess they're in there," said the constable in a low tone to his men. "the motor boat's at the dock, and so is the rowboat, so they're on the island. close in, men!" he suddenly cried. there was a rush toward the cabin, and mr. howbridge and neale followed. the door was burst in and the constable and his posse entered. three men were asleep in rude bunks, and they sat up bleary-eyed and bewildered at the unexpected rush. "wot's matter?" asked one, thickly. "you're under arrest!" exclaimed the constable. "in the name of the law i arrest you! i'm the law!" he went on, tapping his nickel shield. one of the men made a dart for a window, as though to get out, but he was knocked back by a deputy, and in a few seconds all three men were secured. neale, who had pressed into the cabin as soon as possible, looked with fast-beating heart into the faces of the three tramps. to his great relief none was his father. "now, what's all this about?" growled one of the men. "what's the game?" "you'll find out soon enough," declared the constable. "are either of these the men you spoke of?" he asked the lawyer. "yes, those two are the ones that several times went off in a hurry in the motor boat," said mr. howbridge. "but i can not identify them as the ones who took the jewelry. ruth and agnes kenway will have to do that." as he spoke the two men looked at him. one shook his head and the other exclaimed: "it's all up. they got us right!" "come on now lively, men!" cried constable newcomb. "search this place, gather up what evidence you can, and we'll take 'em to jail." "are there any others?" asked neale, hoping against hope as the men were taken outside the shack and the search was begun. "i guess we have the main ones, anyhow," answered mr. newcomb. "oh, look at this bunch of stuff!" he cried, as he threw back the dirty blankets of one of the bunks. "they've been robbing right and left." it was a heterogeneous collection of articles, and at the sight of one box mr. howbridge exclaimed: "there it is! the jewelry case i gave miss ruth! these men were either the thieves or they know something about the robbery. see if anything is left in the box." it was quickly opened, and seen to contain a number of rings, pins, and trinkets. "well, there's a good part of it," the lawyer remarked. "it will need ruth and agnes to tell just what is missing." mr. howbridge and neale were watching the constable and his men finish the search of the cabin, while others of the posse had taken the prisoners to the boat, when suddenly into the shack came another man, whose well-worn clothing would seem to proclaim him as one of the "klondikers." but at the sight of this man neale sprang forward, and held out his hands. "father!" cried the boy. "don't you know me?" "it's neale--my son!" was the gasping exclamation. "how in the world did you get here? i was just about to start for milton to look you up." "well, i guess, before you do, we'll look you up a bit, and maybe lock you up, also," said the constable dryly. "do you belong to the klondike bunch?" he asked. "well, yes, i might say that i do; or rather that i did." said neale's father, and though the boy gasped in dismay, mr. o'neil smiled. "i understand the crowd has been captured," he added. "yes. and you may consider yourself captured also!" snapped out the officer. "jim, a pair of handcuffs here!" "one moment!" interposed mr. howbridge, with a glance at neale. "i represent this man, officer. i'll supply bail for him--" mr. o'neil laughed. "thank you," he said. "your offer is kind, and i appreciate it. but i shan't need bail. i believe you received a letter telling you to make this raid, did you not?" he asked the constable. "i did," was the answer. "it was that letter which gave us the clue to the robbers. i'd like to meet the man who wrote it. he said he would give evidence against the rascals." "who signed that letter?" asked neale's father. "i have it here. i can show you," offered mr. newcomb. "it was signed by a man named o'neil," he added as he produced the document. "he said he'd meet us here, but--" "well, he has met you. i'm o'neil," broke in the other. "and it was i who gave you the information." "oh, father!" cried neale, "then you're not one of the--" "i'm not one of the thieves; though i admit my living here among them made it look so," said mr. o'neil. "it is easily explained. one of the men made a fraudulent claim to part of a mine i own in alaska, and i had to remain in his company until i could disprove his statements. this i have done. the matter is all cleared up, and i concluded it was time to hand the rascals over to the law. so i sent the letter to the authorities, and i'm glad it is all ended." "so am i!" cried neale. "then you did strike it rich after all?" "no, not exactly rich, son. i was pretty lucky, though, and i struck pay dirt in the klondike. i wrote your uncle bill about it, but probably the letters miscarried. i never was much of a letter writer, anyhow. and i never knew until the other day that you were so anxious to find me. i couldn't have left here anyhow, though, for i had to straighten out my affairs. now everything is all right. do you still want to arrest me?" he asked the constable. "no," replied mr. newcomb. "i reckon you're a friend of the law and, in consequence, you're my friend. now come on, boys, we'll lock up the other birds." neale walked by the side of his father and it was difficult to say who talked the most. mr. howbridge accompanied the constable and from him learned how the raid had been planned through information sent by mr. o'neil. when the party reached the houseboat, whither some of the deputies had preceded with the prisoners, the sight of a figure on the upper deck attracted the attention of neale and the lawyer. "agnes!" gasped her guardian. "how did you get here?" "on the _bluebird_. i just couldn't bear to be left behind, and so i slipped on board again after you said good-by on the dock. there wasn't any shooting after all," she added, as if disappointed. "no, it was easier than i expected," admitted the lawyer. "and, while you should not have come, this may interest you!" "our jewelry!" cried agnes as she took the extended box. quickly she looked over the contents. "only two little pins are missing!" she reported. "we shan't mind the loss of them. oh, how glad i am to get my things! and mother's wedding ring, too! how did it happen?" "i think you have neale's father to thank," answered mr. howbridge. "oh, i am so glad!" cried agnes, and she was happy in more ways than one. "what did i tell you, neale o'neil?" the _bluebird_ made a quick trip back to the point and the rascals were locked up. two of them proved to be the thieves who had robbed ruth and agnes, though their ill-gotten gains did them little good, as they dared not dispose of them. the third prisoner was not involved in that robbery, though he was implicated in others around the lake. eventually, all three went to prison for long terms. neale's father, of course, was not involved. as he explained, he had located a mine in alaska and it made him moderately well off. but he had a rascally partner, and it was necessary for mr. o'neil to stay with this man until a settlement was made. it was this partner who had dealings with the thieves; and that had made it look bad for neale's father. this man was arrested later. as soon as he saw how matters were on cedar island mr. o'neil decided to give the evil men over to the law, and he carried out his plan as quickly as possible. the two "klondikers" who had inquired about rooms from the stetson family were part of the thieving gang, and they were also later arrested. they were planning a bank robbery in town, and the two men who took the jewelry from ruth and agnes were part of the same crowd. the robbery of the girls, of course, was done on the spur of the moment. the two ragged men had merely taken shelter in the doorway, after having called at the stetson house to get the "lay of the land." and as such characters are always on the watch to commit some crime they hope may profit them, these two acted on the impulse. for some reason the bank robbery plans miscarried, and the two jewelry robbers started back for lake macopic, where they had left some confederates, including mr. o'neil's partner. the rascals imagined the corner house girls were following them, hence the several quick departures in the motor boat. whether one of these men looked in the window of tess was never learned. "i'm so glad our suspicions of hank were unfounded," said ruth, when later the events of the day were being talked over in the _bluebird_ cabin. "yes, that ring was his mother's," said neale. "he told me about it after i had hinted that we had been watching him. and, oh, father, i'm so glad i found you!" he added. "you're through with the klondike; aren't you?" "yes, i'm going to sell out my mine and go into some other business." "do you mean back to the circus?" asked mr. howbridge. "no. though i want to see bill and the others." "why don't you stay with us and finish the trip on the houseboat, mr. o'neil?" ruth asked. "thank you, i will," he answered, after the others had added their urgings to ruth's invitation. and so, after the somewhat exciting adventures the trip was resumed, and eventually the craft was delivered to her owner. before this, however, happy days were spent cruising about lake macopic, the children and mrs. maccall enjoying life to the utmost. there were days of fishing and days of bathing and splashing in the limpid waters near sandy beaches. tess and dot were taught to swim by neale, and his father made the children laugh by imitating seals he had seen in alaska. hank, too, seemed to enjoy the vacation days, and he proved a valuable helper, forming a great friendship with mr. o'neil. during those days ruth received two more letters from luke and one from his sister. luke was still working hard at the summer hotel, and cecile reported that the sick aunt was now much better. luke congratulated neale on finding his father. and then, as was usual, he added a page or two intended only for ruth's eyes,--words that made her eyes shine with rare happiness. "oh, we had a lovely time!" said agnes when they disembarked for the last time. "the nicest summer vacation we ever spent." "indeed it was," agreed ruth. "and when i get home i'm going to send mr. henry my doll and a kitten so he won't be lonesome on that island in winter," observed dot. "and i'm going to send mr. tom something," declared tess. "he likes me, and maybe when i grow up i'll marry him!" "oh, what a child!" laughed ruth. "i'm glad you liked the trip," said the lawyer. "and i think we can agree that it accomplished something," he added as he looked at neale and his father. "it made my alice-doll a lot better!" piped up dot, and they all laughed. and so, in this jolly mood, we will take leave of the corner house girls. the end charming stories for girls (from eight to twelve years old) the corner house girls series by grace brooks hill four girls from eight to fourteen years of age receive word that a rich bachelor uncle has died, leaving them the old corner house he occupied. they move into it and then the fun begins. what they find and do will provoke many a hearty laugh. later, they enter school and make many friends. one of these invites the girls to spend a few weeks at a bungalow owned by her parents; and the adventures they meet with make very interesting reading. clean, wholesome stories of humor and adventure, sure to appeal to all young girls. corner house girls. corner house girls at school. corner house girls under canvas. corner house girls in a play. corner house girls' odd find. corner house girls on a tour. corner house girls growing up. corner house girls snowbound. corner house girls on a houseboat. corner house girls among the gypsies. corner house girls on palm island. barse & hopkins, publishers newark n.j.--new york, n.y. the polly pendleton series by dorothy whitehill polly pendleton is a resourceful, wide-awake american girl who goes to a boarding school on the hudson river some miles above new york. by her pluck and resourcefulness, she soon makes a place for herself and this she holds right through the course. the account of boarding school life is faithful and pleasing and will attract every girl in her teens. polly's first year at boarding school polly's summer vacation polly's senior year at boarding school polly sees the world at war polly and lois polly and bob cloth, large mo., illustrated. barse & hopkins, publishers newark n.j.--new york, n.y. chicken little jane series by lily munsell ritchie chicken little jane is a western prairie girl who lives a happy, outdoor life in a country where there is plenty of room to turn around. she is a wide-awake, resourceful girl who will instantly win her way into the hearts of other girls. and what good times she has!--with her pets, her friends, and her many interests. "chicken little" is the affectionate nickname given to her when she is very, very good, but when she misbehaves it is "jane"--just jane! adventures of chicken little jane chicken little jane on the "big john" chicken little jane comes to town with numerous illustrations in pen and ink by charles d. hubbard barse & hopkins, publishers newark, n. j.--new york, n. y. dorothy whitehill series for girls here is a sparkling new series of stories for girls--just what they will like, and ask for more of the same kind. it is all about twin sisters, who for the first few years in their lives grow up in ignorance of each other's existence. then they are at last brought together and things begin to happen. janet is an independent go-ahead sort of girl; while her sister phyllis is--but meet the twins for yourself and be entertained. titles, cloth, large mo., covers in color. . janet, a twin . phyllis, a twin . the twins in the west . the twins in the south . the twins' summer vacation . the twins and tommy jr. barse & hopkins, publishers newark, n. j.--new york, n. y. the mary jane series by clara ingram judson cloth, mo. illustrated. with picture inlay and wrapper. mary jane is the typical american little girl who bubbles over with fun and the good things in life. we meet her here on a visit to her grandfather's farm where she becomes acquainted with farm life and farm animals and thoroughly enjoys the experience. we next see her going to kindergarten and then on a visit to florida, and then--but read the stories for yourselves. exquisitely and charmingly written are these books which every little girl from five to nine years old will want from the first book to the last. mary jane--her book mary jane--her visit mary jane's kindergarten mary jane down south mary jane's city home mary jane in new england mary jane's county home barse & hopkins, publishers newark, n. j.--new york, n. y. the family on wheels adapted from the french by j. macdonald oxley _author of "the boy tramps" and "the romance of commerce"_ new york thomas y. crowell & co. publishers copyright, , by thomas y. crowell & co. [illustration: "you needn't be afraid," called out the boy.] contents. chapter page i. introducing the family ii. a good friend in need iii. the tamby family in public iv. a record collection v. a remarkable fencer vi. the animals distinguish themselves vii. the stampeding of nalla viii. nalla recovered ix. nalla to the rescue x. nalla plays pranks xi. at the beaulieu fair xii. the rascal's revenge xiii. the majesty of the law xiv. before the magistrate xv. nalla obtains assistance xvi. nadine's illness xvii. in a desperate strait xviii. the recovery of nalla xix. in the nick of time xx. in care of the curé xxi. the return to morainville xxii. reunited at last the family on wheels. chapter i. introducing the family. "one! two! right! left! one! two! number three, you are not in line. forward a little! that's it. now then--one! two! right! left!" it was early morning of a midsummer day, and a dozen or more boys, between the ages of ten and fifteen, marched out of the market town of morainville, some armed with wooden swords, and others with broom-handles which did service as rifles, while the most of them were eating big slices of bread with keen relish. "one! two! right! left!" the time of the annual fête, when the soldiers would come, was drawing near, and for several days the youngsters of the place had been preparing to receive them in fitting manner. all their usual forms of play had for the nonce been abandoned in favor of drilling, and grave councils of war, and much attention was given to the making of wooden swords and guns wherewith to more closely imitate the soldiers. then came the important matter of choosing the officers, which, however, were always the same, because the smaller boys never failed to vote for the bigger ones, knowing well that if they didn't they would assuredly get a licking. a couple of boys in the party had a special talent for imitating the trumpet by placing their shut hand over their closed lips, and these led the little troop. by eight o'clock the children had marched over a mile, and reached the top of a hill planted with spruce trees on both sides of the road which slanted sharply in front and rear of their route. the captain of the company ordered a halt, and as their young legs were pretty tired, it was decided that they should there await the arrival of the soldiers. a sentinel was placed on the road to report the appearance of the regiment in good time to allow the boys to get ready for its reception. half-an-hour later, as the little soldiers of the wooden swords waited beneath the spruce trees, the sentinel from his post of observation gave the signal. "hurrah! there they are!" cried the boys delightedly, and they made haste to draw up in line along the road. but it was not the regiment that came in view. no red trousers showed upon the horizon. nothing save a big lumbering wagon, a mountebank's van drawn by a single horse, made its appearance, moving in the direction of the town. yet the sight of this solitary van would not of itself have sufficed to attract the curiosity of the children. strolling performers! why, they were nothing uncommon. they visited the town often in the course of the year, and one poor shabby van could never have constituted a counter-attraction to the most insignificant soldier in his red trousers. nevertheless the youngsters stood there upon the road like statues, and, after their first exclamation of surprise, they were silent also, while their eyes fairly bulged from their sockets as they gazed open-mouthed upon that which was coming towards them. beside the van moved the huge bulk of something unknown that stalked solemnly along, looking neither to right nor left. what could it be? so tremendous a creature had never crossed their vision before. "can it be a beast?" whispered one of the boys with trembling lips. "why--yes--" responded the captain, making a gallant effort to appear unconcerned, although he was greatly excited, "a beast that can walk." it was, indeed, bewildering. a monster beside which the horse that drew the van seemed no bigger than a dog--a monster whose height exceeded that of the mountebank's house on wheels. then to one of the boys came an inspiration, and he cried proudly: "i know what it is. i saw the picture of one in a book my father was showing me. it's an elephant!" "what a whopper! an elephant's not a great brute like that. you don't know what you're talking about," snapped the captain, ill-pleased at a private having ventured an explanation of the wonder. this silenced the youngster, and as none of the others could offer any better suggestion the little company, feeling decidedly nervous, made haste to climb the trees that lined the road just as the mountebanks and their elephant reached the top of the hill. like a band of frightened monkeys they got among the branches uttering cries of fear, and then, with the effrontery of monkeys, took their positions as close as possible to the road so that they might obtain a full view of the strolling performers, and of the wonderful animal that sauntered so peacefully along beside their conveyance. "you needn't be afraid," called out one of the mountebanks reassuringly. he was only a boy himself, and his keen eyes had taken in the situation at a glance. "there's no harm in nalla. he wouldn't hurt anybody unless they hurt him first." and as he spoke the lad stroked lovingly the trunk of the great creature that responded to the caress with little grunts of satisfaction. at this assurance all the boys descended from their refuge in the trees, and in a gingerly hesitating fashion, for they were still a little nervous, drew near the boy who was so manifestly in the good graces of the monster. what puzzled the boys was that they saw no sign of either the father or mother of the little players, of whom there were four, two boys and two girls. on the front platform of the van sat a girl of not more than sixteen, holding in her lap another of about five years of age. "come now--steady--hurry up!" cried the latter to the horse. "oh! let him alone! he's going as fast as he can, lydia," said the elder one. "it's no use shouting at him." but steady did not mend his pace. he well deserved his name, for indeed a slower animal never wore harness. behind the van came another youngster, not more than ten years old, followed by a black dog clipped so as to faintly resemble a lion. the boy and dog were evidently on the best of terms, and the one no less full of life than the other. it goes without saying that the whole party of boys, who had come out to receive the soldiers, completely forgot them in the novelty of this strange party, and constituted themselves a guard of honor for nalla and his friends without giving another thought to the red trousers which had been the original cause of their early morning march-out. at the entrance of the town was a sort of open square formed by the joining of two roads, and it was there that the owners of the van, the tamby family, had taken their stand when the expected soldiers, with fife and drums leading, at last marched into morainville. as they watched them pass, looking very imposing indeed in all their martial splendor, little cæsar tamby said to nadine his sister: "the soldiers! we have got here in the nick of time. we ought to take in a lot of money to-night." but nadine, whose pretty features wore a sad expression, shook her head doubtfully: "who can tell?" she murmured. "perhaps the mayor won't allow us to give a performance." she was going to find out, and she took with her the necessary papers to make a formal request for the authorization. nadine, the eldest of the tamby family, who undertook the always tiresome, and often troublesome task of securing the necessary permission for the little troupe to make a stay within the bounds of a commune, and give public performances, set off with no loss of time. she quickly made her way to the center of the town where the mayor's office was situated, but there encountered a lot of soldiers receiving directions from their officers in regard to their stay at morainville. it was accordingly with some difficulty that she was able to reach the office of the mayor, which was crowded with officers who were engaging his attention. his worship was informed that a mountebank wished to see him about obtaining permission to make a stay in the town. "i've no time to waste upon such folk, and, moreover, i won't give the permission because the soldiers are here," was his ungracious reply as conveyed to the anxious nadine by the constable, who, noting her disappointment, added in a kinder tone on his own account: "my young girl, the mayor won't see you, and as he has given his answer to your request you may take my word for it that it's useless for you to wait about here. you'd better push on to some other town where you'll have a chance to give a performance." "but, sir," pleaded nadine, her lip trembling, and her fine eyes filling with tears, "if we don't perform this evening we shall have nothing to eat to-morrow. we might get along somehow ourselves, but our animals, they must be fed." the constable was touched by her plea, and the charm of her simple manner. "very well, then," he responded, laying his big hand upon her shoulder in a fatherly way. "you'll have to try and see the mayor at his own house," and the kind-hearted fellow gave nadine directions how to find it, and what to do when she got there. the mayor's residence was quite a castle, and nadine felt very timid about venturing to enter it, but she found the great portal open, and glided through without being observed by any one in the establishment, the fact of the matter being that on this day everybody had their hands too full to concern themselves about who might be going or coming. the staff of domestics seemed to be exceedingly busy. several women in snow-white dresses were hard at work before the cooking range, one of them giving orders in a sharp voice, and the others replying promptly: "yes, madame françoise," and carrying out her instructions. a moment later madame françoise caught sight of nadine who stood shyly in the doorway, not daring to enter a place where everybody was so engrossed with their work. "who are you, and what do you want?" she demanded in a tone of irritation as she fixed her eyes on the young girl, and examined her from her head to her feet. "where did you come from?" she snapped. "madame," replied nadine in a low-toned voice, letting her head drop upon her breast. "i came to see the mayor, and to beg----" "no--no--we've no time for beggars to-day," cried madame impatiently, "and the mayor won't be able to see you. be off with you as quick as you can!" nadine turned to leave with heavy heart when a door on the other side of the kitchen opened suddenly, and a lady of middle age, in a rich silk gown, entered the room. she was tall and handsome, and her expression was so sweet and pleasant that somehow nadine's hopes began to revive. "was it you, françoise, who spoke so sharply to the child?" she asked in a tone that expressed both surprise and reproof. "well, madame," replied the servant, "you see this is one of those little beggars, a mountebank's daughter, who pay a visit to the town just for what they can steal. she came here begging and i told her that you had no time to attend to her." the color flew to nadine's face, and her eyes flashed with indignation at these words which were no less unjust than they were cruel. she lifted her pretty head with a touch of pride, and her voice rang out clearly as she hastened to say: "but i didn't come here begging, madame. i've never had to do anything of the kind yet, thank god. i simply came to ask permission of the mayor to make my living in an honest way. that's what i'm here for, i assure you," and she made a respectful courtesy to the lady. "but why didn't your father come instead, my child?" asked the lady, regarding her with a look of kindly interest. "you are very young to be attending to such matters." "alas, i have no longer a father," responded nadine, her head drooping again, and the big tears welling up in her blue eyes. "well, then, your mother--why does not she come?" was the next question. poor nadine's voice almost failed her, and her answer was scarcely audible: "i have no mother either." "what! neither mother nor father!" exclaimed the lady, throwing up her white hands with a gesture of astonishment and pity. "do you mean to say that you are all alone at your age?" nadine lifted her head again, and a new light came into her fine eyes. they glowed with both love and pride as she said: "no, madame, i'm not alone. i have two brothers, and a little sister, but they are all much younger than i, so i have to look after the business." chapter ii. a good friend in need. madame pradère, the mayor's wife, regarded nadine with deep interest. although she had much to occupy her time and thoughts that morning, the situation the young girl had so simply disclosed was so unusual as to command her attention to the exclusion of other concerns. nadine seemed no less modest and refined than she was pretty, and her big blue eyes, which contrasted strangely with her black and curly hair, bore so sweet an expression that she must manifestly be something altogether different from the strolling players with their bold hard looks, rough voices, and shabby finery, which were wont to come to the village. dressed plainly in a black calico gown, and having a thin black shawl over her head, she certainly had every appearance of simplicity and honesty. she was undoubtedly poor, but her poverty was of that proud kind which does not seek to inspire pity, but bravely fends for itself, asking alms of nobody. "my child," said madame pradère, in a tone so full of kindness that nadine's heart grew warm, and she felt that the way out of her difficulties was beginning to open, "the mayor has not returned, and may not be back for a while yet; but however busy he may be he shall spare you a minute, and if he thinks it all right he'll grant you the permission you seek. come with me," she added signing to nadine to follow her. "you can wait for him in another room, for the kitchen is in confusion, and you may be in the way of the servants, who have a great deal to do." nadine followed madame pradère into a little parlor tastefully furnished, where there were ever so many pretty things that called forth her admiration. but she had too much sense to betray any indiscreet curiosity. seating herself upon the chair the mistress of the house indicated, she made haste to express her gratitude. "you are very kind, madame, very kind indeed," she murmured. "not at all, my child, not at all," was the response. "but now tell me, you seek permission from the mayor to stay here a while in order to sell some little articles i presume?" "no, madame. we have nothing to sell," replied nadine, gaining courage from the good lady's gentle manner. "we are only strolling performers who give public representations with our animals." "oh! ho! you have animals! trained dogs, i suppose, and that sort of thing," and madame's comely countenance expressed an amused interest. "we have only one dog, vigilant, who is very comical. he knows how to make the most morose people laugh when he plays his part with nalla." nadine's eyes brightened at the thought of her dog. "nalla! and pray who is nalla?" "madame," answered nadine, her face growing serious again, "nalla is our breadwinner. he is the chief attraction of our troupe, for you can easily understand that such mere children as we are daren't pretend to be of much account as performers. in us by ourselves the public would take very little interest, and we couldn't get along at all. but when we exhibit nalla in all the streets, and make our announcements from his back, curiosity is aroused, and the people come in the evening to see our big creature's performance." "what do you mean?" exclaimed madame pradère, looking puzzled. "your big creature! is not nalla, then, a dog like vigilant?" "oh, no," cried nadine, smiling, and fully appreciating the interest she was creating. "nalla isn't a dog. nalla couldn't get into this big house, nalla"--and she paused a moment so as to emphasize the announcement, "nalla is an elephant!" "an elephant, do you say? is it possible? how do you happen to own so costly an animal? why, it must be worth a small fortune!" and as she poured out these questions madame pradère scrutinized the girl with a certain air of perplexity, for to her the idea of possessing an elephant seemed hardly consistent with actual poverty. nadine understood the look, and her pale cheek flushed slightly. "i told you, madame, nalla is our breadwinner," she said with a touch of apology in her tone. "but he is also more than that. he is our protector since our father died." madame pradère's expression at once changed to one of sympathy. "is it long since you lost your parents?" she asked, adding with a kindly smile: "i may seem to be very inquisitive, but the fact is you interest me deeply, and i would like you to tell me your history. in the first place, what is your name?" "here are my papers, madame," responded nadine, holding out an old portfolio carefully wrapped up in a bit of silk. "they will tell you all about me." "oh no," said the mayoress, gently pushing back the portfolio. "you can show that presently to my husband, but for myself i prefer to hear your story from your own lips." thus encouraged nadine proceeded in her own clear simple way. "my name is nadine tamby. my elder brother bears the same name as was my father's, cæsar. the second boy is named abel, and my little sister, who is now just six years old, has our mother's name, lydia." at the mention of the name of lydia madame pradère's countenance suddenly grew sad, and she gave a sigh that indicated sorrowful memories. in truth it had been the name of a little daughter that once brought joy into her life for a while, and then was taken from her, leaving a void that could never be filled. nadine meanwhile continued her narration. "our mother died four years ago when we were in the tyrol, but it is only six months since we lost our father. he died of consumption after being sick for a long time." nadine's voice sank so low as to be scarcely audible, and the big tears moistened her cheeks so that she was fain to wipe them away with her handkerchief. her parents had always been good and kind, and the pain of their loss was still acute. "you poor little woman!" murmured madame pradère, in whose own eyes the tears were glistening, "and you are the little mother to the others now." she was more deeply moved by what she had heard than she cared to show, and in order to conceal her emotion she continued to ply nadine with questions which the latter answered so clearly and correctly that the mayoress could not understand a young strolling player being so well educated. had she only known the girl's parents she would not have been so puzzled. cæsar tamby and his wife were of respectable descent, and had always been true to their parentage in spite of the many temptations to which their mode of life exposed them. they had brought their children up with the utmost care possible in view of their roving life, and during the winter season, when it was not possible to give their performances, they had taken pains to teach them quite as much as they would have learned by attending the country school, for they were both well educated themselves. thus the tamby children, although their business was appearing in public and giving performances to crowds that too often were by no means considerate of their feelings, nevertheless remained honest, simple, and refined in a remarkable degree. "and your father," continued madame pradère, "was he always--" here she hesitated a moment, and then finished the sentence with the polite word--"an artist?" "yes, madame," replied nadine. "his father was the manager of a circus in which he employed his five sons, of whom my father was the youngest. but on the death of my grandfather, and a series of misfortunes which followed it, the circus was broken up and everything sold with the exception of nalla, and steady, which fell to my father." "steady!" exclaimed madame pradère. "who is that? i know nalla and vigilant, but you haven't mentioned steady before. is he a clever animal like nalla, or a comic one like vigilant?" "he is an animal that is as gentle as a sheep, and as good as can be," smiled nadine. "steady is an old horse, who was once upon a time quite a celebrity, but who having become very old, a little deaf, and somewhat blind, is now fit only to drag the van, which is our home on wheels. all the same he is a very true friend, and we love him dearly for he does us good service. steady was given his name by my mother who was an _equestrienne_, and who always mounted him with confidence because his regular movements made her performance so easy. and now, madame," nadine concluded with a naïve smile of apology for having talked so much, "i've told you about our whole family." just then madame pradère heard the sound of a carriage rolling into the courtyard. she sprang up briskly and looked out of the window. "that's the mayor returning!" she said. "wait here a few minutes while i speak to him about you," and giving the girl an encouraging smile, she left the room. it was, indeed, the mayor, accompanied by several officers who had been invited to lunch with him. these were former companions of m. pradère, who had once been a lieutenant in the army, and had retired upon making a brilliant marriage, which rendered him independent. so there were great doings in the chateau. nadine with much concern heard the clinking of the swords, and the most appetizing smell of the extra cooking reminded her that the tamby children had not yet had any breakfast that day, while the permission to perform that she had come to obtain was still in doubt. if it were not granted there was a poor prospect of food for either the family or their animals. oppressed by these disturbing thoughts she sat there in an attitude of deep dejection. she was a young thing to be charged with such heavy responsibilities, and not a day passed that she did not keenly feel her youth and weakness. yet before the other children her brave spirit never seemed to flag, or her resolution to falter. as she had to be both mother and father to them, she strove gallantly to fill her difficult part to the very best of her powers, and in truth it was nothing short of wonderful how well she succeeded. still there were times when it seemed as if her burdens were becoming too heavy to be longer borne by her. meanwhile madame pradère had conducted her guests into the big dining-room which opened upon a spacious veranda whence there spread a broad green lawn reaching to the river's edge. when all were seated at the table she turned to her husband with a bewitching smile, and said: "your worship, i have a great favor to ask of you." "madame, that favor is granted in advance of its being asked," replied her husband with a gallant bow, and a look of unmistakable pride and affection, for his wife was a beautiful woman, and greatly admired by all who knew her. "and my request applies to colonel laurier as well as to you," continued madame, fixing her fine eyes upon the officer, who at once bowed in his turn, and hastened to say: "i assure you, madame, it will give me great pleasure to do anything you wish." "i understand, colonel," madame went on after acknowledging his prompt assurance with a gracious smile, "that your soldiers have taken complete possession of the market-place." "they have, madame," responded the colonel, considerably puzzled to guess what she was driving at. "there are so many of them, you know, that they require a lot of room." "yes, of course, i quite understand that," said madame, her handsome features expressive of a gay resolution that was immensely becoming. "but do you know i shall need a part of the place this evening for a very fine performance, and i suppose you will be able to make room for the time." colonel laurier was about to accede at once when the mayor broke in hurriedly, and not altogether politely: "those mountebanks again! have you them in your mind, my dear? but it is simply out of the question to-day. i could not think of granting them permission to perform in the market-place. you forget that there are two thousand soldiers there, and that it is my duty to guard against the occurrence of any trouble." "that is the very reason i am doing this, your worship, and why the assistance of colonel laurier and his officers will be so helpful," persisted madame, flashing her irresistible smiles from one to the other. "pray command us. we are certainly at your service," responded the officers in chorus. chapter iii. the tamby family in public. having thus prepared the way very skillfully, madame pradère, radiant at the prosperous progress of her enterprise, now revealed her purpose. "i am very anxious," she said with a charming glance over all her attentive listeners, "to be present at the performance this evening, and i make bold, gentlemen, to beg of you to be present also. in that way all chance of anything amiss occurring will be avoided." "but you do not forget, madame," put in the colonel, "that our being present will mean the absence of the soldiers, who could not sit with us without a breach of discipline." "oh! that will be all right, i promise you, colonel," responded madame archly. "there'll be no interference with discipline. the soldiers will be placed at the back, and in the front there will be seats reserved for the officers and ourselves." madame pradère showed a spirit of irresistible pleasantry through it all. she was evidently delighted at having gained the cause of little nadine, who was so anxiously awaiting the result in the adjoining room. "and now, gentlemen," concluded madame, "will you permit me to present to you the chief of my troupe, who is just here, and whom i don't want to keep waiting any longer?" "by all means, madame," responded the officers. "it will give us much pleasure." the servant, françoise, was accordingly directed to bring in nadine. "madame is carried away by these mountebanks," growled françoise as she went back to the kitchen after doing as she had been bid. "it's enough for these strolling players to have children to get her interest ever since she lost her own." nadine, blushing and bewildered, stood in the door of the dining-room where françoise had left her. the brilliant company of officers, the sumptuous table decorated with plants and flowers, and laden with dainties such as she had never in her life tasted, and the whole richness of the room, took her breath away, so to speak, and she could not lift her eyes from the floor. "don't be dismayed, my child!" said madame kindly, quite understanding the cause of nadine's confusion. "come forward, and give your papers to the mayor, whom you see there." nadine shyly glided up to his worship, and handed him the papers which she took with great care out of the old battered portfolio. "do you mean to say that this is the chief of your troupe, madame?" asked the colonel in a tone that betrayed surprise and skepticism. "yes, colonel laurier," madame replied with a smile of amusement. "that child is the eldest of four, having two brothers and a sister to whom she has been a little mother for the last six months, since they became orphans through the death of their father. she has to attend to all matters of business besides caring for the little ones that are really dependent upon her." "she is certainly very pretty," murmured one of the captains as he twirled his mustache. even if his gracious hostess had not already bespoken his presence he would certainly have attended the performance in the evening, for nadine was worth a second look. "madame," remarked the colonel with a gesture that implied he was entirely convinced, "your protégés are decidedly interesting, and we shall assuredly be delighted to accompany you to the performance this evening which i am sure will be most entertaining." meanwhile the mayor had been quickly glancing over the papers which nadine had handed him. "these are all in order," he said with an important air, "i shall grant the required permission if you will be good enough, colonel, to give orders to your men to make room for these people." "that will be done at once," responded colonel laurier, and so, thanks to the intervention of the kind lady of the house, the whole matter was satisfactorily arranged. by this time nadine had completely regained her spirits, and, before taking her leave, she said in a voice that was made all the sweeter by the deep feeling which its trembling betrayed while she bent low in a graceful courtesy: "on behalf of my little sister and brothers, i thank you, gentlemen, from the bottom of my heart, and as for myself, i am your most dutiful servant." formal as the words sounded they were manifestly sincere, but even more heartfelt were those she added, when, turning toward madame pradère, she exclaimed, as she fixed her fine eyes upon the gracious lady: "you have been so kind to me, madame, i cannot express my thanks," and then she glided from the room. the moment she reached the street she set off at the top of her speed to rejoin the other children. she knew how impatiently they would be awaiting her return, particularly as the question of food for themselves and their animals hung upon her success. cæsar was the first to catch sight of her, and one glimpse of her radiant countenance was enough to tell him that all was well. "you have obtained the permission, haven't you, nadine?" he cried, so soon as she came within hearing. "yes, cæsar," she panted joyfully. "it's all right, and we can give a performance this evening, when we must do our very best, for we are going to have some important people present;" and the other two having joined them she proceeded to tell them all about her good fortune at the mayor's house, and the kindness of madame pradère. they listened with sparkling eyes and many exclamations of wonder and delight. nadine certainly had a keenly interested and appreciative audience. "and now, cæsar," she concluded, "you must go to the market and buy some nice fresh hay for nalla and steady." "but that will take our last cent, and what about our own food?" protested cæsar, who had the sharp appetite of a growing boy. "oh! we'll just have to wait," replied nadine decisively. "but nalla and steady must be attended to." as she spoke nalla moved towards his young mistress, and caressed her with his pliant trunk, making at the same time a curious deep sound that somewhat resembled the purring of a giant cat. "yes--you old dear--you shan't go hungry even if we have to for a little while. you're our good faithful breadwinner, aren't you?" and she patted the thick soft trunk with her pretty hand. cæsar grumbled a little, but did as he was bid. nadine's rule was as firm as it was gentle, and, however the others might at times object, she rarely failed to have her own way in the end. so the elephant and the horse were soon enjoying a hearty meal of succulent hay to which they did full justice. a little later the whole party arrived at the market-place where they found a place made ready for them by the orders of colonel laurier, who had not forgotten his promise. here nadine found the gendarme who had been so civil to her in the morning. "young girl," said he courteously, "i am to show you the place where you can give your performance, and also to give you madame pradère's instructions. so first of all tell me how you are accustomed to set up your outfit." "oh, that is a very simple affair," responded nadine with an apologetic smile. "we have, you see, our stage," and she pointed to a few planks and trestles which were hung at the sides and underneath the van. "but we have to hire some planks to serve as seats, and these we arrange in a sort of half-circle leaving plenty of room in the center for nalla to go through his performance." "so, so!" said the gendarme, shaking his head sagely; "that would be well enough for other occasions, but this time you will not hire any planks. there will have to be better arrangements made, for you are going to be honored with a very brilliant audience," and he pursed up his mouth in a most impressive way, "for whom mere planks would never do at all, and so for the front rows there must be chairs, and very good chairs too!" "but, sir!" cried nadine, appalled at the idea of the expense involved in providing such accommodation, "we can't do that! we have no money to pay for chairs!" "don't you worry about that, little one," returned the kindly gendarme, placing his hand upon her shoulder in a fatherly way. "leave it all to me. i have my orders from madame pradère, and shall see that everything is done just as she wishes. unharness your horse, set up your stage, and let me attend to the rest." nadine was puzzled, but the fact that madame pradère had instructed the old gendarme calmed her doubts, and she said blithely: "very well, sir, i'll do just as you say." cæsar accordingly unharnessed steady, and then, aided by nadine, proceeded to take from the van the materials for the stage. this was always a hard bit of work for their weak arms, but it was particularly hard on the days when they had not had any breakfast. nevertheless they would go bravely to work with the help of the intelligent elephant, who would lift and carry the heavier planks in his powerful trunk. to-day, however, they had no lack of helpers, for, no sooner did the soldiers see what they were about, than they hastened to offer their assistance, and in a jiffy the stage was set up instead of taking many weary minutes. just as it was finished a servant-maid carrying a large basket came up. "madame pradère sent this to you," she said, smiling, "she thought you might like something to eat," and she proceeded to produce from the basket a liberal supply of tempting food which she placed upon the stage. "truly your mistress is our good angel to-day!" cried nadine, the tears of joy and gratitude brimming her eyes. "i shall not fail to present to her our thanks before we go away from here." this was indeed one of the happiest moments of their lives. they forgot they had a single care as they breakfasted heartily upon the tender chicken, the snow-white bread with plenty of brown crust, the golden butter, and the rich milk which their benefactor had provided so thoughtfully. they had never before enjoyed so delicious a repast, and nadine's natural refinement made her appreciate it all the more because of the elegance of its appointments, for the dishes, the napery, the knives and forks were from madame's own table. "may the good god bless her a thousand times and more!" she fervently exclaimed when at last even cæsar's vigorous appetite was appeased. "what a treat she has given us all! come now, let us put the things neatly back in the basket. i believe there is enough still left for us to have for dinner." at three o'clock in the afternoon the tamby family with the exception of nadine, who remained in charge of their property, after the manner of performers of their kind, started out to parade the streets so as to let the people know of their presence and the entertainment they proposed to give. for this purpose a very shabby howdah was with no little difficulty, on account of its weight, fixed upon the patient nalla's back. in this, little lydia, with abel and cæsar, took their places, trying to look as important as possible. cæsar had a drum which he beat at intervals, and whenever there was anybody to listen to him he would call out the place and time of the approaching performance. he always enjoyed this part of the business. he liked being before the public, and to be perched high up on the elephant's back, and attracting so much attention was quite according to his taste. as for vigilant, he too had his part to play. he balanced himself cleverly upon nalla's broad neck just in front of the howdah and supported cæsar's drumming by volleys of shrill barking which most clearly meant: "here we are! listen to us! come and patronize our entertainment! we're well worth seeing i can tell you!" chapter iv. a record collection. when the parade was over, and it attracted so much attention that cæsar predicted a bumper house for the evening, the tambys made a very good dinner upon what was still left in madame pradère's bountiful basket, and then nadine and cæsar gave the finishing touches to the arrangements for the performance. what the little mountebanks called somewhat grandly their theater, was really but a few planks placed upon trestles not more than a yard high. the stage was about three yards long by as many deep, and there was a drop-curtain of calico sadly the worse for wear, while the back was closed in by a bit of canvas upon which had been painted some trees with the idea of conveying the notion of a forest. it was all pathetically simple and shabby, yet nadine somehow managed by dint of her ingenuity, aided by her excellent taste, to make it look better than one would imagine, by adding sundry little decorative touches such as only a woman's hand could bestow. half-past seven came, and already not only small boys but grown-up people also began to secure their seats upon the planks, the chairs in front being of course all reserved for madame pradère and her guests. a few minutes before eight the soldiers appeared in great number, and the young tambys would have had a difficult job keeping them out of the reserved seats but for the presence of the gendarme, who called out at the top of his big voice: "you cannot take those chairs. they are reserved for certain distinguished patrons as you will soon see. let me tell you, then, not to sit on them." "oh! we're not deaf. we can hear you all right," retorted the soldiers, making haste to settle themselves in the best places that were still available. when eight o'clock struck and neither madame pradère nor the other guests put in an appearance the spectators commenced to shout: "curtain! curtain!" and to utter shrill cries of impatience. it was the soldiers that called out "curtain!" after the fashion of the "gods" in the galleries of the real theaters which they had attended in the cities. nadine and cæsar got very nervous, but they did not dare to begin before the arrival of madame pradère. at this juncture their good friend the gendarme came to their relief. "stupid that i am!" he exclaimed. "haven't i forgotten to tell you that madame, the mayoress, will not be here until half-past eight, in time to hear you sing. you can therefore give the first part of your performance." this information removed all their difficulties. the regulation three knocks were given and the curtain rose. cæsar, clothed in a long red gown, and wearing a hat shaped like a sugar-loaf after the usual manner of magicians, was revealed standing beside a table covered with a turkish table-cloth, on which were arranged the glasses and double-bottomed boxes which are indispensable to sleight-of-hand performers. cæsar's tricks went off very well indeed, and, encouraged by the size and hearty interest of the spectators, he quite eclipsed himself. there were several hundred gathered, and among them a number of children who were especially eager to see the different acts in which nalla, steady, and vigilant appeared. the soldiers, too, who often behave like a lot of children, grew impatient, and began to shout for the animals. they even attempted to imitate them, one grunting like the elephant, another neighing like the horse, and the third barking like the dog. but the animals were tethered out of sight behind the van, and did not make their appearance. when the clamor became too insistent cæsar came to the front of the stage, and held up his hand to ask for silence: "ladies and gentlemen," he said with remarkable composure for a mere boy. "we are now about to show you some _tableaux vivants_. for these we ask of you complete silence, and a little patience. the exhibition of the animals will be given very soon. we will carry out the entire program as announced, and we beg of you in return, if you are satisfied with our performance, to be no less liberal with your money than with your applause." this little speech quite took the fancy of the crowd, who cheered it heartily, and were about to settle down again to look and listen attentively when the sound of approaching carriages made itself heard. nadine's heart leaped for joy. here at last were madame pradère and her guests. the performance would be honored with their presence after all. a moment later they appeared, madame leading the way, her comely countenance covered with smiles, and accompanied by several of her lady friends, while monsieur pradère and a dozen of the officers followed in her train, among them being the colonel, who had thus fulfilled his promise. this was a great surprise to the rest of the spectators, for certainly it had never been known before that ladies should be present at an open-air performance by mountebanks, while the soldiers were not less surprised to see their officers patronizing such an affair. this, then, was the explanation of the reserved seats, and for a brief space the first-comers found it more interesting than the items on the program. by so happy a hit the little tamby family had advanced wonderfully in the estimation of the spectators, who said to themselves that in order to attract such distinguished patrons as the pradères and their friends they must have some very unusual acts in their repertoire, and no doubt deserved to be called the little artists. nadine at once went forward to bow to madame pradère, and to thank her for the honor of her presence, and her kindness to the orphans. madame pradère made light of that, but went on to say with an encouraging smile: "my child, i came especially to hear you sing, for i believe that you can tell us pretty things that we do not yet know. so proceed, my little girl. we are here to listen to you." nadine courtesied gracefully, and disappeared behind the curtain. when the curtain rose again she was disclosed in the middle of the stage with her little sister seated near while cæsar stood ready to accompany her with a mandolin. a perfect silence fell upon the audience. the girl looked so pretty and modest that she won all hearts, and everybody was in the mood to listen to her with appreciative attention. she began with a curiously rhythmical prelude, about which there was at the same time something sweet, sad, and strange that gripped the hearts of her hearers. then in a superb contralto voice, and with exquisite taste, she broke forth into song. as madame pradère had expected, nadine's singing was out of the usual order. she was telling in song the pitiful story of a mother who had lost her reason after the death of her only child. the poor woman, wandering among the mountains of bohemia, confides her grief to the passing winds, to the echoes murmuring unintelligible things, to the flowers nodding and smiling in response to the caresses of the evening breeze. in her madness she imagines that the soul of her child has taken refuge in one of the flowers which bestrew her pathway, and she goes from one to the other of them repeating her touching refrain: "tell me, o flower! is it you that hides the soul of my child which was taken away from me by death?" then realizing the futility of her inquiries she breaks out into sudden and terrible imprecations: "o death, you merciless monster! why did you take my child from me? you are a foul fiend!" and more after the same fashion. but presently her mood changes, and, forgetting her sorrow, she begins to sing to the same flowers that she had been cursing, in words of infinite tenderness, such as mothers use to their darling babes. when nadine ceased singing instead of a burst of applause there was absolute silence. so completely had she taken possession of her audience by the pathos and beauty of her song that they were unwilling to break the spell, and not until she bowed, and withdrew, did the applause break forth. then it was simply thunderous. from every side came cries of: "bravo! bravo! encore! encore!" blushing and smiling and with her heart throbbing joyously nadine, looking more charming than ever, returned, and repeated the last verse of the song, putting into it such profound expression and such winning tenderness that many eyes were filled with tears. at this moment madame pradère called little lydia to her and said, smiling through the tears that brimmed her beautiful eyes: "my pet, you should now take up the collection. it is just the right time for it. nadine has touched the people's hearts and they will not refuse to put their hands in their pockets. will they, colonel laurier?" turning to the officer who sat upon her right. "no, indeed!" he responded warmly, slipping his own hand into his pocket whence came the significant jingle of coin. "this crowd will give a fine collection i am sure." "very well, madame, i'll run and tell nadine," responded lydia, bowing prettily, and she darted off behind the curtain, which rose the next instant showing cæsar ready to announce the remainder of the program. "ladies and gentlemen," he said with quite a grand air, as if fully appreciating the importance of what he had to tell them. "we are now to have the honor of presenting to you the famous trained elephant nalla in his wonderful acts of intelligence and skill. he is the wisest and kindest elephant in captivity. he understands everything we say to him, and he can talk a little to us in his own way. there is no other such elephant on the continent. we call him our breadwinner because he is the chief attraction of our little show. before he appears mademoiselle lydia will pass amongst you, and will be pleased to receive whatever you may see fit to give in return for the amusement we have provided this evening, and while she is doing this, if you have no objection, i will play a few tunes upon my mandolin. if any one present desires a particular air i shall be very happy to play it if i know how." having made this clever little speech with exceeding good grace, cæsar took up his instrument and in response to the request of one of the officers, began the solo of the toreador from "carmen," which he gave with great spirit. meanwhile nadine accompanied lydia, who, holding a wooden bowl in her hand, began the round of the spectators. now on ordinary occasions this was the critical stage of the performance for the young mountebanks, as upon what it yielded depended the grave question of the morrow's bread, and too often, alas! the results were pitifully meager! many a time had poor little nadine, upon whom the chief burden of responsibility rested, found it hard to keep back the tears when, as lydia set out with her bowl, the majority of those who had been watching the performance turned their backs upon the children who had been doing their best to amuse them. ah! yes, many a time had nadine, who had learned by experience to gauge her audience pretty accurately by one glance at them, felt her heart sink at the critical moment. but this time nobody slipped away. they all remained in their places, and seemed eager to respond to the appeal about to be made. nadine first led lydia up to madame pradère, who had called for her that she might be the first to drop a coin into her bowl. lydia, as was her custom, repeated in her childish quavering voice, the words: "for the little tambys, ladies and gentlemen, a trifle if you please." but it looked as if she would be more than taken at her word, for madame pradère set a fine example by dropping a gold piece into the bowl! when nadine saw this the color rose in her charming face, and she murmured in a voice that trembled with feeling: "oh, madame, thank you! thank you!" "never mind thanks, continue your round," laughed madame pradère giving lydia a gentle push towards the colonel. then, turning to nadine, she added: "you have given me a great deal of pleasure, my sweet one, i assure you, and we shall want you to sing something more for us--another song about a child, if you can, you can do it with such expression. it goes right to one's heart." "i shall be glad to do as you desire, madame," responded nadine, and, with a graceful bow, she followed lydia, whose little cries of joy showed that her mission was proving successful beyond precedent. in fact she was receiving white money--nothing but white money--no dark coins at all. she had never before had such good fortune, and in her joy she forgot her sister's admonitions, and danced about exclaiming: "another, nadine, and another! and still another!" but nadine did not attempt to restrain her, for she saw that the people were amused with the child's artless demonstrations. when she had been to all the reserved seats, she turned to the soldiers and workmen who were in the rear, and none of them failed to put in a few sous, although, of course, they gave no silver. twice did lydia empty her bowl into nadine's lap. it was the first time the tamby family had taken so much at a performance, and their hearts glowed with joy and gratitude, while the spectators awaited the second part of the program with lively interest. chapter v. a remarkable fencer. amid perfect silence the elephant made his entrée under the direction of his little friend abel, who could do anything he liked with the good-tempered monster. he proceeded calmly to the center of the open space inclosed by the reserved seats, the planks, and the standing spectators, and then with trunk lowered and motionless, stood at attention. "nalla!" said abel, "we shall now pay our respects to this distinguished gathering." then, taking off his toque, he made sweeping bows to right and left, which the docile elephant imitated by elevating and lowering his trunk in a dignified manner that was highly amusing. "and now, nalla," continued abel, who bore himself with all the importance of a grown person, "you will be good enough to let us see how much you know and can do. for instance, can you sing like your mistress, mademoiselle nadine?" "to be sure, i can," responded nalla, in dumb show, by lifting his trunk up and down. "very well, then," smiled abel. "suppose you give us one of the songs of your own country, something sweet and tender." nalla threw back his enormous ears, and pointing his trunk high into the air, let forth a series of horrible sounds that fairly stunned the ears of the spectators, who nearly rolled over with laughter while they strove to shut out the dreadful noise by clapping their hands over their ears. "that will do! that will do! nalla!" cried abel, giving the absurd creature a slight slap with his wand. "you sing beautifully, of course, but you have a shocking bad voice, and you haven't the least idea of tune. you shall have to take a course of lessons before you again appear in public." "all right!" said the waving trunk, and the abominable discords ceased abruptly. "it is evident that you have a very bad cold to-night, nalla," said abel, "and your voice requires attention. but if you sing so badly, perhaps you are better at dancing?" "certainly, i dance admirably," responded nalla, proceeding to put himself in position to begin. "would you be so kind, then, as to show our kind patrons a quick-step of your own invention?" asked abel. "with pleasure," answered nalla, but he did not budge nevertheless. "why, what's the matter? why don't you begin?" demanded abel, with well-simulated surprise and anger. for reply nalla resumed singing with his huge horrid voice. "ah! i understand," smiled abel, giving himself a slap with the wand. "_i_ was forgetting. you require some one to play for you, of course." "yes, yes," replied the mobile trunk, which expressed its owner's meaning quite as well as the fingers of deaf-mutes do what they want to tell. turning around, abel called out: "mr. musician cæsar, will you be so good as to select from your repertoire something that will do for the elephant to dance to?" "i shall be very pleased to do so," responded cæsar promptly, coming forward with his mandolin. "ah, thank you, musician," said nalla, looking highly pleased, and, as soon as cæsar struck up, he began dancing, if not with grace, at least with great earnestness. indeed the huge creature kept time with his feet, and circled about in a way that one could hardly have believed him capable of doing. "excellent! excellent! nalla!" exclaimed abel, while the spectators showed their concurrence by a hearty round of applause. "you certainly are a famous dancer. now that will do for the present. you can take a rest." but, instead of obeying, nalla continued his circling, and the waving of his trunk in a very droll fashion. "that will do, i tell you," abel cried. "stop, or i'll have to make you!" nalla only danced the harder, and was evidently mocking abel with that wonderful trunk which seemed equal to expressing any emotion. the spectators laughed heartily. the elephant was more than fulfilling expectations. indeed they had never before seen so intelligent and amiable a monster. "oh, i know what you're driving at," said abel, the angry frown on his face yielding to a smile of comprehension. "you want to fight a duel. all right! i'm at your service." nalla wagged his trunk joyfully, ceased pirouetting, and took up a position opposite abel, who produced two foils with buttons, one of which he extended to the elephant. nalla eagerly seized it with his trunk, and put himself on guard. "ready now!" cried abel, and at once opened the attack with great spirit. but nalla, dexterously wielding his foil, parried every thrust to perfection, and abel could not get past his guard, try as hard as he might. the soldiers were highly amused at the lack of skill shown by the eight-year-old boy, and tried to be witty at his expense, whereupon abel stopped the bout, and, facing the spectators, said in a tone of challenge: "gentlemen, you are laughing at my failure and want of experience. no doubt there are among you many much more expert at fencing than i am. in that case i shall be only too glad to make way. does any one of those present wish to take my foil, and try a turn with nalla?" at first there was no response, and abel repeated his request. then a soldier advanced slowly. "ah! ah! there's a champion!" was called out from the benches. "you need not be afraid in the least," said abel encouragingly, for the soldier moved in a hesitating way. "fence with nalla just as you would with a comrade. he will play you no mean trick, but i warn you that he's very good at the game." the soldier smiled cheerfully, and, grasping the foil, put himself in position vis-à-vis to the elephant. nalla fixed his bright little eyes upon him, and with foil in trunk awaited the attack. now this soldier who had come forward was a young fellow of spirit, who was not lending himself to the little pleasantry in order to show off his skill at fencing. on the contrary, moved by the humor of the occasion, he entered the lists against nalla quite ready to let the big brute carry off the honors, and without being troubled at all as to the figure he should cut himself. accordingly he went at the elephant in lively fashion, but, thrust and feint and dodge as he might, he could not get inside the clever creature's guard, or touch any part of his huge body. nalla parried every attack with a quickness and precision that was simply astonishing, evidently enjoying the play quite as fully as his active antagonist, who threw himself into it with such vim. for a while nalla contented himself with maintaining his defense, but presently he changed his tactics, and assumed the offensive. without moving from the spot upon which he stood he lunged and riposted with such swiftness and accuracy of aim that he touched the soldier's chest with the button three times in short order. "bravo! bravo!" cried the spectators, delighted at the big fellow's amazing skill. "go for him, old chap! touch him again." the soldier, not in the least alarmed, defended himself gallantly, but it was evident that he was completely overmatched, and a moment later, nalla, as if taking pity on his adversary, by a clever pass, disarmed him, and then let his own foil drop. the place rang with applause while the soldier, carrying out the play with admirable spirit, assumed an attitude of profound humiliation. when the commotion subsided, there were cries from the soldiers for "master deschamps! master deschamps!" and colonel laurier turned around to survey his men with a questioning look. then there came forward a tall athletic man with a strong dark countenance in which eagerness and reluctance seemed to be contending. he was the fencing-master of the regiment, and had the reputation of being one of the most expert in the whole army. it was, therefore, only natural that the men should be anxious to see what he could do against so redoubtable an opponent. he approached the colonel, and by an inquiring look sought to know the latter's will. colonel laurier glanced at madame pradère, who in her turn shot a quick look at nadine. nadine smiled back unconcernedly. madame pradère nodded her assent to the colonel, and he said in a low tone to master deschamps. "try a bout with the creature, but be careful not to do him any harm." the fencing-master bowed, and taking the foil from little abel put himself on guard. the excitement was now intense, and the spectators were perfectly silent. the soldiers expected great things from their champion, to whom every trick and strategy of the art of fencing was known, and the tamby family were even more confident concerning their gigantic representative. the fencing-master went to work very warily at first. he wanted to learn the extent of his novel antagonist's skill, and he circled about in front of him, making dexterous passes and deceiving feints with such rapidity that they could scarcely be followed by the human eye. but the little black beads that twinkled in nalla's huge head were not to be misled. wherever master deschamps' foil flashed there was the elephant's ready to meet it, and the air rang with the sound of steel striking steel while the spectators watched the strange struggle breathlessly. at last the man grew angry. it seemed absurd to be thus bettered at his own speciality by a mere animal however big. he darted this way and that, lunging fiercely, if not recklessly. he resorted even to devices that were not considered "good form" in the fencing-hall. but they were all alike in vain. nalla, without stirring a foot, simply by waving his trunk with the foil firmly held in the end, parried every attack and remained untouched. then abel whispered to him the single word "now," and at once he changed his tactics. hitherto he had been on the defense. now he took up the attack. the foil fairly whistled through the air with the rapidity of his movements. again and yet again the button touched the tunic of the fencing-master, not roughly, but with just sufficient force that there should be no mistake. despite the discomfiture of their champion the soldiers broke forth into roars of applause. nalla had won their hearts by his superb and placid dignity. he was the finest beast they had ever seen, and they did not grudge him his victory. but master deschamps did not take it in equally good part. he felt bitterly humiliated. his face grew crimson with rage. his eyes glowed like burning coals, and at last forgetting himself in his fury he gave an inarticulate hoarse cry, and rushed at the elephant brandishing his foil with the evident intention of using it, not in the proper way, but as a whip wherewith to smite his successful antagonist. chapter vi. the animals distinguish themselves. nadine screamed and darted forward. madame pradère shrieked and rose from her chair. the colonel sprang to his feet, and shouted: "master deschamps--halt!" in his most commanding tone. they were all concerned for the elephant, who was thus threatened with cruel blows from the shining steel. but their anxiety was after all unfounded. nalla, perfectly alive to the impending danger, stood motionless until the fencing-master was within range of that marvelous trunk, and then there was one movement of the sinuous powerful thing, the sharp swish of steel cutting the air, and the baffled soldier's foil, torn from his grasp, went flying through the air into the darkness behind the van. there was one moment of amazed silence, and then burst forth a tumult of applause to which all previous ones were as nothing. the special guests were delighted at the astonishing adroitness of nalla, while the soldiers, not failing to appreciate it, were even more delighted at the discomfiture of master deschamps, who was a merciless martinet that often made their lives miserable. as for the fencing-master--he seemed so utterly chagrined, and slunk away looking so cast down, that colonel laurier considered he was sufficiently punished, and let him go unrebuked. after this excitement it seemed appropriate to have the soothing influence of a song, and accordingly cæsar announced amid general approval that nadine would now fulfill her promise of singing again. the little woman, her pretty countenance wreathed in smiles, for this wonderful evening had made her heart lighter than it had been for many a day, then came forward, and cæsar being ready with his mandolin, began a lovely cradle-song with a curious penetrating charm. the spectators were greatly pleased with it, and if nadine had been guided by the successive waves of applause, she would have sung again and again. but the hour was getting late, and there still remained to be given the grand act in which all the animals took part, and which was being anticipated with the keenest interest by the younger portion of the assembly. first of all, the dog, vigilant, with the cap of a mousquetaire upon his head, and a neat pair of boots upon his hind paws, made his appearance mounted upon steady, looking very happy and important. he had, attached to his right paw, a tiny whip with which in a very comical way he flipped his steed from time to time as if he was impatient for the sedate old animal to quicken his pace. but steady took not the slightest notice of these attentions from his rider. he came in with a slow chump-chump-chump, his head hanging between his fore-legs, and his whole appearance that of a horse thoroughly tired out, while vigilant ran up and down his back from neck to tail and back again, his rapid barks expressing alternately coaxing and scolding, persuasion and abuse. yet all without avail. steady remained equally deaf to threats as to entreaties. he positively make one ache with sympathy to look at him, so perfectly did the clever beast enact extreme weariness. presently steady sank upon his knees, and, after resting in that attitude a moment, made a great effort to regain his feet, but seeming unable to do it, fell over on his side, and, stretching out his head, lay upon the ground as limp and motionless as though he were dead. at once vigilant, being thus sent to the ground much against his will, sent up a most piteous bewailing so far as it could be expressed through the medium of barking. he went to steady's head and barked right into his ears to make him understand the better. but all to no purpose. steady did not budge. then vigilant got angry, and he circled around steady pouring upon him a shower of blows from his whip. these having no effect, he stopped as if at last realizing that his steed was dead, and, squatting down on his hind legs, began to cry, and to wipe away the tears with his left paw in an exceedingly funny way. suddenly he lifted his head and pricked up his ears. he heard the voice of a child singing softly. with an eager volley of barks he called for assistance. whereupon nalla appeared upon the scene with lydia perched upon his broad neck. "did you call me, young sir?" asked lydia precisely as if she were addressing one of her own kind. "yes--yes--" yapped vigilant excitedly. "and what can i do for you?" inquired lydia with a sympathetic smile. vigilant did his best to explain. he pointed with his paw to steady lying prone upon the ground, apparently dead, and with the most touching little barks he strove to make his meaning clear. lydia looked as if she understood what he was driving at, but said in a guileless way: "young sir, i am only a child, and my education is far from complete. i can, it is true, speak several languages, but i know nothing of the one you use. however, i think that with a little patience it will be possible for us to understand each other. do you follow me?" "oh, perfectly!" responded vigilant, bowing neatly. "very well, then," continued lydia. "as you understand me, we shall proceed. i shall ask you some questions, and you will answer me, one bark being for 'yes,' and two for 'no.' you catch that? all right. have you come a long way? yes. you are, then, perhaps some young prince making a tour of the country?" "that's it," replied vigilant. [illustration: "alas, i do!" answered the dog.] "very good! you're a young prince, i've no doubt," said lydia, "judging from your distinguished manners, and the elegance of your speech. but this horse that is lying down there, does he belong to you?" "yes indeed," responded the dog emphatically. "he is tired or sick, perhaps," continued lydia in a tone of sympathy, "and you cannot continue your journey, eh?" at this vigilant made shift to weep, and to cross his paws over his heart in a most beseeching manner. "your distress is very touching, young sir," said the child. "you think your horse is dead?" "alas, i do!" answered the dog in a long pitiful whine. "it is indeed very unfortunate that a young gentleman of your quality should find himself in this predicament in such a lonely place," pursued lydia. "your parents are no doubt anxiously awaiting your return?" "you've just hit it! you're quite right," the eager barking seemed to reply. "ah! i understand," went on lydia, her face brightening with a sudden gleam of comprehension. "you have perhaps disobeyed your mother?" "yes, i have," vigilant confessed with a very penitent air. "then you are being punished for your misbehavior," rejoined lydia with the air of a grandmother. "so much the worse for you. you've been naughty, and you must take the consequences. i can't do anything for you, young sir. good-luck and good-bye to you. come, nalla, we must go on our way." but nalla did not stir, and began to make certain mutterings as though he were begging lydia for something. "what do you want, nalla?" demanded lydia. "do you wish to give some assistance to this young man?" the elephant's trunk gave an emphatic answer in the affirmative. "yes," it seemed to say. "i do, because it would be a kindness." "to be sure! i was forgetting your power," returned lydia, adding as she turned to vigilant, "you are fortunate, young sir, that nalla came your way, for you must know that having been brought up in a temple, nalla, when he was young, received from the god buddha the power of doing three times in his life whatever good action he might see fit, even though it were bringing a horse back to life, and nalla now is going to revive your poor old horse." on hearing this vigilant poured forth a volley of joyful barks, and started dancing around in a way that lydia called waltzing. then nalla, having lifted lydia to the ground with his wonderful trunk which served so many useful purposes, approached steady, whom he touched gently with his trunk, and, directed by lydia, walked three times around him, waving his trunk in a curious spiral fashion. next, thrusting it under the motionless horse, he endeavored to lift him to his feet, but the moment he offered to take away the support the poor beast threatened to fall down again. vigilant now saw that he must come to nalla's aid, and he made haste to pile up the dust with his paws under each of the horse's feet as the clowns do in the circus in their own ridiculous fashion. this proceeding evoked a roar of laughter from the highly amused spectators, and when it was finished nalla let out a tremendous trumpeting, fit to rouse the world. it was effectual in rousing steady at all events, and, with a shake that seemed to make his bones rattle, he stood up straight. vigilant was most profuse in his gratitude, making profound bows, accompanied by graceful salutes with the little whip fastened to his paw. lydia again bid him "good-day," and nalla putting out his trunk for her, regained her place upon his broad back. as they were departing, vigilant called them back. it was all well enough to bring his steed back to life, and set him upon his feet again, but now that he had dismounted he was quite unable to remount without assistance. "sure enough!" smiled lydia in response to his excited request. "i might have thought of that. nalla will be happy to do you that slight service, won't you, nalla?" nalla waved his trunk in token of assent, and then extended it towards vigilant. the dog kept perfectly still while the wonderful appendage that could do almost anything, picked him up in the most careful manner, and deposited him upon the back of the horse. then the whole party withdrew, and the next moment lydia reappeared to proceed with her song. but the other actors in the little scene were in such high spirits that they could not permit her to have the singing to herself. first, vigilant lifted up his voice with great energy. then steady, to whom lydia had given a lump of sugar, whinnied his satisfaction in an insistent fashion, and finally nalla joined in with his deafening and by no means melodious trumpeting, swinging his huge head from side to side, and completing a quartet, whose music, while it stunned the ears of the audience, was certainly ridiculous enough to make the most morose smile, and win a laugh from the most dignified. this concluded the entertainment, and the spectators, thoroughly well pleased with what they had seen and heard, began to disperse. madame pradère went forward to congratulate nadine, and to invite her and lydia to come and see her next morning before they left for another place. the mayor and the colonel also signified the pleasure the performance had given them, and in a little while the whole gathering had vanished. when they were by themselves in their van the young tambys made haste to reckon up the receipts of the evening with beaming countenances. "it can't be so much, nadine!" cried cæsar on his sister announcing the total. "you are surely mistaken!" "well, let us go over it again, cæsar," rejoined nadine with a happy smile, and accordingly the white and brown coins, among which kind madame pradère's gold piece glittered conspicuously, were once more carefully counted. "one hundred and twenty-eight francs!" exclaimed cæsar, springing to his feet, and waving his cap joyously. "just think of it! we never had so much money of our own before! and to get it all in one evening! oh! that kind good madame, and the polite colonel, it was because of them we did so well. we owe it to them, don't we, nadine?" and in the ecstasy of his delight he threw his arms around his pretty sister's neck, and kissed her warmly. nadine blushed with pleasure at this rare tribute of brotherly affection. "yes, indeed, cæsar," she responded. "madame pradère is certainly our good angel, and we shall all go to thank her again before we leave here. oh! if only our dear father were still alive, how glad he would be! we never made so much at one performance when he was with us," and at the recollection of her father the young girl's fine eyes filled with tears, and her rosy lips quivered. but, controlling her grief, she smiled brightly through her tears as she added: "we shall all have plenty to eat for a good while now, and nalla, and steady, and vigilant will grow fat again. come now, let us all get to bed. we're tired out, and there'll be plenty to do in the morning." so in quick time the van was by a few simple changes converted into a sleeping-apartment, and after cæsar had seen to it that the animals lacked for nothing, the light-hearted quartet of children, having committed themselves to the care of the good god, whom their parents had taught them to love, lay down to sleep, little imagining how rudely their much-needed rest was ere long to be disturbed. chapter vii. the stampeding of nalla. it was drawing near to midnight. the market-place was wrapped in darkness and silence. the tamby family children inside the van were dreaming pleasantly of fresh successes, while close by nalla and steady dozed comfortably after the labors of the day, and the excitement of the evening. the gendarme, whose duty it was to patrol the market-place, and who had been one of the most appreciative spectators of the performance, after making a few turns of the square, and assuring himself that things were all right, sat down upon some hay in a corner, and before he knew what he was about fell fast asleep. a few minutes later two dark forms glided stealthily out from an alley, and crept towards the tambys' van. that their presence meant no good, the method of their approach clearly indicated, but who were they, and upon what mischief were they bent? to answer this question it must be explained that in the town was an academy which had many pupils, and of these a number had attended the performance. on their return to the academy they got into a lively discussion about the animals, and nalla, of course, was the chief subject. one of the elder boys, who really was well informed for his age, and liked to make a show of his learning, asserted that in spite of their size elephants were great cowards, and were terrified at the sight of a mouse. the other boys laughed at this statement. "a great big elephant afraid of a tiny mouse!" they cried. "fudge! you don't know what you're talking about!" this angered raoul, and the controversy waxed warm until finally, carried away by excitement, he shouted: "look here now, fellows, i do know what i'm talking about, and if any of you will get me a mouse i'll prove it." a chorus of derisive laughter greeted this challenge, which angered raoul still more, and he fairly screamed out: "get me a mouse, and i'll show you that i'm right!" "a mouse! a mouse! who knows where to get a mouse?" called out one of the senior boys, looking around as though he expected some one to produce the tiny animal from his pocket. "i do," responded a little fellow with a sharp thin face that gave him somewhat the appearance of a mouse himself. "i have three of them in a box. i keep them as pets." at this announcement there was a shout of satisfaction, and the youngster was bidden to bring out his curious pets. he ran off, and presently returned with a little pasteboard box in which some live thing could be heard moving. "bravo!" cried the others with the exception of raoul, who looked decidedly disconcerted. "now we are all right. we have the mouse, and raoul will show us how he can frighten the big elephant." to judge by raoul's expression he would greatly prefer going off quietly to bed, but he was in for it now, and must at least make an effort to carry the thing through. so, summoning his resolution, he assumed a jaunty air, and said, gayly: "come along then. we'll see if i'm not right." and he led the way followed by as many boys as dared risk the consequences of being away from the school at night without leave. they slipped out of the building silently, and directed their steps to the market-place. here, raoul, who was of course in command, ordered all but one to remain hidden in an empty stall, while he and his chum went over to the van. they moved as noiselessly as shadows, and when they reached there, the tamby children and the animals were wrapped in profound slumber. not even vigilant scented their approach. trembling all over with nervousness, their hearts beating like trip-hammers, and their mouths parched as with great thirst, the two boys crept near to nalla, who stood beside the van as motionless as if carved out of stone. with shaking fingers they opened the little box, and, seizing its tiny occupant, threw it at the sleeping monster. the mouse struck nalla full upon the trunk, and then dropped at his feet, stunned by the cruel blow. in an instant the great creature was awake, and the tip of his trunk touched the furry morsel on the ground, which squeaked and struggled piteously. the effect upon the elephant was appalling. a violent convulsion shook his mighty frame. he broke forth into terrible trumpetings, and, snapping his tether as though it had been only a thread, he dashed off at full speed into the darkness, flying panic-stricken from what had terrified him. immediately wild confusion succeeded the quiet which had reigned. vigilant set up a frantic barking, and steady joined in with an anxious whinnying. the tambys started from their sleep, and rushed out of the van in their nightdresses screaming with fright; the gendarme, aroused from his pleasant dozing in the hay, sought to cover his lapse of duty by rattling his sword, and shouting fiercely: "what is the matter? what means all this row? i demand to know at once." but there was at first no one to answer him. the mischievous boys and nalla had disappeared, and they alone knew what had taken place. presently nadine recovered her wits, and at once realized the situation. "nalla has been frightened," she cried, "and has run off. oh! how shall we get him back?" "why, he'll come back himself when he gets over his scare," responded cæsar, doing his best to be cheerful. "if not, we'll find him in the morning all right." but nadine was not to be easily comforted. nalla's frantic trumpeting had filled her heart with terror, and this combined with the sudden awakening from sleep, had completely unnerved her. she burst into tears, and wrung her hands as she sobbed out: "poor nalla! what will happen to him? he'll be sure to get hurt. oh! isn't it dreadful!" her distress certainly had good grounds. a huge creature, mad with terror, charging wildly through the streets of the town, and perhaps out into the country, could hardly fail to do injury to himself if not to others. by the time the matter was made clear to the dull-witted though well-intentioned gendarme, a number of the soldiers had come over from their side of the market-place to offer their services if they could be of any use. an excited consultation followed in which several voices were always trying to make themselves heard simultaneously, and there did not seem much hope of any practical issue until one of the officers put in an appearance, and he at once assumed the direction of affairs. he questioned the tearful nadine and the troubled cæsar about nalla and his habits, and on learning how kind and faithful a creature he was, he strove to reassure them. "make your minds easy," he said in a tone of superior knowledge. "nothing dreadful will happen. the elephant will run until he is tired, and then he will find some nice fresh herbage, and he will stop to feed upon it. it would be no use trying to find him to-night, but immediately after reveille in the morning i will put at your services a detail of soldiers, and they will go out to look for your elephant." nadine and cæsar thanked him warmly. he was quite right after all. it would be useless searching for nalla in the darkness. they must wait for daylight, and so they bade everybody "good-night" and went back into their van to wait for the morning. the two younger children soon fell asleep again, but not so did nadine and cæsar. they spent the long hours whispering to each other conjectures as to what could possibly have so frightened nalla, and exchanging hopes of how soon he would be found again. at dawn they were ready and watching impatiently for the soldiers. the officer proved even better than his promise, for having reported the affair to colonel laurier, the latter had in the goodness of his heart, ordered out fifty soldiers with the command that they were to continue the search until the elephant had been found and returned to its owners. at the suggestion of the officer, who was a particularly quick-witted young man, four parties were formed and one of the children accompanied each, the shrewd idea being that whichever party located nalla there would be with it one that the great creature loved and trusted, and whose orders he would obey. the plan of campaign having been thus skillfully arranged, the four parties set off upon their quest, going north, south, east, and west from the market-place. all this kindness was not without its cheering influence upon the tambys, who quite recovered their spirits, and high with hope of nothing serious having happened to their breadwinner, bade each other good-luck as the parties separated. it not being possible even for a story-writer to be in four places at the same time, only nadine's party will be followed. they steered due north, making inquiries of every one they met upon the route. at first the answers returned gave them no encouragement that they were in the right direction. but after they had cleared the town and got into the outskirts, they began to hear of some strange enormous thing that had been caught sight of as it sped along the road. those who first glimpsed it had not fully believed their senses, and supposed themselves to be the object of some delusion. farther on, however, their informants had had more light to see by, and were able to give a better account, until presently they received so accurate a description of the marvel that they knew they were hot upon the scent. "we shall come up with him soon now," said the officer confidently to nadine. "he wouldn't run far after he got tired, and he'd be sure to look out for something to eat." they kept on at good speed, plying every one with questions, and getting such full replies as to the startling size and aspect of the creature that they expected to have his huge gray shape loom into sight at any moment. finally they came to a prosperous farm among the outbuildings of which something very exciting was evidently transpiring, as the folks were hurrying thither breathlessly. "nalla's there!" cried nadine, clutching the officer's arm in her anxiety. "i hope they're not hurting him. oh! come, let us be quick and get to him." "hurting him!" laughed the officer. "not much fear of that! he can take care of himself. i'm more concerned about his hurting some of them. come along!" and catching the girl's hand he broke into a run. chapter viii. nalla recovered. they made their way around the rear of the barn, and then one glance was sufficient to explain the excitement. before them stretched an extensive market-garden, displaying a splendid variety of vegetables in full growth; cabbages, cauliflowers, beets, carrots, radishes, celery, and so forth, covered the well-weeded soil with their succulent verdure. the sagacious elephant had not taken long to appreciate the opportunity upon which he had come by the mere chance of his frantic flight. the tempting green things had appealed at once to him, and he was busy sampling the different delicacies, pulling them from the ground with that wonderful trunk of his quite as deftly as the proprietor or his servants could have done it with their hands. meanwhile the latter, armed with pitchforks, rakes, brooms, and other rural implements, were keeping a respectful distance as they shouted and waved their weapons at the voracious intruder, who proceeded with his feast as steadily and calmly as if he neither saw nor heard them. the officer broke into laughter in which nadine, relieved beyond expression at the sight of her precious elephant, not only unharmed, but enjoying himself so hugely, could not resist joining. "just look at the clever old fellow!" chuckled the officer. "isn't he having a fine time of it? it seems a pity to disturb him." "oh! but he will do so much damage, and we will have to pay for it!" cried nadine, who had always, poor girl, to consider the financial side of things, for was she not the little mother of a family that had many needs? "that's so!" responded the officer, making a grimace. "there'll be a bill for damages, i suppose. let us go to him and get him to stop his blow-out at once." nadine's appearance was not noticed by the rustics until she went right up to the elephant, and seized his trunk, saying: "you naughty nalla! you mustn't do that! you're stealing these vegetables, and i'll have to pay the farmer for them." to the amazement of all save the officer, the elephant at once stopped his eager feeding, gave forth a joyful trumpeting, passed his trunk affectionately over nadine's face, and then, wrapping it about her body, lifted her slight form to his neck, where he deposited her as gently as a mother would her baby. from her commanding position nadine made haste to address the open-mouthed rustics. "i am so sorry, my nalla," she said, patting the huge head with a certain air of reproof that the intelligent creature really seemed to understand, "has given you such a scare, and eaten so many of your vegetables. but something frightened him last night on the market-place, and he ran away, and we have been hunting for him ever since dawn. i will pay the owner of the garden for the damage he has done." the murmur of astonishment changed into one of applause. there are no people with a livelier appreciation of dash and daring than the french, and nadine's dramatic appearance on the scene, and remarkable self-possession for so young a girl, made a profound impression. one of the men cried out, "bravo! bravo!" and the others joined in, their hitherto frightened faces beaming with relief and interest. the quick-witted officer saw the chance of getting nadine out of the difficulty without any cost; stepping forward and making a gesture to command attention, he said: "it is true that the elephant has done a certain amount of damage here, for which his young mistress is quite willing to pay if the proprietor of the garden insists; but it has occurred to me that you might like to have the big fellow pay the bill himself, by showing you how clever he is, and how he understands every word that his mistress says to him." this proposition was received with an instant chorus of approval, and the proprietor, a good-natured prosperous man, who had by this time completely got over both his fright and his indignation, having graciously signified his assent, the officer turned to nadine and said: "now, mademoiselle, will you be kind enough to show these good people what a very wise and intelligent animal your elephant is?" nadine, smiling radiantly, for her young heart had been sorely troubled at the prospect of having to pay, she had no idea how much, for what nalla had destroyed or eaten, at once proceeded to put the great creature through his repertoire of tricks. he bowed, he danced, he sang, he picked up the tiniest objects with his trunk, he responded "yes" or "no," most appropriately to her questions, and altogether so delighted the country-folk that they were loath to let him leave them. but of course nadine, so soon as her mind was relieved, bethought herself of cæsar, and abel, and lydia, and was impatient for them to be spared further anxiety. so as soon as it could be managed she took her departure, having thanked the proprietor very prettily for his leniency. she rode on nalla's neck back to the market-place, and her return was somewhat in the nature of a triumph, for the others had all got back with nothing to report, and were consequently in very low spirits, and when she appeared mounted upon the missing animal they shouted and screamed for joy, while the crowd that had gathered out of curiosity vigorously applauded. they had just got over their demonstrations, and were setting about preparations to make a move from the town towards the next halting-place, when the gendarme bustled up to say that the secret of the elephant's stampede had been discovered, and that nadine's presence was required at the sous-préfet's office. "you will please come with me, mademoiselle," puffed the fat old fellow. "i will be your escort, and you shall have the satisfaction of seeing the rascals who played such a mean trick upon you properly punished." nadine, dear little soul, was so happy at the affair having terminated without any ill consequences, that she had not the slightest desire for vengeance upon the perpetrators of the mischief, and would fain have let the matter rest. but of course a summons from the préfet could not be disregarded, so, leaving to cæsar the packing-up, she accompanied the gendarme. in the mayor's office she found a number of people, and among them three very miserable looking schoolboys, who were presently subjected to a sharp examination. it seemed that the absence of the boys from the school had been detected by one of the teachers, who set himself to discover what it meant, and by clever investigation had got to the bottom of the affair, whereupon, not knowing how serious the outcome might be, he had reported it to the authorities. raoul and two others were accordingly haled to the préfet's office for a sort of preliminary examination, and nadine was called upon to be prosecutor. instead, however, of presenting her complaint, she put in an earnest plea for the culprits, who were much about her own age. "please, your honor, i don't want them to be punished. nalla is not a bit the worse for his fright. indeed," she added naïvely, "he is the better for it by such a fine breakfast of vegetables as he has not had for a long time." a ripple of laughter ran around the crowd at this charming little speech, and the préfet with a gallant bow to nadine, said, graciously: "you make a very good advocate, mademoiselle, and as you do not want to appear as prosecutor in the matter i will dismiss the accused, and let the authorities of the school deal with them as they see fit for the infraction of discipline. permit me to congratulate you upon the fortunate termination of the accident." raoul and his companions regarded nadine with looks in which gratitude and admiration were manifestly mingled. they had come to the préfet's office in fear and trembling, and they would, of course, be well punished by the head of the school as it was, but the dismissal by the préfet without any penalty was an altogether unlooked for peace of luck, which they owed in large measure to the very person who had most reason to find satisfaction in their being condignly punished. nor did nadine's magnanimity go without reward. the whole affair served as the best kind of advertisement, and the demand on the part of those who had not been present at the first performance, to be given the opportunity to attend another, was so urgent that she wisely changed her plan of leaving the town that day. "we shall not, of course, get anything like so splendid a collection as we did last night, because good madame pradère and the kind officers will not be there again; but we shall most probably get a good deal more than we usually do, and so it will be worth our while to stay over one more night." cæsar quite concurred in the wisdom of this proposal, and accordingly the preparations for a move were stopped, and in their place they began arrangements for the evening. the sequel fully sustained the shrewdness of the young girl's forecast. the tamby family, their youth, their brave independence, their wonderfully trained animals, the interest taken in them by the mayor and his good wife, and the shabby trick which had been played upon them by some of the pupils at the academy, were the talk of the town, and long before the hour announced for the beginning of the performance the plank seats were bending beneath their load of humanity, while behind and around them the crowd was packed as close as possible. the whole program of the preceding evening, with some additions, was given without a hitch. nalla, steady, and vigilant played their several parts to perfection, and the spectators applauded contentedly. when it came to the collection the response was not quite so generous as at the first performance. there was no madame pradère to lead off with a gold piece, and no officers to emulate her with silver coins. but there were some "white pieces" nevertheless, and a great number of "brown pieces," so that altogether the tambys felt well repaid for their evening's work. the following morning nadine, taking lydia with her, went to pay her respects to madame pradère, and to thank her for her great kindness. on the way she met the good-natured gendarme, who let her into the secret of madame pradère's interest in them. "you must know," said the genial old fellow, "that madame pradère has suffered a terrible affliction. she once had four children, two boys and two girls, just as there are in your family, and the youngest of them was, strange to say, named lydia, and, sad to tell, she lost all four of them within two years!" nadine's eyes filled with tears, and her heart thrilled with sympathy for her benefactress when she heard this. "the poor lady!" she murmured. "i am so sorry for her, and she is so kind." madame pradère received the two girls cordially, and asked them how they were getting on, and what were their plans for the future. as they were taking their leave, she handed nadine a sealed envelope, saying: "keep this in a safe place, and do not open it unless you are in great need. remember me, my dear child; i will always be your friend." chapter ix. nalla to the rescue. the tambys' intention was to proceed to the fair at beaulieu, where mountebanks usually did well, and as it would open in three weeks, and it would take them quite twenty days to get there with so old and weak a horse as steady, they had little time to lose. they set off in the forenoon, all four of them deeply regretting that they must leave this place, where they had found so many kind friends, and once more make their way amongst strangers, the most of whom took no interest in them whatever. _en route_ to beaulieu they halted frequently to give performances, with varying success. sometimes the receipts would hardly be enough to buy food for the animals, and sometimes more than sufficient to provide for them all. "it is certainly fortunate that we did get such a fine collection at morainville," said nadine one night, when a mere handful of small dirty copper coins was all they received for a very tiring performance after a long day's travel, "or i don't know what we should do now. i am using as little of it as i possibly can, but it is getting less and less all the time." "oh, never mind, sister!" responded cæsar, who was of a very hopeful disposition, and did not worry like nadine, not feeling the same sense of responsibility; "we'll make plenty of money at the fair, see if we don't." "i hope we will, i'm sure," returned nadine, letting the anxious look drop from her pretty features; "for you see the summer is coming to an end and the winter will be at hand before very long, and we must have a good deal saved up to carry us through that." "and we will have it, dear nadine," cried cæsar confidently, giving her a brotherly hug, and a smacking kiss that brought the blushes to her cheeks. "never fear about that. the good god will take care of us," and off he went whistling merrily, nadine following him with as much love and pride in her look as though she were his mother. he was really a fine chap, cæsar--brave, bright, manly, unselfish, and devoted to his sisters and little brother. not as shrewd and far-seeing as nadine, but clever enough in his way, and certain to get on in the world, if given a fair chance. their worst experience was at malaventure, a town that had grown up beside a large colliery, whose miners formed the bulk of the inhabitants. nadine, with her remarkable intuition, had some misgivings about performing there, because the place had rather a bad reputation for rowdyism, the miners being for the most part a rough lot; but cæsar, having faith in the youth and beauty of his sister to appeal to the chivalry of the men, and insure a warm reception and proper treatment, was strongly in favor of their trying their fortune, and so she assented. had they been compelled to rely upon their own accomplishments they would have fared badly in regard to an audience, for the rough miners saw nothing to attract them in the performance of a quartet of children. the elephant, however, was quite another matter. he was well worth examining at close quarters, and, moreover, it could not fail to be amusing to see so huge and apparently clumsy a creature doing tricks. accordingly a large number of them gathered, and noisily shouldered and chaffed each other as they crowded close upon the space before the van in which the performance was given. nadine was undeniably nervous. the big coarse men frightened her, and she regretted that she had yielded to cæsar's persuasion. but having once begun they must perforce go through to the end, so she put on a brave face, and went ahead. the miners were pleased to be in a critical mood. they jeered at cæsar's jugglery, ridiculed his playing, and sent poor little abel off the stage in tears. of nalla, however, they were good enough to approve. he evidently realized their expectations and put them in such good humor that when, following him, nadine appeared to sing, they received her so warmly that for the moment she forgot her nervousness, and bowed and smiled back at them in a charming way that evoked still more vigorous applause. accompanied by cæsar on the mandolin she sang a pretty little love song which took very well, and was insistently encored. when she had responded and cæsar had announced that after the collection was taken up the final act in which all the animals appeared would be given, she deemed it best not to send little lydia among those rough men, but to go herself. accordingly, bowl in hand, she started on her rounds, and at first although some of the men tried to display their rude wit at her expense, and were amused by the indignant flush which crimsoned her countenance, she had no real trouble until in going through one of the rear rows a big black-bearded fellow attempted to throw his arm about her and give her a kiss. nadine screamed, and by a quick movement evaded the repulsive embrace, but the ruffian, who had been drinking too much brandy, lurched after her as she darted towards the van, calling out: "cæsar! cæsar! help!" cæsar, who was at that moment behind the curtain, dressing vigilant for the next act, dropped the dog, and rushed to the front, picking up one of the foils on the way. the black-bearded bully was close upon nadine's skirts, none of the other spectators having the courage to interfere, and it seemed as if he might reach her before cæsar, when relief came from an unexpected quarter. old nalla had stood beside the van solemnly swaying his trunk, and to all appearance lost in profound contemplation, until nadine's scream reached his ear. then the great ragged flaps were pricked up, and from in front of them the bright, beady, little eyes peered forth keenly. without making a sound the huge creature glided towards the audience, and was at the edge of the crowd almost without being noticed. at that moment nadine flew past pursued by the bully, whose outstretched hand sought to grasp the long tresses of her beautiful hair. but before it could close upon the silken braid a long sinuous thing suddenly shot forth and enfolded the ruffian. to his paralyzing horror he was lifted from his feet, and swung into the air amid the panic-stricken outcries of the spectators. no one thought any more of nadine. their eyes were fixed upon the bully struggling vainly in the irresistible grasp of nalla's trunk, and shouting frantically for help. the elephant held him thus on high for one thrilling moment and then flung him to one side, as though he had been a bundle of straw instead of being a hulking big fellow weighing full two hundred pounds. he fell upon the hard pavement with a terrible thud, and lay there so still that the appalled spectators thought he must be dead. nadine was the first to be at his side. the instant nalla intervened she divined what would happen. more than once she had seen him pick up fierce dogs with that marvelous weapon of his, and throw them so far that they never returned to the attack. "oh! i hope he isn't dead!" she panted. "it would be dreadful if nalla killed him." the big gross body showed no sign of life, and the people crowded around it making all sorts of futile suggestions, but doing nothing, when a couple of gendarmes appeared, and ordered them to stand aside. one of them then examined the man carefully, and, to nadine's inexpressible relief, announced that he was not dead, only insensible, and he bade his comrade go for a surgeon. in a few minutes the latter returned with a spectacled person who looked very wise and dignified, and proceeded to make a thorough examination of the insensible man. "there is probably some concussion of the brain," he announced, "but not of a serious character. how was he injured?" half-a-dozen began to speak at once in response, but the next moment gave way to nadine, who described what had happened in a clear correct manner. "hum! hum!" murmured the surgeon. "a very odd accident indeed in this quarter of the globe, and the rascal richly deserved what befell him. where is this highly intelligent elephant? i should like to make his acquaintance." cæsar had hustled nalla off behind the scenes, but on nadine calling out: "cæsar! cæsar! bring nalla out!" he forthwith led him out again. the surgeon bowed gravely to the great beast, who returned the salute with a gracious wave of his trunk, for nalla never erred in discriminating between friends and foes. "i am very pleased to meet you, sir elephant," said the surgeon. "you have just given a proof of your sagacity that i regret i was not present to witness. may i express the wish that you will always be as ready to champion the fair and defend the weak!" as he said the last words he bowed low to nadine, who smiled and blushed in return, and then he withdrew to give further directions concerning his patient. both nadine and cæsar were much concerned lest, when the bully recovered his senses, he would endeavor to get revenge upon nalla, and so give them a great deal of trouble. but their fears were groundless. it was not until late in the following day that he recovered from the effects of his downfall, and then he had the good sense to think only of returning to his work with as little delay as possible, so that no more was heard about the matter. the tambys were glad to leave malaventure at an early hour the following morning. owing to the interruption right in the middle of taking up the collection their receipts amounted to only a few francs, and the fright which nadine got told upon her nerves so that it was several days before she entirely regained her normal serenity. pushing on steadily in the direction of beaulieu they came to an ideal spot for a few days' rest. it was a snug little dell beside a clear running stream, and sheltered by a semicircle of thick-set trees. "cæsar," said nadine, wrinkling her white forehead with a profound air of thought, "we have been working very hard this summer, and i think that before we get to beaulieu, where we shall have to give two performances every day while the fair lasts, we ought to take a holiday--don't you think so, my brother?" "right you are, my dear!" cried cæsar, delighted at the suggestion. "i'm just dead tired of keeping on day after day like this. let us stay here as long as we can, eh?" of course abel and lydia gleefully concurred, and when nalla and steady were consulted, they clearly signified their approval, while vigilant, divining that there was something to be joyful over, barked his best, and frisked about merrily. so the matter was settled, and permission having been obtained from the authorities of the village to which the chosen spot belonged, they prepared to spend several days in well-earned idleness. chapter x. nalla plays pranks. the weather was glorious. by day the sun poured down his golden warmth from an almost unclouded sky, and by night the harvest moon at her full rode high in the heavens. the four children forgot all their sorrows and cares for the time. thanks to their success at morainville, and the good hopes they cherished of profitable patronage at beaulieu, they felt no concern about finances. it was a case with them of eat--drink--sleep, sufficient for the day are the blessings thereof; to-morrow can take care of itself. nadine was the only one who pretended to do any work, excepting of course that cæsar looked after the feeding of nalla, old steady being able to look after himself as the grass was abundant in their vicinity. nadine, being the little housewife, in addition to having the daily meals upon her mind, found much necessary sewing to keep her clever fingers busy, and it was only when cæsar would snatch the garment away from her, crying: "come, let that alone for a while, sister. you work quite too hard. you must play with us a little," would she laughingly obey orders, and go off with the others for a romp or a ramble. of course their presence aroused the curiosity of the people in the neighborhood, and they had many visitors, who for the most part behaved very well, some indeed bringing them welcome presents of fruit and milk and butter, which were keenly appreciated. as might be expected, they begged for a performance, and in view of their kind treatment, nadine thought they could not very well refuse; so she promised that they would give one on the evening before their departure. the happy restful days slipped by all too quickly, and the end of their short holiday was at hand. "oh dear!" sighed cæsar. "this is our last day. we must be on the road again to-morrow if we would reach beaulieu in time to get a good position. i do wish we could stay another week." "so do i," chirped little abel. "why can't we? it's so nice here, and we needn't be in such a hurry, surely." "but we do need," responded nadine, patting the little fellow affectionately on the head. "it is important that we should get to the fair before the best places are taken, for we must make all the money there that we possibly can. the winter will soon be coming on, when we can't earn anything, you know." abel made a rueful grimace, but did not continue the argument. nadine was right of course. she always was. nobody could be wiser than nadine. yet there were times when it went against the grain to do everything just as she wished. however, there was still a whole day left, so let them make the most of it. in the evening they would give their performance and the next morning they would resume their journey. in the course of his roaming about the country, cæsar had found a large deep pool not far down the stream from their camping-place, in which he had enjoyed sundry refreshing baths. it now occurred to him that it was just the place for another purpose. "look here, nadine," said he, "old nalla hasn't had a good bath for a long time, and i'm sure it would do him good. suppose we take him down to the pool i've been bathing in, and let him have a dip in it. i'm sure he'd enjoy it immensely, and it would be good for him, too." "i believe you're right, cæsar," replied nadine. "we will take him down there after dinner, and then he'll be in fine trim for the performance this evening." accordingly, right after dinner the whole family, accompanied by vigilant, left steady to his browsing, and went off down stream escorting nalla, who trumpeted cheerfully in evident expectation of some sort of a treat. when they reached the pool cæsar, pointing to it, said: "there, nalla, is a splendid place for you to have a bath, such as you haven't had for a long time. in you go, old fellow, and enjoy yourself." the elephant needed no urging. the day was hot, the flies troublesome, the water cool and inviting. with a blast of delight through his trunk, and a flapping of his great ears, he strode into the pool, and did not stop until the water had almost reached the top of his back. then he gave himself up to the enjoyment of his bath with the most amusing abandon. he wallowed in the cool clear water without heed to the stirring up of the mud. he sank down in it, leaving only the tip of his trunk above the surface. he filled his trunk with the water, and blew it out again, sending the muddy spray to a considerable distance--in fact, no schoolboy in a "swimming-hole" on a broiling midsummer day could have enjoyed himself more thoroughly. the tambys, seated in the shade on the bank, watched his antics with lively appreciation. nothing was too good for nalla in their opinion. they had no better friend than the faithful, docile elephant, and they loved him as deeply as an animal could be loved. the time slipped by, and nalla showed no signs of growing weary of his fun. he would come out into the shallower part of the pool at intervals and squirt the muddy water over his back and sides, and then he would plunge in again, going almost out of sight. presently cæsar considered that he had enough of it, and that he ought to come out in order to be made ready for the parade through the village street, which would precede the performance. so he went to the edge of the pool, and said: "now, nalla, you've had a grand time, and you'd better come out and get dried off, so come along, old fellow." nalla looked at him with his absurdly small eyes, in which there surely lurked a mischievous twinkle, but made no move. "hurry up, you lazy chap!" called cæsar laughingly. "don't be so slow. we have to prepare for the parade." nalla manifestly understood what was wanted of him, but, instead of obeying, retreated further into the pool. this angered cæsar, whose temper was of the quickest, anyway, and he stamped his foot as he shouted: "here, now, no nonsense! you must come out, and that right away. do you hear?" nalla, with admirably simulated reluctance, moved slowly shoreward, until he was within a few yards of cæsar, and then, pointing his trunk at him, he squirted from it a quantity of muddy water that drenched and dirtied the boy from head to foot, and nearly knocked him over. almost blinded, and wholly enraged, cæsar picked up a stick and threw it at the elephant with all his might. but he might as well have thrown it at the side of a house for all the effect it had on nalla's massive head. the cute little eyes only twinkled the more merrily, and their owner backed away again, as if he had changed his mind about coming ashore. cæsar was in a towering passion. the elephant had certainly added injury to insult, and had it been in the boy's power to punish him severely, he would have delighted in doing it. nadine now felt it time to intervene. "let me try what i can do with nalla," she said gently to cæsar. "while you go back to the van and change your clothes. i am sure i can manage him." cæsar was very loath to confess himself beaten, and nadine had to do some coaxing before she could get him to follow her suggestions. but at last, after another effort to make nalla stir by abusing him vigorously, he gave up in despair, and went off to the van to put on dry clothes. as soon as he had gone nadine tried her hand. she went to the water's edge, for she felt sure nalla would not treat her as he had done cæsar, and stretching out her hand which contained a slice of bread left over from their lunch, said in her most winning tone: "come here, nalla. i have a bit of bread for you, and i want you to leave the water. you've been in it quite long enough." nalla gave her a look that said plainly: "i understand you perfectly, and of course you're right, so i suppose, now that i have had my fun, i may as well do what you wish." so, slowly moving his vast bulk, he came towards her, picked up the bread with his trunk, passed it into his cavernous mouth, and continued his way out of the water, until he stood on the grass, a very muddy, but very contented creature. "you dear old thing!" cried nadine, patting the end of his trunk affectionately. "i knew you'd obey me. you just love me, don't you? and i love you." nalla returned the caress after his own fashion, and then, without another word, proceeded back to the van, his whole gait and manner expressing the utmost good-humor. he had had his fun, and he was now ready to return to duty. by the time they had all returned to the camping-place, cæsar had quite recovered his equanimity, and joined heartily in the laughter at nalla's impertinence. "he got the best of me that time, and no mistake," he said; "but i'll be even with him yet, see if i'm not!" they made haste to deck themselves out for the parade, and spent an hour marching up and down the village street, while cæsar from the howdah on nalla's back, called out the place and time of the performance. then back to the van for supper, and after supper a general move into the village where they found a capital location, in a small square beside the town-hall. "we shall no doubt have a good crowd," nadine remarked thoughtfully, when the simple preparations had been completed, "for the people have certainly taken a lot of interest in us, and have been very kind too, but perhaps they may not have much money to spare. they don't seem to be rich around here." "it won't be another morainville, that's certain," said cæsar, shaking his head dolefully. "such luck as we had there doesn't come often. but," he added, straightening himself up, and looking more cheerful, "we'll give them the best performance we can, and hope that they will give us all the money they can, eh?" the villagers began to gather early, and by the time the performance opened every seat was filled with women and girls, while a crowd of men and boys stood up behind, or squatted upon the ground wherever a clear view of the stage could be obtained. one after another the different acts were given, and warmly received. a more appreciative gathering could hardly have been desired. cæsar's juggling, nadine's singing, the animals' acting, and lydia's dancing were all enthusiastically encored. but when the little bowl appeared a marked change came over the spirit of the spectators. they not only grew indifferent very suddenly, but actually seemed anxious to slip away. this was not a new experience for the tambys, and hitherto they had been content to take it silently, but this time cæsar's blood was stirred. he had not counted upon any such meanness, and the indignation it aroused gave him courage to do what he had never done before. springing upon the stage he called for attention with an emphatic gesture, and, when all eyes were turned upon him, he began an address to the assemblage. "my friends," he said, "you have done us the honor to attend our simple performance, and you have shown by your applause that it has pleased you. now you must know that we do not give these performances for our own amusement, but to gain our daily bread. we are by no means well-off even if we do possess an elephant and a horse. we need every sou that we can earn to pay for the food of our animals and ourselves, and to meet our other needs. if you have enjoyed our performance so much we would like you to show it not only by applauding, but by putting into the bowl which my little sister is about to pass around, what you can spare us. we do not expect silver from everybody, you know," he added with a humorous twinkle of his eyes. "we are glad to get copper--if there is only enough of it." this clever little speech, delivered in a clear voice, and without the slightest suggestion of presumption, touched the listeners in the right way. it opened both their hearts and their pockets, and when lydia went her rounds amongst them they responded in a most creditable manner, so that the receipts were enough to cover a whole week's expenses. nadine was particularly pleased at this, because it enabled them to push right on to beaulieu without halting to give performances _en route_. their holiday therefore was an unalloyed success, and, thoroughly refreshed by it, they kept on day after day until at last they reached beaulieu, a whole day before the opening of the fair, and in ample time to secure an excellent position for their van, where it could not fail to attract attention, and so insure no lack of spectators when they gave their performances. chapter xi. at the beaulieu fair. a country fair was no novelty to the tambys. they had attended too many of them already in their young lives to get excited over the inevitable bustle and confusion. their chief concern was not to see everybody and everything, but to attract as large gatherings as possible to their performances, and induce them to give liberally when the little bowl was passed around. this time they felt full of hope. they were greatly benefited by the brief holiday, and they were thoroughly satisfied with the location they had secured, and so on the opening day of the fair, after having carefully locked up the van, and seen to it that nalla and steady were securely tethered, they left vigilant in charge of their property while all four of them made a tour of the streets which were given up to the fair. in this they had a double purpose. they would "see the sights," and they would also get a good idea of what were the rival attractions with which they must needs contend for the patronage of the people. they found the streets thick-set with booths displaying all sorts of small-wares, and thronged with light-hearted folk, who, if they had not much money to spend, would at all events get the full value of every sou with which they parted. it was neither a brilliant nor a costly display, but it was quite attractive notwithstanding, and the two younger tambys saw many things that they very much wanted to purchase. now it would be abel, and then again lydia, dragging nadine or cæsar up to some booth, and eagerly indicating the object that caught their fancy. but their cutest coaxings were for the most part in vain. it was to earn money, and not to spend it, that they had come to the fair, and beyond the purchase of a few inexpensive trifles nadine would not be persuaded. "no, no, my dears," was her firm though gentle reply. "all our money must go for necessaries. we have none to spend upon things we don't really need. i wish very much we could afford to spend twenty francs or even more on the pretty things we see in the booths, but if we did we might have to go hungry, and we wouldn't like that, would we, little ones?" of course they had to submit as cheerfully as they could manage. it was no use pouting or sulking, and indeed they yielded to their elder sister's rule with uniformly good grace. having completed their tour of inspection, and satisfied themselves that, although there would be no lack of competition for popular favor, they stood a good chance of reaping a fair share of the harvest of coin to be distributed by the pleasure-seekers, they returned to where they had left their van. to their acute amazement and consternation the familiar weather-worn house on wheels, which contained all their possessions, save the three animals, had disappeared, and in its place was another, larger, and newer, painted in glaring gaudy colors, and having a general air of vulgar audacity. "why, cæsar!" cried nadine, her fine eyes wide with alarm, and her heart beating fast. "what can this mean? who has taken away our van, and put another in its place?" cæsar understood the situation at a glance. the owners of the other van, finding the location which they had in view already taken, and learning that it was only four children who owned the shabby old affair that stood there, had had the audacity to put steady into the shafts, and remove the van out of their way while they put their own in its place. burning with indignation he went up to the van, and knocked at the closed door. after some delay it was opened by a large black-bearded rough-looking man, who demanded with an oath what the boy wanted. undismayed by the ruffianly appearance of the fellow, cæsar spoke up stoutly: "what have you done with our van, and what right had you to take it away, and put yours in its place?" removing a cigarette from his lips the man sent a puff of smoke right into cæsar's face, and then, with an insolent chuckle, said: "well, my young cock, and what are you going to do about it?" half-blinded and choked by the foul reek of the coarse tobacco, and roused to fury by the ruffian's insolence, cæsar for a moment could not speak. when he did find words it was to pour out his wrath in language so biting that the man was angered in his turn, and he made as though he would strike the boy, but checked himself when nadine screamed, and darted in between them, crying: "come away, cæsar. it's no use quarreling with that fellow. we must find the gendarme. he will get us our place back again." the man grunted scornfully. what cared he for their threat? he had the place now, and they would find it no easy matter to dislodge him. the first thing, of course, was to find their van and animals. these were presently discovered in an obscure lane not far away, none the worse for their being moved. while assuring himself that everything was intact a daring idea flashed into cæsar's brain. to appeal to the authorities would mean delay, and perhaps disappointment in the end, as they might have difficulty in establishing their prior right to the location. but there was another way of regaining their rights. the intruders had taken the law into their own hands, why should not the tambys do likewise? he at once unfolded his scheme to nadine. "oh, no, cæsar!" she exclaimed. "don't try that. you'd certainly get into a big row. he is such a bad looking fellow." but cæsar was determined. they had the right on their side, and he felt confident that if there was a row, and a crowd gathered, that the sympathy would be with them, not with the ruffian, and they would regain their place. so, with many misgivings, nadine consented, and they set to work at once. steady was put into the shafts, and the van, followed by nalla, drawn back into the square. then cæsar mounted the elephant. the man had gone back into his van, and closed the door. obeying his young master's orders as accurately as if he had possessed human intelligence, nalla seized the shaft of the intruding van, and began to pull it out into the center of the square. at the first movement the man flung open the door, swearing furiously, and shouting out: "what are you doing? leave my van alone! how dare you interfere with it?" when he saw how it was being moved, however, he made no demonstrations against the elephant. he was altogether too big an antagonist. it was a case where discretion was decidedly the better part of valor. but he abused cæsar in the vilest language, striving to terrify him by the sheer violence of his threats. [illustration: nalla seized the shaft of the intruding van.] cæsar, securely seated upon nalla's neck, only laughed at him, while, without pausing, the elephant tugged away at the van until it was drawn well out into the middle of the square. by this time quite a crowd of spectators had gathered, and, nadine having in her own vivacious way explained what it all meant, they unanimously took her side. if the infuriated owner of the van had attempted to resort to violent measures he would assuredly have found himself mobbed in short order. the space being now clear, cæsar slipped down from nalla's neck, and bidding the sagacious monster stand in front of the strange van in readiness to check any action on the part of its proprietor, he took hold of steady's bridle, and proceeded to put his van into its former position amidst the approving laughter of the crowd. almost beside himself with rage the owner of the other van rushed at cæsar with fists clenched intending to pummel him. but before he could reach him nalla's long supple trunk swept his legs from under him, and sent him headlong, whilst the spectators roared with delight at his ignominious downfall. like all bullies he was in reality a coward, and, it being very plain that everything was against him, he submitted to defeat with a very bad grace to be sure, but without any further attempt at reprisals. procuring his own horses he hitched them to the van, and drew it away to another part of the town, vowing vengeance against the youngsters who had thus dared to expose and discomfit him. nadine felt worried over the affair, but cæsar made light of it. "we'll see no more of that rascal," he said, confidently. "he knows he's killed himself in this place by his mean trick, and instead of doing us harm he has really done us good, for he has got the people interested in us, and they will be all the more likely to come to the performance." cæsar was right enough in this. as was the case when the mischievous students stampeded nalla, an apparent misfortune turned out a benefit. the episode with the man of the black beard, and the brave way in which the young people had borne themselves, as also the wonderful intelligence shown by nalla, proved an admirable advertisement, and their first performance was anticipated with much interest. relying upon a larger patronage than they were wont to have at their ordinary stopping-places, they thought it wise to hire half a hundred chairs, for which they would charge ten sous each, five sous being asked for a seat upon the planks, and standing room being free. before the hour announced for opening the people had already begun to gather, and by seven o'clock every seat was occupied, and a goodly number were standing behind them. they were all in the best of humor, and prepared to enjoy themselves by heartily appreciating what the tamby family had provided for them. this good fortune attended them throughout the whole week of the fair. nadine's sweet singing, cæsar's clever juggling, the amusing antics of vigilant, and the remarkable intelligence displayed by nalla and steady maintained their interest for the populace to the end, and when on saturday night, tired out but happy, they counted up their profits after the payment of all expenses, they found that they had no less than five hundred francs to the good. "why, that is a small fortune, isn't it, nadine?" exclaimed cæsar joyously. "that will help us over the winter finely, and we will doubtless make more before the season ends, eh?" "i hope we will," responded nadine, her charming face radiant at the handsome result of their week's work. "we'll need it all before spring, and we must be very careful how we spend what we have. it won't do to be extravagant because it seems such a big sum of money to have at once. but what was that?" she cried, her face suddenly growing grave. "did you see anything, cæsar?" "no," replied cæsar, looking all about him. "i saw nothing--what was it startled you?" "i may be mistaken," answered nadine, speaking in a steadier tone, "but i thought i saw a face peering in at the window just as i was putting the money away, and it frightened me a little. it would be dreadful if any one tried to rob us of our money, wouldn't it?" chapter xii. the rascal's revenge. cæsar's laughing face grew serious at what nadine said. "that is so, nadine," he responded. "i hadn't thought of it before. doubtless it is well known that our performances have been very successful, and that we have taken in a good deal of money, and it may be that some of the other mountebanks who have been less fortunate would like very well to rob us of the results of our hard work." "oh! cæsar, you make me nervous!" cried nadine with a pretty shiver. "what can we do to protect ourselves?" "tut! sister, i'm not in earnest," rejoined cæsar smilingly. "there's nothing to be afraid of. there are only honest people round about us. the next vans to ours are occupied by the performers of the sito circus, and none of them would think of doing anything so mean. nevertheless, just to make your mind easy, i will keep guard to-night, and at the first sign of anything suspicious i will give the alarm." "i'm very sorry that we've had to put nalla away off there with the circus animals," said nadine in a tone of regret. "if he were only right beside our van we needn't worry at all, for he'd take care that no bad character got too near us." "yes, indeed," replied cæsar. "with nalla on guard we could sleep as soundly as we pleased." "look here, cæsar," exclaimed nadine, her face brightened by a happy thought which had just come to her. "i know what we can do. as soon as we have had our supper the whole four of us can go down where nalla is, and sleep there under his protection. what do you say to that?" "a capital idea, sister," answered cæsar. "if we were quite sure that there is any real danger. but you see we are not, and if we leave our van and go down to the stables for the night the people might suspect us of some evil intentions. no--no--we will all stay here, and i will be sentinel while the rest of you sleep comfortably." considering all the hard work and the excitement that cæsar had been having it was certainly very unselfish on his part--especially as he really felt no anxiety--to undertake to keep awake all night, and nadine, striving to throw off the depressing nervousness which had come upon her, declared that it really was not necessary, that she would put the bag of money under her pillow, where it could not be touched without awaking her, and that cæsar must go to bed like the rest, or she would sit up to keep him company. the result of it was that they succeeded in reassuring one another so completely as to decide that no one should remain on guard, and in excellent spirits they sat down to their supper, for which they had all the best of appetites. it was a capital supper, too, as nadine, the careful little housewife, felt justified by their extra earnings during the week in providing something better than their ordinary fare. so the table showed a plump roast chicken, a succulent salad, a large loaf of white bread with a fine brown crust, a generous pat of golden butter, and a steaming pot of fragrant coffee. the four young people ate and drank and talked with all their might. everything was delicious except the coffee, that had a strange taste to which cæsar was the first to call attention. "why, nadine!" he exclaimed after swallowing half-a-cupful at one draught. "what's the matter with the coffee? it tastes so queer." nadine had noticed it herself, but, supposing it was just some little mistake in the brewing, had said nothing, and gone on drinking it, while abel and lydia were too keen of appetite to be particular. "i'm sure i don't know," replied nadine, being thus challenged, and feeling that her culinary reputation was at stake. "i made it myself, and i didn't notice anything different from other times. perhaps there is too much chicory in it." "that may be it," returned cæsar. "anyway i'm too thirsty to bother. i'll just finish off my share." no sooner was the meal finished than lydia, who seemed particularly tired, sat down on the floor beside nadine's chair, and letting her head droop upon her little mother's knee, fell fast asleep. "poor little pet," murmured nadine, fondling the golden curls. "just see, cæsar, how tired lydia is! the sand-man has taken her by surprise. indeed my own head feels very heavy." "that's because we've been working so hard," responded cæsar. "we're just tired out, all of us. why, look at abel--he's gone to sleep in his chair, and i don't wonder at him, i feel completely played out myself." "i must hurry and undress the little ones and put them to bed," said nadine, giving a great yawn, and making an effort to open wide her heavy-lidded eyes. "dear me! but how sleepy i feel. i can scarcely hold my head up." "no more can i," drawled cæsar drowsily as he dropped into a chair where a moment later he was sound asleep, while nadine, without accomplishing what she had in mind, quickly followed his example, so that long ere midnight the whole four children were sunk in a profound slumber that could hardly have been due merely to natural fatigue. it was a still dark night without a star showing in the heavens, and the camp of the mountebanks was as silent as a graveyard. not a light shone in any of the other vans. tired out by their week's work the occupants slept as sound as logs. about one o'clock, two dark forms glided as noiselessly as shadows towards the tamby van, and on getting close to it, halted to listen intently for a moment. "are you sure of your work, fritsch?" whispered one in a deep voice to the other. "perfectly sure, wilhelm," was the cautiously spoken reply. "i gave them a dose that would keep them asleep until nine o'clock anyway, and by that time i will have such a long start that they will never overtake me." it was, in fact, the man who had put his van in the place the tambys had first taken, and who, on being compelled to get out again, had determined to be revenged. aided by his partner, he was now about to carry out his nefarious design, having succeeded in drugging the coffee they had drunk at their supper, so that they were almost insensible, and perfectly helpless. "very well, then," said wilhelm, "let us go ahead, and you understand that we will meet you in the forest of trefflieu three days hence." fritsch glanced anxiously about in every direction, and bent his ear to listen for the slightest sound. "you hear nothing, eh?" he whispered to his accomplice. "no--nothing. the coast is clear, hurry up!" responded the other. moving stealthily fritsch ascended the steps of the van, and, finding the door unfastened, for sleep had come upon the occupants too suddenly for them to shut and bolt it as was their custom, he slipped inside, making his way with utmost caution. the lamp still burned dimly, and by its light he could find at once that for which he had come. he was busy only for a moment, and then he reappeared at the door bearing in his arms a large bundle wrapped in a shawl. "i have her all right," said he in a hoarse whisper, his evil face lit up with a triumphant smile. "bravo!" muttered the other, and the next moment the two scoundrels disappeared in the darkness. they went together as far as the gaudy van, into which one of them entered, while the other, carrying his burden, walked rapidly away out into the country over the silent deserted roads. the day dawned, and at an early hour the occupants of the other vans began to bestir themselves. the fair was over. there were no more performances to be given. they were free to do as they pleased. each party had its own plans. this one would hurry off to another place, and continue the campaign. that one would take a few days' rest in some quiet spot. one was going north, and another south. but they were all going somewhere. it was no use staying any longer at beaulieu, nor coming back there again until next year. in the midst of all this bustle, however, there was no sign of life about the tamby van. although it was after eight o'clock they still slept on when they were wont to be up and about at six. meanwhile, nalla over at the stables was calling for his young owners with persistent and ear-splitting trumpetings. the sagacious creature knew very well that this tardiness was something altogether out of the usual, and he proclaimed his anxiety to the world. he was saying as plainly as he could: "there must be something wrong. won't somebody find out what it is? i never knew cæsar and abel to be so late giving me my breakfast." "why--what can be the matter with that big brute?" the other mountebanks asked impatiently. "he's making such a tremendous row!" but none of them were wise enough to catch his meaning, and institute inquiry. finally, about nine o'clock, cæsar awoke, feeling very stupid, and having a dull headache. he rubbed his eyes, yawned widely, and looked about him. there were nadine and abel, still sound asleep beside the table with their heads pillowed upon their arms. evidently no one had gone to bed. but where was lydia? chapter xiii. the majesty of the law. the absence of his sister did not at first alarm cæsar, because he took it for granted she had awakened earlier than the rest, and had gone outside to get the fresh air. so he rose from his seat, stretched himself, yawned once more mightily, and went out quietly, thinking that he would look for lydia before arousing nadine. to his surprise he found the square almost deserted, and no sign of lydia. this made him uneasy, and, re-entering the van, he shook nadine gently, calling out: "nadine! nadine! wake up, it's after nine o'clock!" nadine opened her eyes slowly and painfully. "nine o'clock," she repeated after him in a dreamy fashion. "yes, nine o'clock!" reiterated cæsar, "and how was it that none of us went to bed?" at this nadine sprang to her feet, thoroughly awake. "why, neither we did! how extraordinary! we were so tired out that we just fell asleep in our chairs. you wake up abel while i go and see where lydia is." "do you hear nalla calling?" cæsar asked. "the poor fellow must think we're all dead. we never left him so late without attention before." "indeed, i do hear him," responded nadine, a bewildered look on her face. "it is certainly very strange. i cannot understand it at all." she had been moving about while she was speaking, putting things to rights with deft feminine skill, when suddenly she stopped, the color left her face, her eyes started from their sockets, she staggered as though she would fall, but steadied herself against the table as she shrieked: "cæsar! cæsar! we have been robbed!" "robbed!" cæsar echoed, darting forward to her side. "what do you mean?" "why, our money, it is all gone!" wailed nadine. "you know i put it all back into the bag after we had counted it, and was going to hide it in my bed when lydia fell asleep beside me, and a few minutes after i went to sleep too. i must have left it upon the table, and some wicked thief has crept in and stolen it. oh dear! oh dear! what shall we do? all our money stolen!" and throwing herself down upon the table she sobbed as though her heart would break. cæsar, although he was appalled himself at this cruel misfortune, did his best to comfort her, and he and abel almost turned the interior of the van upside down in a vain endeavor to find the missing bag. "i'm afraid it has been stolen," he confessed at last. "there's not a trace of it. come, nadine, let us be brave. we may get it all back again. do you hunt up lydia, while i go and find one of the gendarmes and tell him what has happened to us." in the extremity of her grief at the loss of the money, nadine had for the time forgotten her little sister, but the moment cæsar reminded her of lydia she sprang to her feet, dashed away her tears with her hands, and choking back her sobs, ran out into the square, crying: "lydia! lydia! where are you?" but no response came in lydia's sweet voice, for at that moment the poor child was far away, hidden in a thick wood, and watched over by a wretch who threatened to kill her if she made the least outcry, so that she dared not utter a sound, although there was no stopping the tears that poured down her cheeks. the scoundrels had stolen both the money and the child, the beauty and grace of the latter being so marked that they coveted her for their own business, knowing well how strong an attraction she would be. at this moment m. sito, manager of the circus with whose animals nalla and steady had been stabled, happened along, and seeing that the children were in some grievous trouble, kindly inquired what was the matter, and if he could be of any assistance. when nadine apprised him of lydia's mysterious disappearance he knitted his brows, and thought deeply for a moment. he had noted the pretty child, and had himself entertained the thought that she might easily be trained to be a great success in the circus, and knowing only too well how many evil characters there had been in the town during the fair, his quick intelligence carried him to the right conclusion. but he would not let his suspicions be known to nadine until they were confirmed. adopting, therefore, an air of cheerful confidence, he said, patting nadine encouragingly: "don't worry. lydia is not far off. she has perhaps gone for a stroll through the streets and has lost her way. we will go and look for her, eh?" just then cæsar returned accompanied by two gendarmes to whom nadine at once addressed herself, explaining her great trouble as best she could in spite of the sobs that choked her utterance. the brigadier, a tall handsome man, who had not, however, a good expression, twirled his superb mustache with a grand air as he said in a patronizing tone: "is it all true what you have been telling me? i give you warning that we gendarmes are not to be trifled with. it will go hard with you if you are making a great deal out of nothing. you assert that some one has taken away your little sister, and robbed you of all your money?" "it is unhappily only too true," responded nadine with a fresh burst of tears. "won't you help us recover them? oh! it is dreadful!" "wait now, my girl," said the brigadier, looking very important. "don't be so impatient. you must first answer me some questions. and, mind you, answer them correctly. you need not try to deceive the authorities." nadine dried her tears, checked her sobs, and faced the man with a frank, fearless countenance. there was no reason why she should conceal anything. she was ready to answer any proper question. "first of all," began the brigadier. "where are your parents?" "alas! we are orphans," was the reply given in a low tone. "that is not what i asked you," retorted the officer sharply. "where are your parents?" "we have no parents," responded nadine, the tears returning to her eyes. "we are orphans, as i told you." "durien," said the brigadier to the other gendarme, who had produced a note-book, "write that down--orphans." "it is put down, brigadier." "and how do you support yourselves?" was the next question. "we are mountebanks," answered nadine, "and we give performances with the assistance of our animals." "with the assistance of your animals, you say! then you have animals also. what are they, and where are they?" just then cæsar came from the stables leading nalla and steady, and followed by vigilant, who had as usual slept beside nalla. "there they are," replied nadine, pointing to the approaching trio. the brigadier regarded them with surprise. "why, that is a costly animal for orphans to own!" he exclaimed. "how do you manage to provide for his keep?" "with what we earn, sir," answered nadine. "he is our best breadwinner too." "hum! hum! with what you earn," sneered the brigadier, "and with what you steal also, of course." nadine paled at the cruel words, and shrunk back from the speaker as though he had struck her. she was so hurt that she could not find words in which to reply. but cæsar, thrilled with indignation at the unmerited slur upon their character, spoke up bravely: "mr. gendarme," he said, "we are honest folk, i would have you know, and you have no right to insult us like that, and to add to my sister's trouble when she has so much to bear already." the brigadier grew angry at once because a mere boy had the audacity to speak so to one of such importance as himself. "hold your tongue, you brat!" he shouted. "how dare you speak to me. you are showing disrespect to the law." "mr. gendarme," responded cæsar in a submissive tone, and bowing humbly before the great man. "i beg your pardon. i had no intention of being insolent, i assure you. i do beg your pardon, sir." the brigadier became more gracious. cæsar's politic apology appeased his wrath. "'tis well, youngster," he growled, as he gave his big mustache a ferocious twist. "in view of your age, and of the humble apology you have made, i pardon you, but don't presume to speak until you are asked. now, durien," he called to the other gendarme, "we will make a search of the vans there," pointing out those belonging to the other mountebanks which still remained. but their search had no result, and the brigadier then announced that nadine, cæsar, and abel must accompany him to the town-hall, where the sous-préfet would examine them before giving orders for a more thorough search about the neighborhood. this announcement distressed nadine greatly. "oh, sir!" she pleaded, "don't do that! leave us free to look for lydia without losing another minute, or it will soon be too late. if she has been carried off by evil men they are getting farther away all the time, and we shan't be able to overtake them. oh, please let us alone, so that we may do our best to find her!" but the brigadier was obdurate. having once made known what in his great wisdom he thought the proper course to pursue, he was not to be turned aside from it by a mere chit of a girl. so, drawing himself up to his full height, and twirling his mustache in what he no doubt considered a very stylish fashion, he said: "i have no power to continue the search any further at present. i must receive instructions from the sous-préfet, and before these can be given it is necessary that you should make a deposition." poor nadine got bewildered. she was not familiar with the words used by the gendarme, and did not understand what that implied. if he had said, "you must deposit some money," she would have understood it at once, but "you must make a deposition"--what could that be? just then she remembered the envelope that kind madame pradère had given her with the injunction that she was not to open it until some time when she was in great difficulties. surely that time had come. she could hardly be in a more trying situation than she was with her darling sister vanished, her money stolen, and this heartless gendarme insisting that she must go before the authorities, and make a deposition: slipping her hand into her bosom she drew out the precious envelope. it had not been stolen because she never parted with it. "see, cæsar," she said softly to her brother. "this is what good madame pradère gave me when i bade her 'good-bye.' she said i wasn't to open it until i was in great trouble. hadn't i better open it now?" "certainly," responded cæsar. "this is indeed the time. i wonder what it can contain?" his curiosity was soon changed to amazement, and then to joy, for when nadine broke the seal, and opened the envelope, there were two bank-notes of a hundred francs each! "whew!" he exclaimed. "isn't that fine? why, that's a lot of money. nearly one-half of what we have lost." nadine's sad face brightened at the sight of the bank-notes. they might get them out of all their difficulties, and help them to find lydia. holding them in her hands she said to the gendarme: "now, sir, what will there be to pay?" but the rude fellow gave a significant wink at his companion as he said: "ah! ha! young lady, a moment ago you were pretending that you had been robbed of all your money, and now you bring out bank-notes for a large amount with which to try and bribe the gendarmes! you have been trying to deceive us. very well--we shall see. you must at once tell us where you got that money." "this money," faltered nadine, not yet recovered from her surprise and joy at its discovery, "was given me by a very kind-hearted lady who told me i was not to use it until i was in great trouble." "oh! yes, of course," sneered the insolent creature. "we know lots of kind-hearted ladies who are in the way of giving one hundred franc notes to strolling performers, don't we? we shall have to clear all this up. i shall take charge of that money in order to restore it to the proper owner. and now, without wasting any more words, do you put your things in order right away, and come with me to the sous-préfet right away, where, without being impertinent, you shall explain to the authorities the meaning of all this. get to work now. no more excuses. i have taken too much time with you already." chapter xiv. before the magistrate. neither tears nor entreaties had any effect upon the brigadier, and a little later the van of the tamby family, with a gendarme at either side, was on its way to the court-house. nalla, his trunk hanging down despondently, and giving vent to groanings that strongly resembled sobs, followed in the rear, apparently understanding and sharing in the overwhelming trouble of his young owners. the sous-préfet was a stern old man, having a high sense of his own importance, and of the dignity of the law which he represented. he listened gravely to the report of the brigadier, who added many embellishments to the actual facts in making it, and, deciding that the case was one which would require careful investigation, directed that the children should be kept in confinement until he was at leisure to give their matter due attention. and so behold the three of them without having done the slightest harm, but on the contrary been the victims of the cruelest wrong, put in prison just as if they were malefactors! poor old nalla, sorely perplexed at the whole proceeding, followed them to the prison, and would have liked to enter with them. but as that, of course, was not possible, he took up his station beside the door, swaying his trunk and groaning in a piteous fashion. thus it came about, through the irony of fate, that the money which the well-meaning madame pradère had, in the goodness of her heart, given the tamby children to be a help to them at some critical time, had only served to add to their trouble. because of its possession they were imprisoned as thieves. the brigadier, on finding such an amount as two hundred francs in the hands of nadine after the girl had complained to him of having been robbed of all her money, suspected that there was something wrong. her explanation that it was a gift from a charitable lady seemed to him very fishy, to say the least. "these young vagabonds," he reasoned, "have stolen that money, and we shall presently find out the truth about it. when the sous-préfet examines them they will be made to tell everything." it is needless to say that that was a dreadful night for the poor young tambys. they spent it in weeping and lamenting their cruel fate, which they could not understand that they had in any way deserved, although nadine, the dear innocent, seemed to think that she was in some way to blame. "didn't i promise," she wailed, "when our father died, that, being the eldest, i would take such care of you, and yet i have allowed lydia, our little one, who has so much need of a mother, to be carried off, the good god only knows where!" "don't blame yourself, nadine," said cæsar soothingly, putting his arm affectionately around her. "we shall find her again, never fear. if it costs my life i shall get her back again." he was a sturdy high-spirited chap, cæsar, and although younger than nadine, now that she was so overcome with grief, he took upon himself the part of comforter and champion. but poor little abel buried his head in her lap, sobbing piteously, and murmuring "lydia--lydia--where is my sister, lydia?" it was not until ten o'clock in the morning that the key grated in the lock of the massive door, which on opening disclosed the portly figure of the brigadier. "now, then," he said in his deep rough voice, "come along with me. the sous-préfet has arrived, and is awaiting you, and he will attend to your affair. i give you warning beforehand that it will be useless for you to attempt to deceive him. the sous-préfet is a very clever man, and has no pity for tramps who boldly tell lies." these cruel words stung nadine and cæsar so that they found it hard to keep back a retort, but they looked at each other in a significant way, and in silence followed the bullying brigadier. patiently awaiting them at the door of the prison were vigilant and nalla. the former, as soon as he perceived his young owners, set up a joyous barking and gamboling about them, showing his affection and delight. nalla, on his part, waved his trunk up and down, and indulged in funny rumblings which were expressive of his gladness at seeing them again. "stay there!" commanded the brigadier sternly, but the elephant took no notice of him, and ambled along behind the children. it was sunday morning, and the streets of the town of beaulieu were full of people, many of them being farming folk from the neighborhood, who had come in to attend church, and through the midst of this curious crowd the unfortunate tamby children, their faces crimsoned with shame, were compelled to pass in charge of two gendarmes, just as if they were criminals. when they reached the entrance of the court-house, nadine turned to nalla, and, patting his trunk tenderly, said: "dear old friend, you must be very wise now, very wise indeed, lest some fresh trouble come upon us." and while nalla responded with his queer grunting, nadine saw that he too had his anxieties. he turned his huge head from right to left, looking at the children with his bright little eyes in an inquiring way. the fact of the matter was that the old fellow was seeking for his little pet, lydia. he could not understand her absence from the group, and he wanted the others to explain it to him. but that was just what they could not do. the sous-préfet at beaulieu was a retired army officer, who had brought with him from the service a very stern and imperious manner. he had a white mustache and beard, and bushy white eyebrows, which gave him such a cross look, one could not expect to receive much courtesy or consideration at his hands. he was busy at a desk littered with papers when the brigadier brought the tambys before him. at first sight of him the children were filled with fear, his whole appearance was so severe. "your honor," said the brigadier, "i bring the prisoners before you." "very well, wait there!" was the sharp reply, given without looking up from the paper, at which he continued to write. "wait here!" the brigadier repeated to the children, who certainly had no thought of stirring, however glad they would have been to do so. for several minutes there was no sound save the scratching of the magistrate's pen as he wrote busily without taking any notice whatever of the tambys. after a little he began to question the brigadier, and to put down his answers in writing. the brigadier told his story at length, and with many big words, being evidently anxious to make as much of it as possible. when he had at last finished, the magistrate turned his fierce eyes upon the children, and scrutinized them sharply: "but where are their parents?" he demanded sternly. "the little vagabonds insist upon it that they have none," replied the gendarme. "that they have none!" exclaimed the magistrate. "are they traveling about alone?" "the young rascals pretend that they have lost their father and mother," continued the brigadier. the magistrate gave the children a piercing glance. he evidently was not disposed to credit their ability to take care of themselves. "come here, young girl!" he commanded nadine, and when she had stepped up to his desk he went on: "and so you declare that somebody has taken away your sister at the beaulieu fair?" "yes, sir," nadine replied. "and what is your sister's age?" he inquired. "she is six years old, sir." "could it not be on account of your unkind treatment of her that your sister ran away?" was the next query. poor nadine flushed to the roots of her hair, and her eye flashed indignantly at this contemptible insinuation from the magistrate. "unkind treatment!" she cried, her voice quivering with anger. "i never treated lydia unkindly, as any one who knows about us can tell you. i have always done my best to be as tender with her as our dear mother would have been. i can assure you, sir, that lydia is as fond of us as we are of her. we all four love each other dearly, and we are very happy together, and the idea of her leaving us of her own accord is absurd. she must have been taken away by some evil person--and only the good god knows what they will do with her." here her indignation changed to grief, and covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears. the stern old magistrate, instead of being convinced by the manifest sincerity and truthfulness of the young girl, shook his head, as though to say: "that's all very fine, but i don't put much faith in it," and after a pause put another question. "was not your sister of a very headstrong nature?" "indeed she was not," sobbed nadine, "she was always most affectionate and gentle, and perfectly obedient." "we will see about that," grunted the magistrate, looking rather dissatisfied at the result of his examination thus far. he was silent for a time while he fiddled with the papers on his desk, and then he recommenced his questions. "you pretend also that you have been robbed of all the money you possessed while you were asleep, and you add that that sleep was not natural, but was caused by being drugged? is that the case?" "that is what i have told, sir, and it is the very truth," answered nadine firmly, for she had now recovered herself. "a pretty story, truly," retorted the magistrate, harshly, "and one that speaks volumes for your imagination. but there is another part of your story which is even more preposterous. you assert that a kind-hearted lady gave you two hundred francs about a month ago?" "i swear to you that this is true!" exclaimed nadine. "when madame pradère gave me the envelope i did not know what was in it, because she impressed upon me that i must not open it until i was in very great trouble. so i kept it carefully, and did not open it, as we were doing very well with our performances, and had no trouble until this came to us. then i thought of what she had told me, and opened the envelope when the gendarmes were present." "young girl," said the magistrate solemnly, "in your interest i enjoin you to make a full confession of the real truth without any longer attempting to mislead the law. take my word for it, you must not try to speak falsely as to things which sooner or later must be found out, if you would hope for the consideration of the authorities before whom you are brought. so now, my child, think well, and be perfectly frank with me. this is no doubt only a temporary giving away to wrong. you were strongly tempted, and you succumbed to the temptation by taking money which was not your own. tell me all, my child. where did you get that money?" chapter xv. nalla obtains assistance. poor unhappy nadine could stand it no longer! the persistent incredulity of the magistrate cut her to the heart. it was bad enough to have lost her darling sister, and all her money, but in addition to that to be treated like a criminal instead of finding sympathy and assistance, truly it was more than flesh and blood could bear. she sank fainting to the floor in front of the judge's desk. up to this point cæsar, awed by the stern manner of the judge, and, trusting to the superior intelligence and experience of his older sister, had been a silent although deeply moved spectator of the scene. but when nadine collapsed, he sprang forward, and spoke out in clear brave tones. "mr. magistrate, it is no use your torturing my sister like that. you cannot by so doing compel her to lie. she never deceived anybody in her life. what she has told you, sir, is perfectly true, every word of it. the money that you accuse her of stealing was given her by madame pradère, the lady of the mayor of the town of morainville." "madame pradère!" exclaimed the magistrate, jumping up from his chair. "did you say madame pradère?" "yes, sir," responded cæsar. "madame pradère who lives in a fine mansion at morainville." "pradère! pradère!" repeated the magistrate. "i know him, he was lieutenant in the regiment when i retired. we were very good friends, pradère and i, and we soon shall find out if you are speaking the truth. i shall write immediately to morainville and institute inquiries into your affair." "then we are saved!" cried cæsar, throwing out his arms in a gesture of relief and joy. this exclamation was uttered in a tone of such manifest sincerity that the magistrate, who was not really as hard-hearted as he seemed, and who had been severe towards the tambys because it is the custom in french courts to assume that every person brought them is a criminal, and to compel them to clear themselves, instead of considering them innocent until they were proven guilty, was profoundly impressed. he began to fear that he had been guilty of injustice and undue harshness. "after all," he reflected somewhat uneasily, "the story told by these children is very touching, and why may it not be true? i know that as a rule these mountebanks are not by any means good characters, but perhaps these orphans are an exception. i must deal more gently with them." so, with a much less severe expression, and softer tone, he said to them, nadine by this time having recovered her self-possession: "my children, to-morrow we shall clear up your affairs. i shall write to morainville requesting an immediate answer, and, if you have told the truth, you shall be free. but i am obliged to recommit you to prison until to-morrow. i shall see, however, that you are well cared for." "oh, sir, it doesn't matter so much about us," spoke up nadine. "we can manage to do without food for a day. we have already done so before, but our animals----" "ah! yes, to be sure," responded the magistrate. "you have a horse, which has been put in a stable. you need not worry about him. he will get all he needs." "but nalla--what about him?" persisted nadine, seeming much concerned. "nalla!" exclaimed the magistrate rather testily, for he was anxious to be through with the children for the present. "who is it that you call nalla?" "nalla," interposed the brigadier, "is a very big and dangerous beast, an elephant, which has insisted upon following us, and which at this moment is out there before your door." the magistrate went to the window and drew aside the curtains. there was nalla, silent and motionless, surrounded by a curious crowd that took care not to come too near him. "oh! ho!" he exclaimed. "what a huge creature? is he indeed dangerous?" "he?" replied nadine, smiling at the idea. "he dangerous? not a bit of it! he is as kind as possible, and i will guarantee that he does nobody any harm. but as he will not consent to part from us, won't you please permit him to remain at the prison gate until we come out again?" "very well, then, if you assure me that he will not do any mischief, i will consent to what you ask," said the magistrate graciously, "and to ease your minds, i may tell you that i will at once give orders that a thorough search of the neighborhood be made for any signs of your sister." nadine, her heart somewhat lightened by the promise, thanked the old man, and then the three children were escorted by the gendarmes to the prison. here they were confined in a large cell, a bare, comfortless chamber that was all the more objectionable to them because of their being accustomed to such a free open-air life. the only source of cheer that they had was the promise of the sous-préfet to write to m. pradère about them. but, presently, even this began to cause them uneasiness. "what if madame pradère should be away from home?" said nadine with a sigh of apprehension. "oh, don't you remember that the kind old gendarme said that she hardly ever went away?" responded cæsar, cheeringly. "my dear brother," returned nadine, "you are doing your best to keep up my spirits, but you see i am not of so hopeful a nature as you are. it's not my fault, cæsar, indeed it isn't, but i am troubled with dark presentiments. i am weighed down with anxiety that i cannot overcome. it is no doubt due to what has happened during the last two days, for i am greatly upset by it." abel joined with cæsar in well-meant efforts at consolation, and, as during the night before, the children had had no sleep at all, they now began to doze off, and presently all three of them were sound asleep. but poor nadine's rest was disturbed by unpleasant dreams, and about midnight she awoke with a shriek of terror. cæsar at once woke up and sought to find her hand in the darkness that enshrouded them. "what is the matter, dear sister?" he asked anxiously. "are you in pain? answer me, nadine, i beg of you." but nadine made no reply, and when cæsar took her hand he found that it was cold as ice. the sorely-tried girl had in fact fallen into a deep swoon. cæsar was terrified. nadine was silent and motionless. could she be dead? and there they were, shut up in the prison, without any way of getting assistance! he set up a frantic shouting. he hammered on the massive door with all his might only to get back the dreary echoes of his blows. there was nobody near at that time to hear him. everybody in beaulieu was sound asleep. there was one creature, however, that was awake, and whose keen ears caught the cries cæsar uttered in his frantic concern. nalla, keeping patient faithful watch beside the prison-gate, heard his young master, and realizing that he was in trouble at once started trumpeting with all his might. the appalling sound soon wakened the whole neighborhood, and the startled folk appeared at the windows and doors of their houses, but not one of them ventured to approach the huge animal from which it was proceeding. on seeing that no one responded to his call nalla tried to break down the gate of the prison in order to reach his young owners, and set them at liberty. but the gate was too strong. it successfully resisted his assault upon it. then the wise old creature showed his remarkable intelligence. he turned from the gate to the railing and with one stroke of his mighty trunk laid low the light iron bars. the way being thus cleared he went out alone into the deserted streets of the town. where now was he going with rapid step, and uplifted trunk as though ready to act in his own defense? certainly he did not need any one to show him the way. he evidently knew just what he was about. on he went, not in the least bothered by the darkness of the night, until he reached the house to which he had accompanied the children that morning--that is to say, the residence of the magistrate. then he came to a halt, and, without any concern for the peaceful slumbers of the honest townsfolk of that quarter, he proceeded to renew his vigorous trumpeting! the magistrate woke up, and hurried to the window to see what was the matter. "the elephant which was left shut up in the prison yard!" he exclaimed. "how on earth did he get here? he'll arouse the whole town. go away, you brute, and be quiet!" and he closed the window intending to return to bed. but nalla had no thought of letting him alone. he repeated his sonorous appeal. of course under the circumstances sleep was out of the question for the magistrate. moreover, the whole neighborhood was stirring, although it was not more than two o'clock of the morning. although very angry at first, on second thoughts the old gentleman, so rudely disturbed, began to say to himself: "after all there may be something amiss, or why has that big brute come here? it can only be to seek me out, and obtain my assistance? i must investigate at once." so with a certain amount of grumbling he dressed himself, and went down, opening the front door very carefully. as soon as nalla saw him he ceased trumpeting, waved his trunk in joyful greeting, and, wheeling around, set off for the prison, the magistrate following meekly in his rear, and marveling at the sagacity displayed by this remarkable creature. on their arrival they found the gendarmes gathered before the door, having been summoned by the startled neighbors. "open the door immediately," commanded the magistrate. the brigadier, who carried a lantern, unlocked the door, and led the way into the prison, while the other gendarmes remained outside, preserving a respectful distance from nalla, who stood as close as possible to the door, listening intently for every sound. chapter xvi. nadine's illness. on their entering the cell in which the tambys were confined they found nadine lying upon the floor, as pale and still as though she were dead. the magistrate was greatly alarmed. "the poor child has died!" he exclaimed, taking hold of her cold hand. "brigadier, send one of your men off for a doctor immediately," and when the gendarme had hurried out he lifted nadine's hand tenderly. "she's not dead! she is breathing!" cried the magistrate suddenly, in a tone of relief and joy. and he proceeded to stroke her blanched cheeks and forehead with his hands in a gentle way that seemed surprising in such a stern old man. presently the doctor arrived all out of breath, for the brigadier had made him come as fast as possible. after a careful examination of nadine he shook his head in a manner that was far from reassuring. "your honor," he said, "the child must be at once removed to the hospital. her unconsciousness may continue for some hours longer, and when she does revive it will be absolutely necessary that she should be guarded against the slightest excitement. i shall go to the hospital at once and arrange for her reception." half an hour later nadine was lying in a bed in the hospital, and at her side were cæsar and abel, in accordance with the directions of the magistrate. "it is best that the young girl should first see her brothers when she comes to herself," said the thoughtful old man, and although the brigadier ventured to protest, he had of course to obey the orders of his superior. not until morning did the doctor, who had not left nadine for a moment, give his opinion as to the nature of her illness. "she undoubtedly has an attack of brain fever," he said, looking very grave, "and will require great care. you must give her every attention," he added, turning to the sister of charity, in whose charge nadine would now be. the sister's heart was already full of sympathy for the sweet young girl, and she replied in her soft voice: "be assured, sir, she shall want for nothing. everything possible will be done for her." despite the authority given by the magistrate, that cæsar and abel should be permitted to remain near their sister, it must not be supposed that they were set at liberty. they were still kept under surveillance, although indeed there was small need for it. but the brigadier persisted in believing in those two hundred francs to have been stolen. during the long anxious days while nadine's life hung in the balance, poor cæsar did not concern himself as to whether there had been any answer received from morainville, until one morning the doctor announced that, barring fresh complications which he could not then foresee, nadine would recover. the two boys fairly shouted for joy at this good news, and, his mind being thus relieved about his sister, cæsar was able to think of something else. naturally his first thought was about the pradères, and he begged the brigadier, who came to the hospital every day to make sure that his youthful prisoners had not escaped, to take him to the magistrate in order to find out what answer had been received. the brigadier at first evaded the request, by pretending not to hear what cæsar said. but the boy reiterated his request, and the brigadier had to reply. "i must tell you, then," he said, "that your madame pradère has made no reply, and this goes to confirm my suspicions." "what!" cried cæsar, incredulously. "no reply? you say that madame pradère has not answered! but that is impossible! she knows perfectly well that we didn't steal the money." and, refusing to credit it, he was so importunate that at last for very peace' sake the brigadier took him to the magistrate. "is it true, sir!" he asked, with anxious, apprehensive face and tone, "that madame pradère has not answered the letter you wrote to her more than a month ago?" "yes, my boy, it is true," responded the magistrate kindly. "but just to-day came the explanation of her silence. she has suffered a great calamity. on the very day the gendarmes put you in prison at beaulieu, monsieur pradère was killed by a fiery horse that he was training." "m. pradère killed!" murmured cæsar sadly. "oh! how sorry i am, and nadine will be so sorry too. they were such good friends to us!" "you can easily understand," continued the magistrate, "that under such circumstances the poor lady would not be giving attention to her correspondence. but here now is the brief communication that she has made to me: "dear sir: "it is quite true that i gave the tamby children the envelope containing the two hundred francs. they are thoroughly honest and very intelligent children, and i commend them to your kind consideration. "v. pradÈre." "surely now we are free!" cried cæsar so soon as the magistrate had finished reading the note. "yes, my child, you are free," was the kindly response. "but it will be necessary for you to remain here for some time yet, because your sister is not even convalescent, and her recovery may take a long time." "that is so, sir," cæsar returned. "but abel and i will try to get work in the neighborhood so that we may provide for ourselves and our animals, and not be beholden to any one." "you are a brave manly boy!" said the magistrate, clapping him upon the shoulders, "and i will interest myself in obtaining employment for you. i will guarantee your good character." thus matters went on until the middle of november. by that time, although she had not by any means regained her full strength, nadine was so determined to have her own way that the doctor, having given her a thousand injunctions to be very careful of herself, permitted her to return to the van. the three tambys were then very happy at being reunited, and in cherishing the hope that ere long they would have their sister restored to them. alas, the poor young things had not yet drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of trial that had been thrust upon them, for now nalla began to be a source of anxiety. he spent much of the time lying down and refused to do his work. for long periods he would remain motionless, taking no interest in anything except the voices of passing children, at which sound he would suddenly raise his head, and would follow the children as far as he could with his small bright eyes, while he uttered groans like those he was wont to give forth when playing with little lydia. nadine and cæsar had no difficulty in deciding what was the matter with him. he was mourning for his beloved little playmate who had so strangely disappeared. for days he would not take a bit of food--although he was usually a great eater--and this in itself was enough to give them keen concern. yet nothing that they could do to comfort him had any effect. evidently they must simply wait for his grief to wear away unless they could succeed in finding lydia in the meantime. at every place they visited their first proceeding was to make inquiry as to whether any strolling performers had passed that way, and when they were answered in the affirmative they would ask if it was noticed whether they had with them a little girl six years of age and having brown hair and eyes. but nothing came of all their eager inquiries. lydia seemed to have vanished utterly. meanwhile the days went by, and the middle of december found them still searching vainly for their lost sister. the weather, which had hitherto been unusually mild, might at any time become cruelly cold. it was with serious concern that the poor children regarded the advent of the season which is so hard upon the poor, and among the poor there are surely none who feel it more than the wandering folk who live in vans. not only have they to face the bitter cold as they travel from one place to another, but the van, which is their dwelling, while well enough on the fine warm days of summer, is but a poor apology for a comfortable home when the winter winds blow fiercely. what is even still more serious for these wandering artists, their patrons naturally prefer remaining snugly at their own firesides with their feet toasting at the ruddy flames to standing in the open air watching a performance while the cold is nipping them. the tamby receipts were very scanty, and they suffered all the more on that account, because they had first to consider steady and nalla and make sure that they were well fed, even though nalla's appetite was not what it used to be. they had accordingly to buy a great deal of hay, and hay was expensive. nadine had always endeavored so far as she was able to give the big creature the things he liked, and often he would caress her with his trunk in token of his appreciation of her attentions, but there were no more dainties for him now, nothing but the plainest of fare. chapter xvii. in a desperate strait. the tambys were now in the department of gironde, and on the twentieth of december, about eleven in the morning, they left parentes in order to go to mamezan, a town situated on the seaside. they had to traverse about twenty miles of open moor and of pine woods without a single house on the whole route, and at that time of the year the night came on early. when they were starting, nalla, who was lying down beside the van, seemed very reluctant to rise, and did so only in obedience to nadine, who said: "my friend, be brave. we must go on farther and farther until we have found lydia. then we shall be able to take a good long rest. come now, get up, like a good fellow. we have to be off without delay." and so with manifest reluctance the elephant slowly rose, and followed mopingly along in the rear of the van that steady seemed to find increasing difficulty in dragging over the hard roads. the little party made slow progress, and at the end of three hours had accomplished only one-half of the journey. furthermore, a violent and icy wind blowing in from the sea raised the sand in a way that blinded poor old steady, who toiled along painfully with his head bent as low as if he would fain bury it between his legs, and, finally, it was necessary to halt from time to time in order to let nalla rest, for he seemed too feeble to walk at all fast. the sky became covered with dark heavy clouds, and the temperature suddenly went down, while the bitter wind continued to blow mercilessly. then the snow began to fall. the great stretch of sand was utterly deserted save for the solitary van with its occupants and nalla, and in a few minutes the whole plain was as white as a tablecloth. the snow fell so thickly as to completely shut out the sky and all the world around. cæsar, anxious for the animals, managed to arrange the canvas curtain of their "theater" so that it covered nalla's head and the most of steady's body, and then the three children shut themselves up in the van with vigilant to endure the misery of their situation as best they could. poor old steady kept up a dolorous whinnying and stamping of his hoofs as he strove to kick away the snow which banked about his feet, and chilled his legs, while nalla poured forth pitiful plaints that sounded remarkably like sobs as he cowered beneath the canvas, which was all too small to afford him anything like adequate shelter. for more than an hour the storm raged, the snow falling so heavily that steady was buried in it up to his knees, and the van up to the hubs of the wheels. after it ceased to fall the sky continued to be dark and lowering, and to give promise of further avalanches, and beneath the somber heavens the immense plain spread out as far as eye could reach, one vast expanse of blinding whiteness. oh! the white robe of cruel winter, which is in truth the mourning of nature, and of the unfortunate creatures that have no snug shelter! how saddening it is! how it chills the heart! it is so dreadful to think of poor wretches who have no warm hearth to sit beside, no roof to cover them, but must suffer the pangs that the merciless cold alone can inflict, and perhaps lie down to die with the unpitying snow as their winding-sheet! the tamby children, unfortunate though they certainly were, had at least the protection of their van, and might have been comfortable after a fashion had not their hearts been wrung with anxiety for their missing sister, who, for aught they knew, was exposed to the same storm, and for their faithful beasts cowering close to the van that afforded them but partial shelter from the cutting blast. "poor nalla and steady!" said cæsar, as he closed the door, after being out to speak encouragingly to them, and to pat their heads. "if they were only no bigger than vigilant they could come into the van with us, and we would help to keep each other warm." "it is indeed too bad they have to be out in all this storm," murmured nadine, her eyes filling with tears, "and i'm very much afraid it may make nalla sick. he seems a good deal out of sorts already. oh, cæsar, what would we do if he were to die! we could never earn a living without him!" cæsar put his arm around his sister, and stroked her hair tenderly. "of course we could, dearie," he said with a cheery confidence, much more emphatic than he really felt. "we would not of course do quite so well at first without the dear old fellow, who is now the chief attraction of our entertainment, but we would put something else in his place. you might learn some new songs, and i some new tricks, and abel might do an act with vigilant, and so on." nadine brightened up at his encouraging words. "that's the way to look at it," she responded. "how brave you are, my brother!" then with a sigh that seemed to rend her heart, "but, oh!--if we only had our little lydia back!" the storm subsided. the snowflakes grew lighter and fewer, and the atmosphere clearer, but the tambys realized with much concern that the light was waning as at the approach of night. it was only three o'clock in the afternoon, but on the twentieth of december darkness comes early. yet they were still nearly ten miles from the town of mamezan, which was their destination. "cæsar," exclaimed nadine, rousing herself from the sad reverie into which she had relapsed, "we must start again at once, or we shall have to spend the night out in this desolate plain." "we must, indeed," answered cæsar with a brisk toss of the head, "but it will be precious slow going. see, nadine, how deep the snow is! steady is right up to his knees in it. i must get him out." so saying, he pulled away the canvas which had been covering the horse and elephant, and taking the former by the bridle, called out in the same tone as if he were speaking to a human companion: "brace up, comrade! it will be a hard job for you to drag the heavy van through this deep snow, but we must be off if we don't want to spend the night without shelter. so come along, do your best, old chap!" steady was quite willing to show that he did not lack good-will. he strained hard upon the collar, and by dint of a succession of vigorous efforts, succeeded in getting the van in motion. but after a few turns of the wheels it stopped again. the load was beyond his strength, and the poor creature in his noble efforts to start it, slipped upon the already hard frozen snow, and fell heavily, injuring his knees. cæsar and nadine burst into despairing tears, in which little abel joined. but it was only for a moment. "this won't do," cried the brave-hearted boy, springing up and dashing away the tears as if he were ashamed of them. "i know what i'll try." he remembered what he had seen his father do sometimes when the road had been too soft, or the hills too steep upon their route, and he at once proceeded to imitate it. he led nalla out in front of the van, and attached him by ropes to the whippletree. then, in as cheery a tone as he could manage, he called out: "now, then, nalla, help your old comrade out of his difficulty. you see he cannot haul the van through this deep snow alone. you must give him the aid of your vast strength." but alas! nalla seemed to have lost all his strength and spirit. instead of responding to such an appeal as the faithful, big-hearted creature was wont to do, he collapsed upon the snow! with this, all hope of the poor children being able to get away appeared to be at an end. there was no other alternative than to spend the night on that appalling waste of snow. of course they would be fairly well sheltered from the cold in their van, and, as they fortunately had a little fuel still left, they could keep up a small fire in the tiny cooking-stove. but how about the elephant and the horse? what was to become of them? something must be done on their behalf. so cæsar, nadine and abel went to work to clear away the snow from around the van, in order to make some sort of a resting-place for the two animals. it was hard work, although they went at it with all their strength, and by the time it was finished night was drawing near. "here now, nalla," said cæsar. "get up, old fellow, from that cold place, and come over to where we have cleared all the snow away. you will find it much more comfortable." the big creature, after several vain efforts, succeeded in getting to his feet again, and followed cæsar to the spot indicated, where he at once lay down again. nadine was very much alarmed. "cæsar!" she cried, "this is something serious. i have often seen nalla tired out, and sometimes sick, but never so bad as this. he no doubt needs a warm mash to revive him, and i haven't a thing out of which to make it." cæsar formed a resolution with his wonted promptness. "nadine," he said, "i'll go right away to mamezan for the help we need. it is now four o'clock. i'll be back before midnight." chapter xviii. the recovery of nalla. "you're a brave boy, cæsar!" cried nadine, her face glowing with love and pride. "but do you realize what that would mean? you could hardly make a mile an hour through this deep snow. it is above your knees, and you would soon become exhausted by wading through it. no--no--dear brother--it would be folly to try it, and, moreover, you cannot do it any way." "why so?" persisted cæsar, who was thoroughly in earnest. "i'm sure i can do it. just remember that nalla's life is in danger. if nothing is done for him soon he will surely die." half-convinced, nadine looked out upon the white wilderness, as bare, as silent, as trackless as the ocean. north, south, east, and west not a sign of human habitation could be discerned. the three young occupants of the shabby old van might have been the only people in the world. turning sadly to cæsar, she said with a sigh that was more like a sob: "in which direction will you go, cæsar?" cæsar gazed earnestly in every direction, asking of the horizon the question his sister had put to him, but there was no answer forthcoming from the encircling gloom. he had overlooked the fact that the snow had obliterated the roads, and that consequently he would be unable to find his way. in a despondent tone he replied: "i won't go at all, nadine. i don't know where mamezan lies. we'll have to stay here for the night, and make the best of it." the big canvas was accordingly used to cover poor old nalla, who lay groaning dolefully, and steady having been tied close to the van so as to get all the shelter it could afford, the tambys went to bed supperless. not a star shone in the sky, nor friendly light glimmered in the distance. the children were alone--utterly alone, on the great plain of which the snow had made a white lifeless desert. they threw themselves upon their beds without undressing, and abel, poor little chap, did not take long to go to sleep, but cæsar and nadine could not thus forget for a time their troubles. again and again did one or other of them get up to go to nalla, who moaned piteously, and at last, about four o'clock, they became greatly alarmed by the heartrending cries of the animal, who appeared to be in great suffering, and unable to lift his head from where it lay upon the frozen ground. the two children, filled with the keenest concern, and yet powerless to do anything, remained by the head of their faithful friend, and at break of day were joined by abel, who had awakened from his sleep. when nalla lay down he instinctively turned his head to the quarter in which the sun would rise, as if he would see for the last time, may be, the dawn which had always been a favorite sight with him. and now his eyes, almost closed, watched the first faint gray lights of a chill winter's morning. perhaps he then had a vision of the far-away jungle in which he was born, and where he spent his youth. perhaps this plain, stripped of its winding-sheet of snow, that stretched before his eyes, recalled to his memory those other plains of far greater extent, which he had traversed in his own country. perhaps he saw, as in a mirage, the dense thickets of luxurious vegetation in which he had taken refuge with his own kind, and the savage grandeur of the mysterious regions wherein his early years had been spent. may be nalla in this supreme hour reviewed the different stages of his life, from the day when, while still a mere calf, he was captured by tamed elephants trained to make prisoners of wild ones, until when in his fiftieth year he became the protector and breadwinner of the tamby family. lydia had been his particular pet. he loved her with the whole strength of his big heart, and her sudden disappearance had been a rude shock to his already failing health. the tender-hearted creature mourned for his darling and could not be comforted. by eight o'clock it was broad daylight. but such a day! the sky hung low and threatening. the heavy clouds were of a sullen gray color. the snow seemed ready to resume falling in greater quantity. nadine, cæsar, and abel did not leave the side of their big friend. nadine tenderly patted the limp trunk, while she said, soothingly: "don't lose heart, nalla! it is day again, and cæsar will go to the town to get assistance for you. we will save you, nalla. you often saved us in critical times, and we are not going to let you die. you are our best friend. you are not only our chief resource in the gaining of our daily bread, but you are, above all, our old and tried comrade, truest and most devoted friend. you are, moreover, our best hope for the recovery of lydia--our dear little lydia, my good nalla, the little lydia of whom you are so fond. you will live, won't you, nalla, to love us, and be loved by us in return?" nalla remained motionless through all nadine's tender appeals, yet he seemed to understand every word she uttered. his sorrowful little eyes were turned towards the children to tell them that he understood, and that he was extremely sorry to cause them so much anxiety. presently his huge body began to shake with violent tremors. it was plain that severe pangs tortured him, and he presented a pitiable spectacle as he lay there upon the wild waste of snow, to all appearances beyond the reach of assistance. he could breathe now only with great difficulty, and he made pathetic efforts to raise his head in order to obtain the air he needed. at last the poor creature gathered strength to lift his trunk, and pass it around the three children, who were sitting beside him, thus drawing them one by one nearer to himself. there he held them for some minutes as though seeking to have them realize how much he was suffering, and how deeply he was attached to them. poor nalla! he whose cradle bed had been the warm sod of the land of sunshine, now had for sick-bed a snowdrift! suddenly cæsar sprang to his feet. "nadine!" he said, "i believe that the cold is making nalla worse, and that he is likely to die here. can't we do something to get him warm?" "yes--yes," replied nadine. "we must try and make him warm. but how shall we do it?" "nadine, it must be done at any cost," returned cæsar. "first of all let us clear away all the snow from about him." so once more the three children set courageously to work at sweeping the snow away. when this had been accomplished cæsar said briskly: "now, then, let us make a fire." "what shall we make it with?" asked nadine, looking around as if in hopes of seeing a pile of wood somewhere. "with anything--everything," responded cæsar in a determined tone. "with our van if there is nothing else that will do." at the suggestion of this extreme measure nadine paled, and for a moment showed hesitation. but it was only for a moment. "yes, cæsar," she cried, "we'll do it. we'll make firewood of the van before we'll let nalla die!" "but we won't begin on the van until we have used up everything else," returned cæsar. without delay they went to work upon their fire. the trestles, the planks, and everything else that composed their "theater," their chairs and tables and other articles of furniture, they were all sacrificed without demur, and the bonfire presently assumed considerable proportions, crackling and roaring cheerfully. in its flames nadine melted snow in a metal basin, and made nalla drink the warm water, replenishing the basin again and again until he had absorbed several gallons of it. after a little, to their infinite joy the big fellow began to show signs of improvement. he trumpeted in a feeble way, and moved his trunk about. his piteous groanings ceased altogether. manifestly he was on the mend. "bravo, nadine!" exclaimed cæsar, smiling radiantly at these cheering signs. "you always know just the right thing to do. that hot water is making nalla well again. what a clever girl you are!" nadine was so ruddy from her exertions and the heat of the blaze at which she was working that the blush of pleasure her brother's praise evoked only added a deeper tinge as she made haste to reply. "but it was you that thought of the fire, cæsar, and if it were not for it there would be no hot water, you know," and she patted him lovingly on the shoulder. at the end of half-an-hour nalla got his head up, and not long after rose to his feet, although he was still very shaky on his great legs. but he held his trunk high once more, and looked at his young owners with a new brightness in his eyes. the danger which threatened his life had passed, and nalla was undoubtedly saved! the children were almost delirious with joy. they hugged in turn the elephant's trunk. they embraced one another. they danced around their big friend singing gleefully until they were completely tired out, and then they went back to their beds to try and get some sleep before the return of day. [illustration: at the end of half an hour nalla got his head up.] chapter xix. in the nick of time. snow! snow! snow! in flakes and flurries it fell from the skies to the earth as though there were no end to it. not until ten o'clock of the following morning did the soft avalanche cease, and by that time so much had fallen that abel was lifted on to the roof of the van to sweep away the snowy coverlet which had become threatening through its weight, while cæsar shook off the snow that seemed to be trying to hide the canvas which sheltered steady. he gave the old horse the remainder of the hay, and went back inside the van to consult with nadine as to what had best be done. nalla appeared to be still suffering, but able to stand upon his great legs. the three children stood at the door of the van and gazed eagerly over the wide white plain, and then up at the sky. the latter looked decidedly unpromising. there was no hint of a change for the better in the weather. "well, we certainly can't stay here!" exclaimed cæsar in a tone of decision. "we must find some way of getting out of this fix, or we shall all die." "but how, my dear brother?" asked nadine despondently. "i'll do what i said at first," responded cæsar. "i'll set out alone for mamezan. i'll then hire a man and a horse to help us and i'll procure some food." "it seems the only thing to do," said nadine with an anxious sigh. "you'd better go, dear, but oh! be very careful!" they had their breakfast, and nadine after an examination of their larder, announced that there was sufficient food left to do abel and her until night if cæsar did not get back sooner. so tying a big handkerchief over his hat that it might protect his face as much as possible, buttoning up his coat tightly, and taking a short stick, he embraced nadine and abel, and was ready to start. but in which direction was he to go? they all three scanned the trackless plain to try and discern some sign of a road. it was as white, as smooth, as virgin as if no foot of man or beast ever crossed it. then to nadine's bright brain came a wise thought. "when we left parentes was not mamezan in the west where the sun sets, cæsar?" "yes--it was," responded cæsar, "but there's no sun to be seen now, so we can't tell anything by that." "true enough," returned nadine, her pretty face bright with intelligence; "but you know that nalla every morning turns his head to the rising sun. last night our old friend as usual wanted to be ready to see the dawn of the day, and he turned towards the east. you should therefore go in the opposite direction in which to find mamezan." cæsar's countenance lost its puzzled look, and was brightened by a smile of comprehension. "you clever girl!" he cried. "you are right, of course, as you always are. i never saw the like of you for thinking of things. and nalla, dear old nalla, has come to our help again. oh, what a treasure he is!" with his mind thus settled cæsar once more bade the others good-bye, and started off, trudging manfully through the deep snow which made the walking hard work for his young legs. "good-bye, my brother!" nadine called after him. "a safe journey to mamezan, and a quick return to deliver us from this dreadful place." fighting his way through the deep snow which made every step a task of difficulty cæsar plodded due west, making frequent halts to get his breath, and to glance back at the van, which stood out so prominently, the only dark spot in that wilderness of white. he had not gone very far before he found that vigilant was following him, although he had not invited him to do so. "you good dog!" he cried, well pleased at having such a companion, and stooping down to pat him vigorously. "you're not afraid to accompany your master instead of staying snugly in the van. i'm so glad to have you with me." when cæsar spoke thus he little guessed what a fortunate thing the dog's devotion was to prove. vigilant responded with a volley of barks that confirmed his intention to stick to his master, but had also a plaintive tone as though he would imply that, for himself, he would have deemed it much wiser to remain in the shelter of the van. when they had been walking for about two hours vigilant lay down and held up his paws in a significant way, at the same time barking piteously. "why, what is the matter, vigilant?" asked cæsar with concern. "are your feet hurting you?" as the animal continued his appeals cæsar picked him up, and examined his paws. the poor little things were extremely sore from contact with the hard frozen snow and not fit to be walked upon. "heigh-ho!" exclaimed cæsar. "there's nothing for it but to carry you," and gathering the dog in his arms he renewed his toilsome tramp thus burdened. but he was suffering in no small measure himself. the cruel cold attacked his face, his hands and his feet mercilessly, and to make matters worse, his boots, which were in sore need of repairs, failed to keep out the snow with which they were now filled. every step was pain. but he struggled on heroically, carrying the heavy dog. about three in the afternoon his eyes were gladdened by the sight of a column of smoke rising to the sky a long way off. "bravo!" he cried, "i'm in the right direction. i will reach a house soon," and encouraged by this prospect, he pushed ahead with renewed vigor, although his strength was fast failing, and the walking grew no easier. that smoke meant mamezan without doubt, and mamezan meant relief for them all. he must get there before night. for another half-hour he plowed laboriously through the drifts, and by the end of that time the roofs of mamezan hove into sight through the fading light of the day already drawing to a close. but alas! with the haven getting so near he began to feel that he should not be able to reach it. his whole system was on the verge of complete collapse. agonizing pains shot through his body like stabs from red-hot needles. then a roaring filled his ears. he became blind and dizzy, and, at last, succumbing to his sufferings, he fell unconscious upon the snow! vigilant, standing by his master, howled dismally. his paws having got warm while cæsar carried him in his arms, he was able to use them again, and he ran hither and thither barking frantically, while cæsar with pallid hands and face lay motionless. seeing that his young master made no response to his appeals vigilant lifted his head, and looked about him in every direction. then, after a moment's pause he set off at full speed in the direction of mamezan. it was now night--a cold dark december night. vigilant kept on at a good pace until suddenly he stopped, and turned about. he heard the sound of a bell, and saw a good way off the gleam of a light that was not still, but was moving towards him, while the tinkling of the bell grew clearer. with a joyous bark that meant as plainly as words: "hurrah! there's some one who will help us," vigilant scampered over the snow in the direction of the light. it was borne by the rider of an old and tired horse, and this rider was the old curé of mamezan, père blandinière, who was returning to the town after having dispensed extreme unction to a dying member of his congregation. from time to time he chirruped to his steed, which seemed almost exhausted. the good man was greatly surprised at the sudden appearance of vigilant, whose sharp barks demanded prompt attention, and he turned the rays of the lantern upon the faithful creature. "why, bless me!" he exclaimed, bringing his horse to a halt, which was only too easily done. "what's the meaning of a dog like this being away out here alone at such an hour of the night?" for he saw at once that it was no common farmer's dog, but a poodle of high breeding that was barking so insistently at his horse's feet. so soon as vigilant saw that he had attracted the curé's attention he sat up on his hind legs, and begged for help in a way that could not be misunderstood. then, dropping on all fours, he darted off in the direction where cæsar was, and as quickly returned to resume his entreaties. the wise old man at once grasped the situation. "i understand you, you clever animal!" he said in a tone of great kindliness. "your master has succumbed to the cold, and you want me to help him. lead me to him then, i will follow at once, and the good god grant i may be in time!" vigilant, the moment he saw his meaning was understood, gave a volley of joyous barks, and rushed off towards where he had left cæsar, coming back every few yards to make sure that the curé was following, for in his impatience he went much faster than the wearied old horse. a little later the curé was bending over the motionless form of cæsar. "poor boy!" he murmured with deep sympathy. "he still breathes, but he would assuredly have died but for this wonderfully intelligent animal." he at once set to work chafing cæsar's hands and cheeks, and, presently, wrapping him in his own cloak, lifted him up on to the saddle, holding him there while he himself walked beside the horse, then, followed by vigilant, who marched along with head and tail erect in proud satisfaction at having brought rescue to his beloved master, they in due time reached the presbytery. the curé had the still unconscious boy put into a warm bed, where before long he recovered his senses, and opened his eyes. he looked about the bright cosy room with wondering inquiry, and caught the eye of the kind priest, who was sitting near him conning his breviary and repeating the familiar words to himself as the movement of his lips showed. "ah! ha!" exclaimed père blandinière in a tone of satisfaction as he rose from his seat, and approached the bed. "you have come back to life, eh? i felt sure you would. you are too sturdy a lad to let the cold put an end like that to you. and how are you feeling now?" cæsar felt so languid, and at the same time so entirely comfortable in the soft warm bed that his inclination was to lie still and say nothing. but he was too courteous a boy to do that, and, moreover, as soon as his senses returned, he began to think about the others, nadine and abel, who were so anxiously awaiting his return. instinctively he tried to get up, but the curé gently pressed him back into the bed. "no--no--my son," he said, kindly yet firmly. "just stay where you are for the present. but if you feel strong enough pray tell me your story." "but nadine, and abel, and nalla," cried cæsar. "they must be saved," and his big dark eyes glowed with intense earnestness as he clasped his hands like one in prayer. "and they shall be saved, my son," responded the curé soothingly. "never fear, they shall be saved. tell me all about them." relieved by this assurance cæsar, now fully master of himself, made haste to tell the story of the van and how it was lost in the wilderness of snow. chapter xx. in care of the curÉ. the good curé listened with sympathetic interest. "help shall be sent to them without delay," he said. "your clever dog will no doubt be able to guide those who shall go straight to the van, and now if you will drink this warm soup which my servant has just brought in, and then compose yourself to sleep, which you greatly need, you may count on finding your brother and sister here when you wake again." cæsar obeyed without question. he had perfect faith in the benevolent priest. the welcome soup sent thrills of comfort through his whole frame, and as soon as he had drunk the last drop his head fell back upon the pillow, and he sank into a profound sleep. meanwhile the curé had organized a party of rescue. late as the hour was he had no difficulty in getting willing responses to his appeals, and in a short time several men leading two strong horses set out to find the van, vigilant proudly acting as guide. the sagacious animal took them straight to the spot, and at their coming, nadine, whose nerves had been enduring so cruel a strain, burst into tears of joy, while abel capered about shouting: "we're saved! we're saved!" and then throwing himself upon vigilant, rolled him over in the snow in the exuberance of his delight. the horses were promptly attached to the van, replacing poor old tired-out steady, who joined nalla at the rear, and the little procession moved towards mamezan at a good pace. father blandinière with the aid of his warmhearted housekeeper had everything ready at the presbytery for the reception of nadine and abel, and for the accommodation of their animals. they were all well fed, and then retired to rest, the children in comfortable beds, and the animals in a warm stable. it was broad daylight when cæsar awoke, and being of a strong constitution, he found himself little the worse for the exposure of the previous night. he lay there for a while enjoying the luxury of the soft bed, and then his desire to know about nadine and abel impelled him to get up. he made his way down-stairs, and opening the door, was rejoiced to see the familiar old van in the yard with the faithful nalla standing beside it, and seeming to be quite himself again. "yes--there's your little house on wheels with everything belonging to it," said a kind voice behind him, and cæsar, turning around, saw the curé's housekeeper smiling pleasantly upon him. "but you must not expect to see your sister and brother for a while yet. they are still sound asleep. they were quite worn out, the poor things!" cæsar thanked her warmly for her kindness to them, and went out to the stable to see how steady was, stopping on the way to pat nalla's trunk, and to say affectionately: "you dear monster! i'm so glad you're better. i hope you'll not be ill like that again." old steady set up a joyous neighing as soon as he heard his young master's footsteps. there was nothing the matter with him, and after making his little demonstration he resumed munching the excellent hay with which the manger was liberally supplied. it was not until midday that nadine and abel awoke, and as the three children were exchanging embraces the housekeeper came to say that dinner was ready, and that the curé invited them all to dine with him. wonderfully refreshed by their sound sleep, delighted at being together again in so comfortable an establishment, and with the keenest of appetites, the three children followed the housekeeper into the dining-room where they were graciously received by the benevolent curé. m. blandinière seated them at the table, and saw to it that they had thoroughly enjoyed the steaming savory soup before he asked them any questions. then he drew them out to talk about themselves, and to tell him their whole story, to which he listened with deep interest and sympathy. he had reached the age of seventy years, for two score of which he had been the curé of mamezan, where he was universally beloved for his good deeds, and amiable qualities. he was the kind providence of the unfortunate, the confidant of the young, the most trusted friend of the old, the comforter of the sorrowing, the one whose presence was sought above all others by those drawing near the dread valley of the shadow. when nadine in her clear sweet way had finished her recital, the good man murmured as he placed his soft white hand gently upon her head: "poor little things! poor little things! orphans! left alone in the world at the very time when most in need of counsel and protection!" then he was silent for a moment while the children fixed their eyes upon his wrinkled countenance that expressed benignity in every line. presently he spoke: "i am very poor, my dears, and am not able to do much for you, but however poor one may be it is their duty to share what they have with those who are still worse off. your purpose is, you say, to continue your journey that you may recover your sister, and earn your living. that is right, i approve of your resolution, but you are worn out. you need a good rest before you can proceed, and i am going to keep you for a while. we will take good care of your elephant so that he may regain his health, and will look after your horse and dog. the christmas festival is at hand. we will join you in praying to the good god that he will restore to you the little one for whom you mourn. i will allow you to give a performance at mamezan before you leave--that is, after the christmas fêtes. for the present you are my guests, and i want you to enjoy yourselves thoroughly." with brimming eyes and quivering lips, for the kindness of the curé moved them deeply, nadine and cæsar tried to find words in which to express their gratitude, while abel, inspired by one of the happy impulses of childhood, slipped down from his chair, and gliding to the curé's side, put up his face, whispering: "please may i kiss you, i love you." bending over the little chap, father blandinière encircled him with his arm, and imprinted a kiss upon his plump cheek, murmuring to himself: "truly, of such is the kingdom of heaven!" that afternoon, as the three children were strolling about the streets of mamezan, and felicitating themselves upon the happy turn in their fortunes, nadine stopped suddenly and said: "but how can we repay the curé's kindness? we are poor--poorer than ever before, and our future is very uncertain." "nadine," responded cæsar, looking very wise, "i know something that will greatly please the curé. i have spoken to the sacristan, and he said it was a capital idea, and i promised him to carry it out." "and what did you promise?" asked nadine eagerly. "ah! that is my secret, which i shall keep carefully," responded cæsar. "but i assure you that it will give the curé great pleasure." after the evening meal, which they had at an early hour, they all went to bed to get a good sleep before midnight. in good time the housekeeper aroused them, and, having dressed carefully, they went to the village church, nadine and abel in company with the housekeeper, while cæsar, so full of his secret that he could hardly trust himself to speak, joined the sacristan, who was evidently waiting for him. they found the church already well filled for the celebration of the midnight mass. there were bronzed fishermen and bearded miners by the score, for it was a custom faithfully observed in that village that the men should never miss the christmas mass if they could possibly be present. at the last stroke of midnight the priest, good father blandinière, took his place before the altar, and the solemn service began. it must be admitted that at mamezan they were not very exacting in regard to the singing of the chants. there was only the sacristan, who in a hard, rough voice led a handful of boys, who had very little notion either of time or tune. indeed, it was quite a grief to the venerable priest that he could not have better music at his church. but the people were too poor to pay for an organ and an organist, and so they had to be content with the well-meaning but far from harmonious sacristan. the choir, if it may be so called, was placed in a little gallery over the main entrance, and into this gallery cæsar followed the sacristan. nadine had wondered why he did not go with them to the church, and had been looking for him all over the building. at last she caught sight of him in the gallery, and gave a start of surprise. "why, what can cæsar be doing there?" she said to herself. just then the sacristan made a sign to him, and he advanced to the front of the gallery with his mandolin in hand. chapter xxi. the return to morainville. as the first sweet notes fell from cæsar's fingers, the congregation turned their heads to see what this novel music meant, and nadine, catching abel's arm, whispered: "now i know the secret. cæsar is going to sing '_minuit chrétien_,' he knows it perfectly." then a great silence settled upon the worshipers. it seemed as if they hardly breathed in their eager expectancy. m. blandinière was taken completely by surprise. the secret had been well kept. but he felt it in his heart that all would be well, and, pausing before beginning the _pater noster_, he stood with his arms outstretched towards his people, and the tears dimming his eyes while cæsar's clear sweet voice filled the church with the lovely music of the _cantique de noel_. it was a beautiful and impressive scene. thrilled with the purest emotions, nadine stood as in a dream. but for one thing, she would have been in a very heaven of joy--if only little lydia stood beside her with abel! instinctively her heart was lifted to the good god that he would soon restore her darling sister to her. when cæsar finished there followed an interval of silence, and then the noble old priest, turning from the altar to the people, chanted in a voice trembling with tears, the _pater noster_. for the first time in its history, the old church of mamezan had heard the notes of a mandolin, and for the first time also, perhaps, had the simple villagers listened to so sweet and touching a rendering of the exquisite _cantique de noel_. when the midnight mass was ended the congregation returned to their homes, and for some time there echoed through the still, cold air of the night the clatter of their sabots upon the hard frozen ground. the tambys went back to the presbytery where father blandinière, taking cæsar's hands in his, thanked him in these sincere, simple words: "i thank you, my dear child, with all my heart. you have afforded me a great pleasure this night." the christmas celebration being over the children began preparations to leave mamezan and the good curé who had proved so timely a benefactor. m. blandinière had given them permission to give one performance before leaving the village. but they were very much concerned regarding it. their program now seemed to be so sadly shortened with lydia gone, and their "theater" destroyed. there remained just the amusing act of steady and vigilant, cæsar's sleight-of-hand tricks and nadine's pretty songs, excepting, of course, nalla, who was their strongest card. but they could not wait to rehearse new acts, for they must lose no further time in prosecuting the search for lydia. so the performance proved a disappointment, and the takings were very meager indeed. the mamezan folk, it is true, were mostly poor, and had little money to spare, yet all the same it was with heavy hearts that they bade good-bye to the kind curé and once more took the road. they were not far beyond the boundaries of the village, for poor old steady made slow progress with the heavy van, when a man caught hold of his bridle, and made him stop, which indeed he was only too glad to do. "my children, you go no farther in that direction. i have come for you." nadine, cæsar, and abel instead of being alarmed at this startling action, joined in an exclamation of surprise and joy, for it was not a highway robber that had thus halted them, but an old acquaintance whom they were delighted to recognize--no other than the kind old constable of morainville, who had so befriended them at that place. what could _he_ be doing there--nearly a hundred miles away from home? divining their astonishment at his appearance the constable made haste to speak. "you are surprised to see me, no doubt. for eight days have i been following you stage by stage of your journey. i have good news for you." "lydia!" at once cried the three children together. she was their first thought. no matter what their trials might be they seemed as nothing to them in comparison with the loss of lydia. but the constable shook his head. "no--not lydia yet," he answered in a lower tone. "we shall find her soon, never fear. but i have come to take you back with me." "to take us back with you?" exclaimed nadine. "what do you mean, my dear constable?" "just what i say," the old man responded, smiling upon her. "it is the order of madame pradère. she has sent me for you." "madame pradère!" echoed nadine, her own countenance brightening at the mention of the name. "our kind benefactress! does she really want us to go to her?" "to be sure!" returned the constable, who evidently enjoyed his mission. "you don't know how sorely she has been bereaved since you were at morainville." "yes--i do," replied nadine, softly, her eyes filling with tears. "she lost her husband by a dreadful accident." "ah! she has changed greatly since then," the constable went on. "her hair has become almost white. there was a time when they feared for her reason." "the poor lady!" murmured nadine. "how she must have suffered!" "yes--ah yes!" sighed the constable. "and she wants to be comforted in her loneliness. she has neither husband nor children now, and so she sent me off to find you, and bring you back. she has resolved to take care of you for the future." nadine and cæsar looked at one another in bewilderment. what could the constable mean? if they did not know how good and kind he was they might have thought he was out of his senses. madame pradère to adopt them! surely it was too good to be true! but the constable soon convinced them that he was altogether in earnest. madame pradère had sent him for them, and they must return with him. he had his orders, and he was bound to carry them out. so, casting away all doubt, they placed themselves under his guidance. nalla and steady were then turned about, and pointed in precisely the opposite direction. that is, they were to proceed due north instead of due south. it was the constable's first experience of traveling by van, and he took to it very kindly, saying over and over again that it was decidedly a most pleasant means of locomotion. "you certainly get a good view of the country, and have time to become well acquainted with it," was his sagacious comment. he had ample funds wherewith madame pradère had thoughtfully provided him, and the tambys enjoyed every needed comfort, while the animals were fed as never before. under this generous treatment nalla completely recovered his health, and old steady positively grew fat, the ribs that had been showing so plainly going quite out of sight. for a score of days they traveled steadily but slowly, and what between entire relief from all anxiety as to their daily bread, the unwonted abundance of excellent food, and their thoroughly healthy outdoor life in the pleasant company of the genial constable, the three children improved wonderfully in appearance, so that by the time they reached morainville they were each and all looking their very best. it was with an amusing yet surely pardonable air of proud satisfaction that the constable conducted them to the pradère chateau. he had taken the precaution of informing madame pradère in advance of their arrival, and she was ready to receive them with a warm and tender greeting. nadine was touched to tears when she saw how the good lady had altered and aged in the short space of time since she parted from her. her abundant hair was almost snow-white, her beautiful features were deeply lined, and her step had lost all its spring. she moved and spoke softly. but there was no mistaking her pleasure at the return of the children. both from the magistrate at beaulieu, and father blandinière she had had letters in regard to them. she knew much of their sufferings, and she was eager to console them for their trials, and to forget her own sorrows in the endeavor to make them happy. "my dear children," she said after she had embraced them in turn, "it is because i myself have suffered that i want you, who are still so young, to forget your many tribulations. i once had children of my own. the good god gave them to me. but he took them from me again, and now i want to fill the empty place that they have left. i shall take entire care of you, and shall be responsible for your future. you shall share all that i possess, and be denied nothing that will be for your good. the search for your sister lydia shall be continued until she is found and restored to you. and now, my dear children, are you content to accept my proposal?" content to accept her offer--the advantages and attractions of which were so great that they could scarcely credit their understanding of it--? indeed they were content--and more--they were filled with rapture and gratitude. it meant their admission into a veritable paradise. no more hunger--no more cold--no more anxiety about food or clothing--no more rough or rascally people to deal with--oh, how good it was of god to give them such a friend! chapter xxii. reunited at last. the days that followed were very happy ones for the tamby children, and dear kind madame pradère found wonderful soothing of her own sorrows in the frank delight they showed at the ease and luxury they now enjoyed. the pradère chateau was surrounded by ample grounds in which nalla was provided with a roomy substantial stable for himself, and through which cæsar loved to roam accompanied by vigilant, who evidently quite appreciated being relieved of all rehearsals and public performances. the old van, that had so long been the only home the children possessed, was put in a corner of the carriage-yard where abel, who soon found plenty of playmates, had great fun with it, using it now as a house, and again as a fort, and so on after the manner of youngsters with a lively imagination. at the end of a fortnight madame pradère said to the two boys: "now we must see to your education. you must be well fitted for the career that is before you, and so i have arranged that you shall enter the lycée to-morrow, if you have no objections." both cæsar and abel were only too glad to obey. what education they possessed had been given them by their parents, who had done their best under the difficult circumstances of their lives. but it was of course very imperfect and no one realized this more keenly than cæsar, who had not a lazy bone in his body, and was charged with ambition to be of some account in the world, while abel was inspired by his big brother, whom he fairly worshiped. nadine would remain by the side of madame pradère, who desired no better companion than the charming girl with her gentle ways, sweet voice, quick intelligence, and tender heart, whose one thought was to bring sunshine into the shadowed heart of her benefactress. * * * * * ten years have come and gone, and many things have happened, the recital of which would fill another book, so that of course it cannot be given here. suffice it to say that they were years full of happiness for the tambys, and of proud satisfaction for madame pradère, who every day found cause to congratulate herself upon having taken them into her home and heart. nadine, now twenty-six years of age, had grown into a beautiful woman with a grace and dignity of manner and sincerity of heart that rendered her inexpressibly charming. she was devoted to madame pradère, who regarded her just as if she were her own daughter, placing absolute confidence in her, and giving her every advantage that wealth and culture could procure. in no part of her duties as madame's lieutenant did nadine take more delight than in ministering to the poor and suffering. her own early experience had taught her the miseries of poverty and sickness, and she was indefatigable in doing good, so that all morainville esteemed and loved her as they did madame pradère. cæsar for a time gave his sister and his patroness considerable concern. he did not take kindly to book-learning, and made a poor showing at the lycée, the truth of the matter being that he was possessed by a passion for a quite different kind of study. his ambition was to be a singer. as he grew older his voice, so strong and sweet in boyhood, had developed into a singularly fine tenor, and, having a quick and true ear, as well as the gift of dramatic expression, he was in great demand among madame pradère's friends, who made a great deal of him. at first both nadine and madame pradère were opposed to his adopting singing as a career. they would have preferred some more ordinary profession, but when they saw that cæsar's heart was set upon it, and that he would never be content at anything else, they gave way, and he was sent to the conservatory, whence in due time he graduated with the medal of honor. it is now late in december, and they are all at the chateau except cæsar, who has just made his début in opera at paris, and scored a grand success. the journals were unanimous in their praise, and in acclaiming the appearance of a new tenor of the first quality for whom they confidently predicted a brilliant career. madame pradère, and nadine have been thrilled with pride and joy over the triumph of their loved one, and there is no longer any question as to the wisdom of his choice of a profession. cæsar having thus justified himself in the fullest measure, is returning to the chateau for a short holiday, and his coming is eagerly awaited. the chateau was ablaze with lights, and stirring with bustle, for madame françoise, the sharp-tongued housekeeper, who was nevertheless the most faithful of servants, was sparing no pains to make cæsar's reception as brilliant as possible. nadine, her countenance radiant, and her eyes aglow, looked more than usually lovely, while abel, a comely lad now nearing his majority, presented a fine appearance in his cadet uniform. vigilant was still alive, although very feeble. he was wholly blind, and almost deaf, and never ventured outside the inclosure of the chateau. nevertheless when feeling in good spirits, and on being taken notice of, he would make an effort at remembering his accomplishments, and do his best to stand upon his hind legs, and salute with his fore-paws as of old. but he was very tottery in his doing of it. out in the park nalla lived a life of luxurious leisure. being only a little over sixty years of age he was, for an elephant, still in the heyday of youth, and enjoyed himself immensely, having plenty of room to roam around, abundant food of the best quality, and a spacious lodge into which to retire if the weather was inclement. nadine never failed to pay him a daily visit, and, catching sight of her at a distance, he would trumpet joyfully, making the welkin ring with raucous exclamations. poor old steady had long ago lain down never to rise again, dying contentedly of old age after his life of toil and trouble. in good time cæsar arrived. he had grown into a very handsome man. with his father's stalwart shapely figure, and his mother's regular features, and fine brown eyes, he had inherited many of the good qualities of both parents. through all his experiences of the world and its temptations he had remained a frank, fearless, unsullied boy who loved his sister nadine to the point of adoration, and regarded madame pradère as the best and kindest of friends to whom he could never be sufficiently grateful. the reunion was an inexpressibly happy one. the young people had a thousand things to tell each other, and as they chatted away like magpies, madame pradère watching them with tear-dimmed eyes, but swelling heart, murmured softly: "the good god bless them! they are the sunshine of my life." at breakfast the following morning cæsar surprised her by asking permission to take nadine away with him for a few days. "where do you wish to take her, cæsar?" madame pradère inquired. "i want to fulfill a vow that i made the day i entered the conservatory," answered cæsar, and on his explaining what the vow was, madame at once said: "i heartily approve, cæsar. it will be a lovely thing to do, and not only shall nadine and abel accompany you, but i shall also go with you." two days later madame and the three young people took the midday train at the railway station, it being the twenty-third of december. where were they going--and how was it that madame pradère, who had not gone out since her husband's death, went with them? these were the questions that set morainville agog, but the secret was well kept, and no one could answer them, save with a mere guess. their destination was the little village of mamezan, which they now revisited after an absence of ten years, and in which they found little change, except that there were many more crosses in the cemetery beside the shabby old church. good father blandinière was still in charge, but the venerable priest was very frail, being over eighty years of age, the oldest curé and the most beloved in the whole country. night had come, and with it the snow. from the windows of the mamezan houses the light streamed out upon the ill-kept sidewalks, which as it drew towards midnight began to be crowded with the villagers clattering noisily in their wooden sabots. they were all going in the one direction, that is, churchward, for the christmas midnight mass was about to be celebrated. the little edifice was crowded by reverent worshipers, but who were the strange ladies in such rich attire, and the strapping young fellow in the rich uniform? nobody knew, although every one tried hard to get a good look at them, and to see if they could not recognize them. presently the little bell tinkled, and the aged priest slowly descended the altar steps. he seemed very feeble, and his long hair, white as the snow outside, lay upon his shoulders. with trembling hands he elevated the host while the congregation kneeled, and the bell once more tinkled. at that moment the clear, sweet notes of a mandolin floated down from the little gallery over the entrance, and then a superb tenor voice, of wonderful power and expression, began the beautiful _cantique de noel_: "tout bruit s'éteint, le soir s'achève dans un silence triomphant; l'enfant cède à l'heure du rêve et le rêve berce l'enfant, noel! noel!" all sounds are hushed, for night has come in silence earth unfolding; the children far through dreamland roam rare joys in sleep beholding. noel! noel! at the first notes, the old priest instinctively turned towards his flock. it was the same chant that ten years before had been sung by the young mountebank. but the voice was not that of the boy, although the playing of the mandolin was surely the same. with brimming eyes and fluttering heart the old man listened as though spell-bound. never before had such glorious music filled his obscure little church. it was as though an angel sang. when the service concluded, madame pradère and the tambys remained to exchange greetings with father blandinière. the venerable curé was so deeply moved that he found difficulty in speaking. he embraced nadine, and cæsar, and abel, affectionately, murmuring, in a scarcely audible voice: "my dear children! my dear children! it is good of god to permit me to see you again, and all so happy!" the travelers had arranged to leave for home on the following evening, but they were told that a traveling circus was to give a great performance that evening, and cæsar begged madame pradère to remain over, as he was anxious to be present. "it will remind us," he said to nadine, "of the poor little representation that we gave here ten years ago, when we were in such hard luck." madame pradère readily consented, and in the evening they all went to the circus, which they found crowded to its utmost capacity. the performance was a very good one of its kind. there were expert acrobats, tumblers, tight-rope walkers, bare-back riders, and several highly-amusing clowns. one clown, called "mossieu frisch," was particularly diverting with his jokes and antics. cæsar, looking at him closely, was suddenly impressed with the idea that he had seen him before. but when, and where? his recollection was confused. he could neither identify nor locate the funny fellow. presently the attendants began to place hurdles about the ring, and to bring in large hoops covered with parti-colored paper. then mossieu frisch announced with a great flourish that the world-renowned equestrienne, mademoiselle rosalba, would perform her thrilling feats. at the same moment a superb snow-white horse, having on its back a broad pad covered with satin and spangles, galloped into the ring, followed by a pretty girl in circus costume, who leaped lightly to the pad. the instant she appeared there rang out above the music of the band a threefold cry of "lydia! lydia! lydia!" the equestrienne sprang to the ground, stood for a moment as if she doubted what eyes and ears were telling her, and then, darting across the ring, threw herself into the outstretched arms of nadine and cæsar and abel, that encircled her so as almost to hide her from sight. for it was lydia--their own darling sister--so long lost, and now by kind providence restored to them. a scene of great excitement ensued. the spectators marveled what it all meant, and whether it was some novel feature of the performance. the performance was of course suspended, and presently the ubiquitous gendarmes appeared to make inquiry. cæsar called upon them to arrest mossieu frisch, whom he felt sure had been responsible for lydia's abduction, and they at once laid hands upon him, and took him off to prison. he was indeed the very man who had put his van in place of theirs at beaulieu, and had afterwards so startled nadine by peeping in through the window when they were reckoning up their receipts. it appeared that the circus had but recently returned to france after many years traveling through italy and germany, and that was why all efforts to trace and rescue lydia had been in vain. so--all's well that ends well. lydia, despite her hard life with the circus, had grown into a very attractive girl, little spoiled by her surroundings. madame pradère's party had but four members when it left morainville, but five when it returned. the kind-hearted lady was only too delighted to have one more child to mother, and the tambys rejoiced beyond description at the restoration of the sister about whose absence they had never ceased to grieve. the future stretched before them with every promise of happiness. they had had their hard times, and their bitter griefs, and had borne them bravely. now through a beneficent providence these were all over and past. and richly they deserved their good fortune, for, amid all their vicissitudes had they not kept their lives pure, and their hearts simple? finis. transcriber's note apparent typographical errors have been repaired. pg. : "chapter xviii" changed to "chapter xvii".